The Truth About Love (17 page)

Her lips curved lightly. “What next?”

“Just stay there.” What next was for him to get the first rendering of the setting he wanted. The lower entrance to the Garden of Night, an archway of deep green leaves and vines beyond which dark shadows drifted, lay behind her—ten good paces behind her, but perspective in an artist’s hands was a tool, a weapon. When he finally drew her, she would stand framed in that archway; the Garden of Night was the perfect symbol of what held her trapped, of what she wanted to and needed to escape, and from which the portrait would release her. The rectangular pool would lie before her feet, reflecting light up over her, a symbol of her emergence from the darkness into the light.

Perfect.

The essence of the Garden of Night came to life beneath his pencil, created with deft strokes of his fingers.

When he finally paused and truly looked at what he’d done, he was satisfied.

More, he was moved; it was the first time he’d attempted to meld the artistic halves of himself—the lover of Gothic landscapes, and the observer and recorder of people and their emotions. He hadn’t consciously realized he would, but he had, and now he knew.

He couldn’t wait to dive deeper into the challenge.

Turning over another leaf, he looked at her. “Tell me about your mother.”

“Mama?” She’d learned not to look directly at him; she continued to stare down the valley.

A moment passed, then she said, “She was very beautiful, quite vain in fact, but she was always so
alive.
Enthused by life. She truly lived every day—if she woke up and there wasn’t something to do, she’d organize some outing, some event however impromptu. She was something of a butterfly, but a gay, giddy one, and there was no unkindness in her, so…”

He let her talk, watched, waited until the right moment to ask, “And when she died?”

Her expression changed. He watched the sadness close in, dousing the happy memories, saw not just loss of a loved one, but loss in a wider sense—a loss of innocence, of trust, of security.

She didn’t reply, yet his fingers flew.

After a very long moment, she murmured, “When she died, we lost all that—this place and all who lived here lost our wellspring of life.”

“And of love?” He hadn’t meant to say the words; they just slipped out.

After another long silence, she replied, “More that love became tangled and confused.”

He continued sketching, very aware—elementally aware—when she drew in a deep breath, and shifted her gaze to look at him.

For some moments, her expression was unreadable, then she asked, “What do you see?”

A woman trapped through others’ love for her
. The words rang in his mind as his eyes held hers, but he didn’t want to reveal how clearly he saw her, not yet. “I think”—he closed his sketch pad—“that you saw her more clearly than she saw you.”

She tilted her head, studying him, examining his words—and, he suspected, his motives. Then she inclined her head. “You’re right.”

He looked steadily back at her. His comment, he felt sure, was also true for others—like her father, Mitchel, Jordan, even Brisenden. Their view of her was of a weak female; they were the type to assume that females were inherently less able, less strong than themselves on any plane. He’d grown up too close to too many strong women to make such a mistake. Jacqueline was nothing if not strong, and commitment only strengthened her resolve.

If he were the killer, he’d be very wary of her.

The thought came out of nowhere, and chilled him. Suppressing an inner shiver, he looked down at his sketches, flipping through them, rapidly evaluating what he’d done.

Released from his scrutiny, Jacqueline watched him. For this pose, he’d stood to sketch her; he’d fallen into a comfortable wide-legged stance, broad shoulders square, his long-limbed, lean body loose and relaxed. While in the throes, he didn’t seem to feel the urge to move, as if all his vitality, all the intensity that was so much a part of him, were concentrated in his fingers and his eyes, and the brain that connected them.

He was fascinating, compelling. To her, yes, but she wouldn’t be the only female so affected. Eleanor would find him attractive, too. He had such a high-handed tendency to command, to order…she felt her lips curve; she wasn’t even sure he was aware of it, so focused was he on his goals.

It was that focus, intense and powerful, that would draw Eleanor—she’d want to force him to turn it on her. To surrender it to her.

For a moment, Jacqueline wondered—did she feel the same, for the same reason? An instant’s reflection returned the answer: no. That’s where she and Eleanor differed. Eleanor would delight in using force, yet for her, the conquest would be in his willingly lavishing on her the intensity of devotion she saw in him as he sketched, as he viewed her as his subject.

Not as her.

A ripple of awareness skittered through her as she recalled his “price” and the reckless promise she’d made in the moonlight, that she’d meet it whatever it might be. Had he been viewing her as his subject then, or as her? At the time she’d assumed the former, but now she’d realized there were moments when he was as physically aware of her as she was of him…

She’d thought his attentions, the hot kiss he’d pressed to her palm, had been to learn how she responded to such things, that he’d wanted to know as a painter. What if he’d wanted to know as a man?

The idea left her feeling as if she were teetering on the brink of a precipice, unsure whether to step forward or back. Back would be safe, yet forward…as fascinating and compelling as she found him, if he beckoned, would she go?

Another shiver, this time one of anticipation, coursed down her spine. She let her gaze slide over him again, felt the compulsion rise.

Closing his sketch pad, he looked up. His eyes fixed on hers.

After a moment, his gaze drifted up. “Your hair…”

“What about it?”

“When I paint you, it needs to be different. Can you unpin it? It’ll help if I see how we need it to be, then you can wear it that way from now on.”

Her hair was secured in a neat chignon; raising her hands, she started removing pins. The chignon unraveled; she set the pins down, shook the long strands free, then threaded her fingers through them, drawing them out, letting them fall across and over her shoulders.

He frowned. “No, that’s not right, either.”

He closed the space between them in a few long strides. Setting his pad and pencils down, he sat on the coping, facing her.

She felt her lungs constrict, but she was growing used to the effect.

His gaze was locked on her face, gauging. He reached for her chin, turned her face to his, then reached for her hair, long fingers sliding into the unruly mass.

She caught her breath, prayed she wasn’t blushing, prayed she’d be able to hide her reaction.

His frown remained as he bunched her hair, shifting it this way, then that, clearly unsatisfied. Then he twisted the tresses and set the bunched curls on the top of her head. Looking into his face, she sensed him still…

With his other hand, Gerrard reached for her chin, fought not to notice the delicacy of bones and skin as he gently gripped and turned her face first to the left, then to the right, then to the precise angle he thought was best suited for the portrait, all the while holding her hair atop her head.

There. Angle right, and hair up, a neat knot with a tendril or two trailing down on the right, a subtle highlight to draw attention to the exposed curve of her throat.

That was the line he wanted to capture, vulnerability, grace and strength combined. Youth, yet with intrinsic wisdom, instinctive and true. A pose that had clarity, that resonated with truth.

Again his gaze skimmed the line of her throat, skin white and flawless, tinted by the fading golden light. Raising his gaze, he took in the medley of browns, vibrant and earthy, worldly, too, of her hair; he would capture that and use it.

He lowered his gaze to her face.

Met her eyes, the mossy shade darker, the gold more intense as they widened, darkened.

Her lips were lush, edged with rose gilt.

Time stood still.

He raised his gaze to her eyes, saw a curiosity the counterpart of his own staring at him from the hazel depths.

What would it be like?

Lowering his head, tipping her face up, he touched his lips to hers.

Felt them quiver. And took, seized, albeit gently, with all the expertise he’d learned over the years. He increased the pressure beguilingly, seductively, brushing lightly, tantalizing and tempting.

He wanted to devour, yet it was she who captured him with a tentative response so slight it was like gossamer, a fleeting moment of innocence and pleasure. For one fraught instant he felt completely caught, taken captive—then reality returned, and he realized what he’d done.

Realized he’d gathered her into his arms.

Realized he’d taken the step he hadn’t yet made up his mind he would take. He’d been tempted, not solely by his own desires but by hers, too, yet the feel of her in his arms, of her lips beneath his—the feelings those sensations evoked—assured him at some elemental level that this was right.

Yet if he was wise, he’d go slowly.

Lifting his head, he looked down into eyes the color of woodland moss. He drew in a breath, surprised to discover his lungs parched and tight. “I’m sorr—” He broke off, unable as he looked into her eyes to utter the polite lie. He felt his jaw firm. “No. I’m
not
sorry, but I shouldn’t have done that.”

She blinked up at him. “Why not?”

He searched her eyes; she was asking with her usual candor, an open honesty he’d grown to treasure. “Because it’ll make it that much harder not to do it again.”

The truth. She heard it; he saw comprehension widen her eyes, followed swiftly by calculation.

“Oh…”

He looked into her eyes, was drowning in them…With a mental curse, he shut his. “Don’t do that.”

“What?”

He gritted his teeth, and kept his eyes shut. “Look at me as if you want me to kiss you again.”

She didn’t reply. Three heartbeats passed.

He was debating whether to open his eyes when her soft whisper reached him.

“I’m not good at lying.”

Five words, and she vanquished him. Overthrew that part of his mind that was fighting to maintain control, and cast him adrift. Into the sea of desire that welled in her eyes as they met his when he lifted his lids.

She searched his eyes, hesitated for a heartbeat, then lifted her lips to his. Touched lightly.

He could no more resist the explicit invitation than stop the sun from sinking beneath the sea.

Summoning what restraint he could, he kissed her back, then, unable to deny her or himself, he pressed the caress further, aware that, just as he had expectations of the kiss, so, too, would she. He wondered what they were, why…but then he traced her lower lip with the tip of his tongue, her lips parted, and he stopped thinking.

Jacqueline quivered as his tongue slid between her lips, held her breath as he shifted and gathered her deeper into an embrace that, no matter how alien, felt safe. His arms were steel bands, caging her, but protectively, his chest a muscled wall of comforting solidity against her breasts. His lips moved on hers, impressing, engaging. Tentatively she met his questing tongue with hers, lightly stroked—and sensed his encouragement, his appreciation.

She relaxed, secure in his arms, and mirrored his actions. There was heat in the exchange, persuasive and tempting, beguiling yet contained, not overwhelming but tantalizing, a promise of more, later. For now, she was content returning his caresses. Raising one hand, she lightly traced his cheek, the angular planes quite different from her own, cloaked in abrading stubble lacing firm skin.

By subtle degrees, he deepened the kiss and she, knowingly, followed. With growing confidence she kissed him back—and gloried in his response, in the continuing exchange that spun out in delight and mutual pleasure.

The reciprocity, for she knew it was so, caught her, and held her enthralled.

She tasted like summer wine, heady and sweet, potent and warm. Faintly illicit, carrying the promise of dark sultry nights and stirring passion. Now he’d learned, now he’d savored, he should draw back, yet still Gerrard lingered. The question of what she sought from the kiss returned; he now knew she’d shared few kisses, if any, before, not like this.

The reluctance he felt to end the interlude was not solely on his own account.

And that surprised him. Who was leading whom, and was that safe? The question gave him the strength to act, to gradually draw back and lift his head.

He watched as she opened her eyes, as she blinked and refocused on his. He’d kissed many ladies in far more illicit encounters, yet this time his charm didn’t come to his aid. No glib words sprang to his tongue, no suave smile to his lips. This time, he didn’t want to end the moment, didn’t want to let her go; despite his experience, he couldn’t pretend he did.

Looking into her eyes, a glorious medley of greens and gold, he could only hold her, and wonder…