Art-Crossed Love Page 11

  She came.

  And came.

  But she never answered.

  Cole worked her through the clenching orgasm, never ceasing in his slow, unhurried seduction. When it was over, and Lissa lay limp against her comforter wondering where she was and what the hell had happened, he sat back on his haunches and finished his story in lurching chunks.

  “Every time your father signs a check… and every time you’re blasted for being nothing more than a rich girl with an expensive hobby, you’re mentally back in that grubby hallway where someone kicked you in the head and said you were nothing. To spare your parents that truth, you don’t balk at what they offer. Instead you’ve pegged me—this project—as your way out.”

  She sat up and looked at him crouched on the floor, forearms flung over knees and hair mussed, with a shining mouth that he finally wiped with a thick wrist.

  May perfection have no shame. “Cole, for God’s sake, not now.” He read her like he’d written the book.

  “Okay,” he said, straightening to his full height and coming forward to bracket her body against the bed with both arms. “You win.”

  Then, with another soft, chaste kiss to the mouth, much like the one that had started his carnal cross-examination in the first place, Cole was gone.

  Never had Lissa lost so well.

  Chapter 13

  The basement at Melina didn’t look anything like Lissa had pictured. When Trevor had recommended the search, she’d imagined a well-lit space with wall-to-wall carpet and shelves of labeled records, a space as useful and inviting as every other she’d encountered in Cole’s home.

  Instead, she found spiders. Big ones. The kind a half a can of Raid didn’t faze. No wonder Cole had sent her down here with a smile when she’d casually asked if she could take a peek to familiarize herself with his work. The deviant planned to incapacitate her via black widow.

  A pity. She preferred his other, more hands-on methods.

  Mustering her flagging courage, she sat down on the wooden stairs beneath a lonely incandescent light bulb hanging from an exposed rafter. Huffing dry, dusty air, she pulled on a pair of leather work gloves pilfered from the garage. They overlapped the cuff of her long-sleeved thermal, which covered every inch of skin from wrist to neck to hip, where the shirt met her jeans.

  Wearing Cole’s gloves felt like stolen intimacy. A bit large, the inside of the leather scratched lightly against her skin with each flex of the hand, much like the stroke of his calloused fingertips.

  Simmer down, Nancy Drew. Gloves don’t “stroke.” To complete the bug riot gear, she hauled an orange ski mask over her head. Another garage find, the ratty weave screamed, “deer hunter, circa 1983.” The rafters looked like prime spider havens, dusty and dark. None of those fuckers were coming down on her unprotected head.

  In a last-ditch effort to de-creep the hunt, she propped her phone against the stairs. A mix of old-school favorites blared outward, not as loud as she’d like, but with enough force to let Kylie Minogue and Madonna break the dank quiet that otherwise suffocated Cole’s basement.

  A deep breath propelled her across the sloping cement floor to the farthest corner of the room. Most of the stacked boxes weren’t labeled, so she planned to work her way around the perimeter, stack by stack, until she hit the jackpot or came full circle. If Trevor’s hunch was correct, she’d find hints that Cole hadn’t always been so rigid in his work. Perhaps he might, at least occasionally, have taken the same liberties with his camera as she took with her paintbrushes.

  Little surfaced over the next hour other than Kate’s wardrobe and five, luckily uninhabited, spider webs. Most of the boxes’ contents went undisturbed, until she happened on one that held a digital camera nestled in the nylon of a bright yellow shirt, along with a small backpack, a water bottle, a pair of sunglasses, and a tube of sunscreen. Lissa was no expert, but she appeared to have stumbled upon Kate’s hiking gear.

  The black Nikon wasn’t one of Cole’s professional jobbies and seemed more manageable, with an on/off button, digital zoom, and auto flash—more point and shoot, less master’s degree in photography.

  Inspecting the camera, Lissa wondered if she should be practicing offline. In the several days since their war kiss on the dining room table and the totally uncharacteristic time spent in her room later that night, Cole had made inching efforts at keeping his end of their bargain.

  He had not made efforts to touch her anywhere below the neck, proving that one of, if not the, most pleasurable interludes of her life had been a covert fact-finding mission.

  Jerk.

  Mostly Cole tossed out ideas, usually bad ones, about random not-so objets d’art like the couch in the garage or Sasha’s food bin, then left her to stage meaningful scenes to be photographed and painted. Cole’s marginal success in providing inspiration meant Lissa ended up replicating real life, or Cole’s photos of the same, with increased frequency.

  You asked for it.

  Courtesy of her self-inflicted position, she now had to imagine an image of a finished painting and then move mountains to represent that image in the physical realm for later imitation. The plan was a complete departure from her usual MO—view the world and paint whatever her mind conjured in response. More than half the time, she couldn’t rise to her own challenge. When she could, she had to put brush to canvas in a way that copied the natural world.

  And she sucked at it.

  Practice-wise, the digital on her phone would be more convenient. The good girl inside Lissa’s head told her to put the camera back in the box and move on. The bad one found herself sinking to a cross-legged slouch and pressing the power button on the Nikon, unable to suppress her curiosity about the camera’s owner.

  Dead, of course. She ran upstairs for her laptop and a connecting cable. Returning to her spot on the floor, she hitched the camera to the computer so it could pull a parasitic charge and power up.

  At first, Lissa flipped through shots of boulders and trees and a dawning skyline. Yup, hiking. The pictures might have been taken near the trailhead that Cole had foisted on Lissa right after her arrival. One photo showed a redhead with a lean build peddling down a dirt road on the slim bones of a road bike. Scrawny patches of snow dotted the landscape, but mostly everything just looked frozen solid.

  The cyclist’s head was down. Even with the wonky angle and the rider’s distance from the camera, Lissa recognized Cole’s sister-in-law. The woman’s shoulders and the titan hair escaping her bike helmet combined to form a regular neon sign. Rhea’s treaded hiking boots looked clown-like against the tiny silver clip-in pedals on the bike.

  A later frame on the Nikon depicted an obvious self-shot of Kate, taken with the camera stretched to arm’s length. Lissa grinned at the blonde’s plump, wind-flushed cheeks, brightened by the yellow neckline of her shirt. Pine trees stretched to the sky beyond her pony tail.

  These weren’t the first pictures of Kate and Rhea among the stacked boxes. The two had sipped margaritas and planted roses and dragged Sasha down the dirt driveway, always beaming like the best of friends. Lissa had tried not to read them, but she’d stumbled upon several cards of the thank-you and birthday and thinking-of-you variety. By all accounts, Rhea adored Cole’s wife and vice versa. Or had, in another life and time.

  “Having fun?”

  Lissa whirled from her spot on the concrete. Cole stood on the stairs, wearing only flannel pajama bottoms that rode the curving muscles between his hips. His longish hair was pre-coffee tousled, and his eyes still held the sleepy softness of early morning.

  Lissa pressed a fist into the hollow of her throat. “I’m tying bells to your ankles.” Those naked feet moved too softly.

  He yawned, then stretched through his bare chest. “You’re welcome to try.”

  The poor lighting cast shadows across what seemed like miles of exposed skin, and her fingers tingled for a taste of the torso she’d only felt through his T-shirt. Of course Sasha chose that moment to edge his hea
d around the open door at the top of the stairs. When he saw Lissa, he started a slow, plodding descent into the basement, nudging Cole out of the way on the fourth step of the freely-suspended staircase.

  Tearing her gaze from the dog, she noticed Cole’s expression had grown more aware. Now a smirk played about his lips. He looked to be trying to suppress laughter.

  “What?” she demanded.

  His head dipped. “Nice mask.”

  She glanced at the ceiling to ensure no creepies were in the process of repelling toward her head, then jerked the suffocating stocking to the crown of her skull, letting the loose end flop behind her ears. “Spiders,” she said in a voice dripping with wry accusation. “You didn’t tell me.”

  “I know.” He followed Sasha down. When Cole hit the bottom, she wondered how anyone could take the freezing concrete against exposed skin. He ran hot, she knew, but the floor was an ice block.

  Protected by mounds of fur, Sasha proved impervious to the cold and made a beeline for Lissa. At the last second, he veered for the open box at her knee, plunging his head inside with a low whine.

  The laziness drained from Cole’s limbs as though he’d suddenly remembered catching Lissa engaged in his least favorite of her pursuits—prying. He came forward warily, the whole time staring at the St. Bernard. “You’d think he’d forget.” Cole stood a little straighter. “But he never does. He can smell her after almost two years.”

  Lissa would swear Cole’s cheekbones grew sharper. Before her eyes, he morphed back into the closed-off enigma that didn’t shuffle or prattle or rub at bleary eyes. That look she’d come to recognize fell into place, as if he found everything entertaining but nothing truly funny.

  Closed.

  Snide, hard-ass Cole had returned, and he was looking around in a frank assessment of her progress when his attention caught on the camera in her lap.

  He stilled. “You play with my wife’s property?”

  Forcing a nonchalant nod, Lissa turned the camera off and disconnected the charger. “I found it in one of the boxes—one of the wrong boxes. You could at least point me in the direction of your work.”

  Tense seconds raced past, until Cole reached down with deliberate movements and scooped up the Nikon before crouching next to Sasha and the open box. Expecting him to shove the camera inside and demand she forget it, she lapsed into silence when he only flattened his free hand against the side of the cardboard. Eyes closed, he touched, rubbing in slow circles while he appeared to grapple with a threatening tide.

  Never before had she seen the suppression of emotion as a physical act.

  When Cole finally spoke, his voice held a note of resignation. “To the victor go the spoils.” The camera landed in her lap.

  ******

  Cole stood, thrusting the box from his mind. For too long, its contents had been the center of his universe, silent relics of past failures. The box held nothing new to find. The woman who’d found it, however, kept him guessing.

  Most of the talking during last evening’s orgasms-for-answers program had been his. Lissa had taken the pleasure but remained remarkably tight-lipped, at least in terms of her past. Yet each day she stripped him symbolically with every move. Skittle thievery reminded him he used to be playful. Her instant rapport with Sasha taught him that even a dog, the most loyal of animals, could move on. Her most mundane habits called him a liar, seeing how a man who’d seduced her as a mere statement wouldn’t get hard at the sound of her shower.

  And, oh, how he did.

  Cole pointed to the opposite corner of the basement, where more stacks lay in wait. “Records are over there.”

  Lissa didn’t deserve a bone, and he refused to examine why he felt inclined to throw her one. “Most of my newer work is stored electronically on flash drives, and those are backups. Initially everything gets archived, either on my local server or in the cloud. The older stuff is in hard copy or on a CD.”

  “The older, the better.”

  Bristling through the shoulders, he let himself wonder. “Explain.” She’d researched his work before accepting his initial offer, and several days ago she’d mocked his lack of photographic prowess over the last year. He could hear her now. You need me. The minx didn’t have what it took to paint and sell pictures of the Brooklyn Bridge to tourists, yet she sought his private collection—unpublished, unsold, and, preferably, old—in another of her attempts to prove a point.

  And here he thought he’d aptly demonstrated how points were best proven.

  “Let’s just say”—she fidgeted with the camera clutched in her gloved hands before dropping it back in the box—“I’m interested in the freedom of your untamed youth.”

  Then she’d have to pay the toll. “Hunting for dirty pictures, are you?”

  Her lips thinned, and delicate color overtook what little skin he could see above the close neck of her cotton shirt. The question had burst out without a thought.

  “Hunting for dirt,” he improvised. “On me. My former style.” Would he ever quit baiting her just to watch her flush?

  Most likely not.

  Because the contrasts hit him in the gut every time—a dusky pink against the pale backdrop of her complexion and the surprising ability to get embarrassed over an off-color joke when she herself could be the crown princess of rude, crude, and socially unacceptable.

  Never one to be taken off-guard for long, Lissa responded, “Incriminating pictures, not dirty ones.”

  The urge to roll his eyes welled, almost insuppressible. “Even better.”

  Eying the piles of boxes she’d yet to conquer, Lissa used Sasha’s shoulders for leverage in pushing up from the floor. The dog had splayed out on his belly, resting his heavy head on curling paws in an immovable canine lotus pose.

  After a quick pat, she pulled the ski mask in place and shuffled to a fresh stack of potential loot. “Shouldn’t you be wearing a shirt?” she mumbled over her shoulder.

  So business-like, especially when he knew she used the mask to hide the blush. “I’ve seen you in less,” he pointed out quietly. “And I recall throwing you a compliment. Remember? I said you had—”

  “Pecs,” she conceded in a rush, giving a nod to his earlier jokes. “You have nice pecs, Cole, as you know.” The mask stifled a suspicious choking sound. “Now get a shirt.”

  Her gritted command came off like an order to do the exact opposite, and her unconscious approval eased down his spine, coiling low and hot.

  “Whoa,” he told her, “easy now.” Cole let his tone say he was slightly embarrassed for her but willing to accept her lack of grace. Then he gave her a break and left to dress.

  Jeans, T-shirt, and a piece of burnt toast later, Cole returned to hall-monitor duty. He’d okayed her search, yes, but Lissa’s timing hadn’t escaped his notice. She’d been in the basement long before he’d stumbled out of bed. At dawn.

  His houseguest wanted to snoop alone, which meant he’d be by her side through every last pixel.

  Rummaging right where he’d left her, Lissa had buried her nose in a thick binder. Leave it to her to find his family albums first.

  Before he could steer her in another direction, she caught his gaze, and again he marveled at the guileless honesty shining outward from the twin cutouts of her mask. He knew she tried to hide behind a layer of bluster. In fact, he’d bet she prided herself on a level of emotional incognito. Yeah, a level of zero. He always knew what she was thinking.

  Right now she was digesting something neither unexpected nor particularly pleasant from the photo album.

  “Your wife was very pretty.”

  The fact had left Cole eternally suspicious, always waiting for others to notice.

  Turning back to the book, Lissa continued with a fatalistic sigh, this time muttering low and, evidently, to herself. “There aren’t enough sandwiches in the world to give me those.”

  “Those?”

  Her head snapped up and the album whipped shut. “What do you think? Breastees.
” She rhymed the word with testes. “Kate’s practically jumped out of her shirts, no matter how demure.”

  Another truth. No amount of minimizing or sport bra-ing or turtle-necking had ever contained them.

  He’d loved those things—touching, tweaking, burying his face where only he was welcome—but as he looked over Lissa’s shoulder at the now closed scrapbook, he couldn’t picture Kate’s assets in his mind.

  “Show me,” he whispered.

  The album fell open to the page Lissa had marked with a thumb, and Cole saw Kate standing in front of a stone fireplace in a tight sweater. Once glimpse, and his wife came rushing in like the opening act of a private Broadway show. Curling blond hair. Heart-shaped lips glossed cranberry red. Fleshy cleavage and, at least on this particular day, her trademark grin.

  The sense of being hollowed out—the one that felt like Kate’s ghost had taken an ice cream scoop to his chest—failed to make an appearance.

  Which, of course, left Cole with a reflexive urge to miss the sadness. Grasping, he rocked his chest compulsively against Lissa’s shoulder in reaching motions. He wasn’t reaching for Kate. He flailed about, searching for the gloom that had shrouded him in a protective coating long enough to become his security blanket.

  Guilt. An emotion as old as grief and, if anything, harder to beat. Cole was supposed to get over Kate. He wasn’t supposed to be relieved to feel her hold slip away.

  The reaction felt like a milk commercial gone wrong. Got pain? No, dammit. Where had the pain gone, and how could he get it back?

  “Incriminating enough for you?” he choked.

  “Not quite.” Lissa turned the page, then another. The first year of his marriage sped by—a honeymoon in Paris, plans for the house and the day they’d broken ground, cycling in the Indian Peaks down the road, on-shoot at a South-African diamond mine, and after, their inaugural trip to India.

  The last picture flipped into view, but Lissa didn’t shut the album and reach for another. Her shoulder tensed beneath his chin. “What’s this?”

  Cole took one look at the photo plastered to the back cover and knew Lissa had him. Definitely incriminating. “Label says desert.” He spoke with the disinterest of a casual observer.