One Man's Art

  Gennie curled her arms around his neck. “I’m beginning to like your ideas. What about our clothes?”

  “We can salvage what’s left of them later.” He pushed open the door of the lighthouse. “We won’t be needing them for quite a while.”

  “Definitely liking your ideas.” She pressed her mouth against his throat. “Are you really going to carry me up those stairs?”

  “Yeah.”

  Gennie cast a look at the winding staircase and tightened her hold. “I’d just like to mention it wouldn’t be terribly romantic if you were to trip and drop me.”

  “The woman casts aspersions on my machismo.”

  “On your balance,” she corrected as he started up. She shivered as her wet skin began to chill, then abruptly laughed. “Grant, did it occur to you what those assorted piles of clothes would look like if someone happened by?”

  “They’d probably look a great deal like what they are,” he considered. “And it should discourage anyone from trespassing. I should have thought of it before—much better than a killer-dog sign.”

  She sighed, partially from relief as they reached the landing. “You’re hopeless. Anyone would think you were Clark Kent.”

  Grant stopped in the doorway to the bathroom to stare at her. “Come again?”

  “You know, concealing a secret identity. Though you’re anything but mild-mannered,” she added as she toyed with a damp curl that hung over his ear. “You’ve set up this lighthouse as some kind of Fortress of Solitude.”

  The long intense look continued. “What was Clark Kent’s Earth mother’s name?”

  “Is this a quiz?”

  “Do you know?”

  She arched a brow because his eyes were so suddenly serious. “Martha.”

  “I’ll be damned,” he murmured. He laughed, then gave her a quick kiss that was puzzlingly friendly considering they were naked and pressed together. “You continue to surprise me, Genviève. I think I’m crazy about you.”

  The light words went straight to her heart and turned it over. “Because I know Superman’s adoptive mother’s first name?”

  Grant nuzzled his cheek against her, the first wholly sweet gesture she’d ever seen in him. In that one instant she was lost, as she’d never been lost before. “For one thing.” Feeling her tremble, Grant drew her closer. “Come on, into the shower; you’re freezing.”

  He stepped into the tub before he set her down, then still holding her close, pressed his mouth to hers in a long, lingering kiss. With the storm, with the passion, she’d felt invulnerable. Now, no longer innocent, no longer unaware, the nerves returned. Only a short time before she had given herself to him, perhaps demanded that he take her, but now she could only cling while her mind reeled with the wonder of it.

  When the water came on full and hot, she jolted, gasping. With a low laugh, Grant stroked a hand intimately over her hip. “Feel good?”

  It did, after the initial shock, but Gennie tilted back her head and eyed him narrowly. “You might have warned me.”

  “Life’s full of surprises.”

  Like falling in love, she thought, when you hadn’t the least intention of doing so. Gennie smiled, finding her arms had wound around his neck.

  “You know …” He traced his tongue lightly over her mouth. “I’m getting used to the taste—and the feel of you wet. It’s tempting just to stay right here for the next couple of hours.”

  She nuzzled against him when he ran his hands down her back. Strong hands, toughened in contrast to the elegance of their shape. There were no others she could ever imagine touching her.

  With the steam rising around him, and Gennie soft and giving in his arms, Grant felt that rushing, heady desire building again. His muscles contracted with it—tightening, preparing.

  “No, not this time,” he murmured, pressing his mouth to her throat. This time he would remember her fragility and the wonder of being the only man to ever possess her. Whatever tenderness he had, or could find in himself, would be for her.

  “You should dry off.” He nibbled lightly at her lips before he drew her away. She was smiling, but her eyes were uncertain. As he turned off the water he tried to ignore the very real fear her vulnerability brought to him. Taking a towel from the rack, he stroked it over her face. “Here, lift your arms.”

  She did, laying her hands on his shoulders as he wrapped the towel around her. Slowly, running soft, undemanding kisses over her face, he drew the towel together to knot it loosely at her breasts. Gennie closed her eyes, the better to soak up the sensation of being pampered.

  Using a fresh towel, Grant began to dry her hair. Gently, lazily, while her heart began to race, he rubbed the towel over it. “Warm?” he murmured, dipping his head to nibble at her ear. “You’re trembling.”

  How could she answer when her heart was hammering in her throat? Heat was creeping into her, yet her body shivered with anticipation, uncertainties, longings. He had only to touch his mouth to hers to know that for that moment, for always, she was his.

  “I want you,” he said softly. “I wanted you right from the start.” He skimmed his tongue over her ear. “You knew that.”

  “Yes.” The word came out breathlessly, like a sigh.

  “Do you know how much more I want you now than I did even an hour ago?” His mouth covered hers before she could answer. “Come to bed, Gennie.”

  He didn’t carry her, but took her hand so that they could walk together into the thin gray light of his room. Her pulse pounded. The first time there had been no thought, no doubts. Desire had ruled her and the power had flowed. Now her mind was clear and her nerves jumping. She knew now where he could take her with a touch, with a taste. The journey was as much feared as it was craved.

  “Grant—”

  But he barely touched her, only cupping her face as they stood beside the bed. “You’re beautiful.” His eyes were on hers, intense, searching. “The first time I saw you, you took my breath away. You still do.”

  As moved by the long look and soft words as she had been by the tempestuous kisses, she reached up to take his wrists. “I don’t need the words unless you want to give them. I just want to be with you.”

  “Whatever I tell you will be the truth, or I won’t tell you at all.” He leaned toward her, touching his mouth to hers, but nibbling only, testing the softness, lingering over that honey-steeped taste. As he took her deep with tenderness, his fingers moved over her face, skimming, stroking. Gennie’s head went light while her body grew heavy. She barely felt the movement when they lowered to the bed.

  Then it seemed she felt everything—the tiny nubs in the bedspread, the not quite smooth, not quite rough texture of Grant’s palms, the thin mat of hair on his chest. All, she felt them all, as if her skin had suddenly become as soft and sensitive as a newborn’s. And he treated her as though she were that precious with the slow, whisper-light kisses he brushed over her face and the hands that touched her—arousing, but stopping just short of demand.

  The floating weightlessness she had experienced in the churchyard drifted back over her, but now, with the shivering excitement of knowledge. Aware of where they could lead each other, Gennie sighed. This time the journey would be luxurious, lazy and loving.

  The light through the window was thin, misty gray from the clouds that still hid the sun. It cast shadows and mysteries. She could hear the sea—not the deafening, titanic roar, but the echo and the promise of power. And when he murmured to her, it was like the sea, with its passionate pull and thrust. The urgency she had felt before had become a quiet enjoyment. Though the needs were no less, there was a comfort here, an unquestioning trust she’d never expected to feel. He would protect if she needed him, cherish in his own fashion. Beneath the demands and impatience was a man who would give unselfishly where he cared. Discovering that was discovering everything.

  Touch me—don’t ever stop touching me. And he seemed to hear her silent request as he caressed, lingered, explored. The pleasure was li
quid and light, like a lazy river, like rain misting. Her mind was so clouded with him, only him, she no longer thought of her body as separate, but a part of the two that made one whole.

  Soft murmurs and quiet sighs, the warmth that only flesh can bring to flesh. Gennie learned of him—the man he showed so rarely to anyone. Sensitivity, because it was not his way, was all the sweeter. Gentleness, so deeply submerged, was all the more arousing.

  She hardly knew when her pliancy began to kindle to excitement. But he did. The subtle change in her movements, her breathing, had a shiver of pleasure darting down his spine. And he drew yet more pleasure in the mere watching of her face in the gloomy light. A flicker of passion reminded him that no one had ever touched her as he did. And no one would. For so long he’d taken such care not to allow anyone to get too close, to block off any feelings of possession, to avoid being possessed. Though the proprietary sensation disturbed him, he couldn’t fight it. She was his. Grant told himself it didn’t yet mean he was hers. Yet he could think of no one else.

  He ran kisses over her slowly, until his mouth brushed, then loitered at her shoulder. And when he felt her yield, completely, unquestioningly, he took her once, gasping, to the edge. On her moan, he pressed his lips to hers, wanting to feel the sound as well as hear it.

  Mindless, boneless, burning, Gennie moved with him, responding to the agonizingly slow pace by instinct alone. She wanted to rush, she wanted to stay in that cloudy world of dreams forever. Now, and only now, did she fully understand why the coming together of two separate beings was called making love.

  She opened to him, offering everything. When he slipped inside her she felt his shudder, heard the groan that was muffled against her throat. His breath rasped against her ear but he kept the pace exquisitely slow. There couldn’t be so much—she’d never known there could be—but he showed her.

  She drifted down a tunnel with soft melting edges. Deeper and lusher it grew until her whole existence was bound there in the velvet heat that promised forever. Reason peeled away layer by layer so that her body was guided by senses alone. He was trembling—was she? As her hands glided over his shoulders she could feel the hard, tense muscles there while his movements were gentle and easy. Through the mists of pleasure she knew he was blocking off his own needs for hers. A wave of emotion struck her that was a hundred times greater than passion.

  “Grant.” His name was only a whisper as her arms tightened around him. “Now. Take me now.”

  “Gennie.” He lifted his face so that she had a glimpse of dark, dark eyes before his mouth met hers. His control seemed to snap at the contact and he swallowed her gasps as he rushed with her to the peak.

  There were no more thoughts nor the need for any.

  Chapter 8

  With a slow stretch and a long sigh, Gennie woke. Ingrained habit woke her early and quickly. Her first feeling of disorientation faded almost at once. No, the sun-washed window wasn’t hers, but she knew whose it was. She knew where she was and why.

  The morning warmth had a new texture—body to body, man to woman, lover to lover. Simultaneous surges of contentment and excitement swam through her to chase away any sense of drowsiness. Turning her head, Gennie watched Grant sleep.

  He sprawled, taking up, Gennie discovered to her amusement, about three-fourths of the bed. During the night, he had nudged her to within four inches of the edge. His arm was tossed carelessly across her body—not loverlike, she thought wryly, but because she just happened to be in his space. He had most of her pillow. Against the plain white, his face was deeply tanned, shadowed by the stubble that grew on his jaw. Looking at him, Gennie realized he was completely relaxed as she had seen him only once before—on their walk along the beach.

  What drives you, Grant? she wondered as she gave in to the desire to toy with the tips of his rumpled hair. What makes you so intense, so solitary? And why do I want so badly to understand and share whatever secrets you keep?

  With a fingertip, carefully, delicately, Gennie traced down the line of his jaw. A strong face, she thought, almost hard, and yet occasionally, unexpectedly the humor and sensitivity would come into his eyes. Then the hardness would vanish and only the strength would remain.

  Rude, remote, arrogant; he was all of those things. And she loved him—despite it, perhaps because of it. It had been the gentleness he had shown her that had allowed her to admit it, accept it, but it had been true all along.

  She longed to tell him, to say those simple, exquisite words. She’d shared her body with him, given her innocence and her trust. Now she wanted to share her emotions. Love, she believed, was meant to be given freely, without conditions. Yet she knew him well enough to understand that step would have to be taken by him first. His nature demanded it. Another man might be flattered, pleased, even relieved to have a woman state her feelings so easily. Grant, Gennie reflected, would feel cornered.

  Lying still, watching him, she wondered if it had been a woman who had caused him to isolate himself. Gennie felt certain it had been pain or disillusionment that had made him so determined to be unapproachable. There was a basic kindness in him which he hid, a talent he apparently wasn’t using and a warmth he hoarded. Why? With a sigh, she brushed the hair from his forehead. They were his mysteries; she only hoped she had the patience to wait until he was ready to share them.

  Warm, content, Gennie snuggled against him, murmuring his name. Grant’s answer was an unintelligible mutter as he shifted onto his stomach and buried his face in the pillow. The movement cost Gennie a few more precious inches of mattress.

  “Hey!” Laughing, she shoved against his shoulder. “Move over.”

  No response.

  You’re a romantic devil, Gennie thought wryly, then pressing her lips to that unbudgeable shoulder, slipped out of the bed. Grant immediately took advantage of all the available space.

  A loner, Gennie thought, studying him as he lay crosswise over the twisted sheets. He wasn’t a man used to making room for anyone. With a last thoughtful glance, Gennie walked across the hall to shower.

  Gradually the sound of running water woke him. Hazy, Grant lay still, sleepily debating how much effort it would take to open his eyes. It was his ingrained habit to put off the moment of waking until it could no longer be avoided.

  With his face buried in the pillow, he could smell Gennie. It brought dreamy images to him, images sultry but not quite formed. There were soft, fuzzy-edged pictures that both aroused and soothed.

  Barely half awake, Grant shifted enough to discover he was alone in bed. Her warmth was still there—on the sheets, on his skin. He lay steeped in it a moment, not certain why it felt so right, not trying to reason out the answers.

  He remembered the feel of her, the taste, the way her pulse would leap under the touch of his finger. Had there ever been a woman who had made him want so badly? Who could make him comfortable one moment and wild the next? How close was he to the border between want and need, or had he already crossed it?

  They were more questions he couldn’t deal with—not now while his mind was still clouded with sleep and with Gennie. He needed to shake off the first and distance himself from the second before he could find any answers.

  Groggy, Grant sat up, running a hand over his face as Gennie came back in.

  “Morning.” With her hair wrapped in a towel and Grant’s robe belted loosely at her waist, Gennie dropped onto the edge of the bed. Linking her hands behind his neck, she leaned over and kissed him. She smelled of his soap and shampoo—something that made the easy kiss devastatingly intimate. Even as this began to soak into him, she drew away to give him a friendly smile. “Awake yet?”

  “Nearly.” Because he wanted to see her hair, Grant pulled the towel from her head and let it drop to the floor. “Have you been up long?”

  “Only since you pushed me out of bed.” She laughed when his brows drew together. “That’s not much of an exaggeration. Want some coffee?”

  “Yeah.” As she rose, Grant
took her hand, holding it until her smile became puzzled. What did he want to say to her? Grant wondered. What did he want to tell her—or himself? He wasn’t certain of anything except the knowledge that whatever was happening inside him was already too far advanced to stop.

  “Grant?”

  “I’ll be down in a minute,” he mumbled, feeling foolish. “I’ll fix breakfast this time.”

  “All right.” Gennie hesitated, wondering if he would say whatever he’d really meant to say, then she left him alone.

  Grant remained in bed a moment, listening to the sound of her footsteps on his stairs. Her footsteps—his stairs. Somehow, the line of demarcation was smearing. He wasn’t certain he’d be able to lie in his bed again without thinking of her curled beside him.

  But he’d had other women, Grant reminded himself. He’d enjoyed them, appreciated them. Forgotten them. Why was it he was so certain there was nothing about Gennie he’d forget? Nothing, down to that small, faint birthmark he’d found on her hip—a half moon he could cover with his pinkie. Foolishly it had pleased him to discover it—something he knew no other man had seen or touched.

  He was acting like an idiot, he told himself—enchanted by the fact that he was her first lover, obsessed with the idea of being her last, her only. He needed to be alone for a while, that was all, to put his feelings back in perspective. The last thing he wanted was to start tying strings on her, and in turn, on himself.

  Rising, he rummaged in his drawers until he found a pair of cutoffs. He’d fix breakfast, send her on her way, then get back to work.

  But when he reached the bottom of the stairs, he smelled the coffee, heard her singing. Grant was struck with a powerful wave of déjà vu. He could explain it, he told himself, he could explain it because it had been just like this the first morning after he’d met her. But it wasn’t that—that was much, much too logical for the strength of the feeling that swamped him. It was more than an already seen—it was a sensation of rightness, of always, of pleasure so simple it stung. If he walked into that kitchen a hundred times, year after year, it would never seem balanced, never seem whole, unless she was waiting for him.

  Grant paused in the doorway to watch her. The coffee was hot and ready as she stretched up for the mugs that he could reach easily. The sun shot light into her hair, teasing out those deep red hints until they shimmered, flame on velvet. She turned, catching her breath in surprise when she saw him, then smiling.

  “I didn’t hear you come down.” She swung her hair behind her shoulder as she began to pour coffee. “It’s gorgeous out. The rain’s got everything gleaming and the ocean’s more blue than green. You wouldn’t know there’d ever been a storm.” Taking a mug in each hand, she turned back to him. Though she’d intended to cross to him, the look in his eyes stopped her. Puzzlement quickly became tension. Was he angry? she wondered. Why? Perhaps he was already regretting what had happened. Why had she been so foolish as to think what had been between them had been as special, as unique for him as it had been for her?

  Her fingers tightened on the handles. She wouldn’t let him apologize, make excuses. She wouldn’t cause a scene. The pain was real, physically real, but she told herself to ignore it. Later, when she was alone, she would deal with it. But now she would face him without tears, without pleas.

  “Is something wrong?” Was that her voice, so calm, so controlled?

  “Yeah, something’s wrong.”

  Her fingers held the mugs so tightly she wondered that the handles didn’t snap off. Still, it kept her hands from shaking. “Maybe we should sit down.”

  “I don’t want to sit down.” His voice was sharp as a slap but she didn’t flinch. She watched as he paced to the sink and leaned against it, muttering and swearing. Another time the Grant-like gesture would have amused her, but now she only stood and waited. If he was going to hurt her, let him do it quickly, at once, before she fell apart. He whirled, almost violently, and stared at her accusingly. “Damn it, Gennie, I’ve had my head lopped off.”

  It was her turn to stare. Her fingers went numb against the stoneware. Her pulse seemed to stop long enough to make her head swim before it began to race. The color drained from her face until it was like porcelain against the glowing green of her eyes. On another oath, Grant dragged a hand through his hair.

  “You’re spilling the coffee,” he muttered, then stuck his hands in his pockets.

  “Oh.” Gennie looked down foolishly at the tiny twin puddles that were forming on the floor, then set down the mugs. “I’ll—I’ll wipe it up.”

  “Leave it.” Grant grabbed her arm before she could reach for a towel. “Listen, I feel like someone’s just given me a solid right straight to the gut—the kind that doubles you over and makes your head ring at the same time. I feel that way too often when I look at you.” When she said nothing, he took her other arm and shook. “In the first place I never asked to have you walk into my life and mess up my head. The last thing I wanted was for you to get in my way, but you did. So now I’m in love with you, and I can tell you, I’m not crazy about the idea.”

  Gennie found her voice, though she wasn’t quite certain what to do with it. “Well,” she managed after a moment, “that certainly puts me in my place.”

  “Oh, she wants to make jokes.” Disgusted, Grant released her to storm over to the coffee. Lifting a mug, he drained half the contents, perversely pleased that it scalded his throat. “Well, laugh this off,” he suggested as he slammed the mug down again and glared. “You’re not going anywhere until I figure out what the hell I’m going to do about you.”

  Struggling against conflicting emotions of amusement, annoyance, and simple wonder, she put her hands on her hips. The movement shifted the too-big robe so that it threatened to slip off of one shoulder. “Oh, really? So you’re going to figure out what to do about me, like I was an inconvenient head cold.”

  “Damned inconvenient,” he muttered.

  “You may not have noticed, but I’m a grown woman with a mind of my own, accustomed to making my own decisions. You’re not going to do anything about me,” she told him as her temper began to overtake everything else. She jabbed a finger at him, and the gap in the robe widened. “If you’re in love with me, that’s your problem. I have one of my own because I’m in love with you.”

  “Terrific!” he shouted at her. “That’s just terrific. We’d both have been better off if you’d waited out that storm in a ditch instead of coming here.”

  “You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know,” Gennie retorted, then spun around to leave the room.

  “Just a minute.” Grant had her arm again and backed her into the wall. “You’re not going anywhere until this is settled.”

  “It’s settled!” Tossing her hair out of her face, she glared at him. “We’re in love with each other and I wish you’d go jump off that cliff. If you had any finesse—”

  “I don’t.”