Beneath the Scars (4 page)

Now, she was standing, frozen, her hand outstretched in front of my
Tempest
painting. Her fingers were reaching, caught midair, not touching the canvas but simply hovering, trembling. She was mesmerized; her face a study of shock. It was as if her entire being was caught in the swirls of paint. I could feel her emotion from where I stood, gazing at her in wonder. Never before had I seen such a visceral reaction to that piece, prior to today. Her body was expressing the emotions I felt when I painted it. Pain, longing, and unending chaos were etched into that canvas, and she was feeling every stroke, living them herself. Her display of emotion caught me unprepared, and I steadied myself against the wall before I did something I would regret; like move forward and touch her. I wanted to feel the satin of her skin under my fingers.

The angle I had offered me a perfect view while I stared; her entire being lost in my work. When I first saw a woman on the beach last night, I assumed it was my neighbor, Karen. I knew this morning, though, I’d been wrong. This was definitely not her. Small and petite like Karen, but her features were soft, almost delicate in a way. Karen carried an intense, confident beauty I remembered from our brief first encounter, when we bumped into each other in the shadows of the woods and a couple other awkward meetings. This woman’s stance was timid, her bottom lip caught up in her teeth as she worried the plump flesh. For some reason I yearned to step forward and pull her teeth away, wanting to see if her lip was as soft as it looked. I wanted to taste it. Sweep my tongue over it before I kissed her.

I shook my head at the strange thought. I couldn’t remember the last time I wanted to kiss a woman, or be close enough to another person the way I wanted to be close to her.

The gallery was filled with natural light and it caught the color of her hair: deep, rich coppery auburn, which contrasted dramatically with her pale skin. There was a smattering of freckles on her cheeks, standing out in contrast to her pallor. Her hand was small, the fingers tiny, as she reached toward the canvas. I noticed how tired she looked. Her dark, wide eyes were weary as she lost herself in the image in front of her, and her entire face awash in emotions. A sudden, intense longing tore through me—a feeling that seldom, if ever, happened in my life—I wanted to help her. The need to offer her comfort, to ease whatever pain made her look so vulnerable, had me reaching out, wanting to grasp her hand in my larger one and soothe her. However, I realized what I was doing when I caught sight of the back of my hand, bringing reality crashing around me. She would never want or accept soothing from me. No woman ever would.

Putting my head down, I rushed to the back door, passing behind her. I could feel her as I went by in long strides, moving as fast as my feet would go. Her scent hung in the air around her, as soft and delicate as her sweet face. I felt her gaze shift from the painting to me and I walked faster, hoping Jonathon didn’t come from his office and call my name for any reason. I wouldn’t stop, even if he did; my panic was too great.

I groaned as I grasped the door and wrenched it open, almost running to the SUV, in my haste to get away from there. My hands shook as I struggled with the seat belt, finally hearing the click as the buckle connected. My tires tore on the pavement as I backed out of the lot and headed toward the house.

I struggled to control my breathing as I drove away; my mind was a chaotic symphony of thoughts. One was more prevalent than the others.

I wanted her. I wanted her in ways I hadn’t wanted a woman in years.

A complete stranger.

My mind saw us together; limbs entwined as I buried my face in her thick hair and felt her soft curves under me. Her subtle perfume lingered, and I yearned to be close enough again to breathe it in, to hold her scent deep in my lungs. My fingers ached to caress her pale skin, trace that trembling full lip with mine and taste it. I needed to know if it was as sweet as I thought it would be—or even sweeter.

I wanted to see her reaction to other pieces of my work. Watch the wonder on her beautiful face as she studied the canvases.

I could see her in my studio, her brilliant hair lit by the sun. I wanted to capture her image on canvas.

I wanted so much more than that with her.

Slamming my hand on the steering wheel in anger, I cursed. I could never have her.

I could never have any woman.

She
would never want me.

I needed to stay away from her, and keep her away from me.

If she got close to me, I wasn’t sure I could resist her.

CHAPTER FOUR

From: Jared Cameron

To: Megan Greene

Subject: Running from the truth Megan?

Did you think hiding was the answer here? Stop ignoring me. Why don’t you do the right thing—everyone makes mistakes. Recant your statement and let it go, and I will drop it. Don’t you think it’s enough I have to suffer not only finding out my assistant/girlfriend used me, but also tried to claim my work as hers? I’ve been hurt enough, Megan, and still, I forgive you. I have to in order to move on. I loved you once and your betrayal has cut me to the bone. Stop the pain for both of us.

Jared

Damn it, he was good. Another pleading email, which would, no doubt,
somehow
be leaked to the press. It showed not only his pleading with me to stop hurting him, but his forgiving nature. All designed to make me look like the bad person; just the way he intended. There were also texts and a voice mail from him, all spewing the same lies, keeping up the front that
he
was the injured party. I was so tired of this mess. The fact of the matter was that I was almost ready to walk away, no matter how much Karen told me to keep fighting. He had done a good job. He managed to destroy my credibility, ruined my career, killed my hopes of becoming a published writer, and made me feel worthless all at the same time. How could I overcome all of that?

I sat back with a groan, rubbing my forehead. This was not helping the building headache.

Outside, the skies were low and overcast; a storm was slowly approaching. Staring out the window, my eyes drifted to the end of the beach and the house on the bluff. I hadn’t heard from Jonathon since I’d been at the gallery two days prior. The urge to walk across the sand and knock on Zachary’s door, begging him to allow me to buy his painting, had been one I’d been resisting since I came home. Instead, I had gone for many walks on the beach, spent hours sitting in front of the computer screen. I tried and failed to find inspiration to write again, always ending up on the same site run by the gallery, looking at Zachary’s paintings.

I had no idea what his full name was—they were all listed as painted by
Z D A
—but even his initials fascinated me. I stared at the images of the paintings for hours. Even the simplest, softest ones of the beach and sand held so much emotion; I could feel it even through the screen. It was as though he captured emotions on all his canvases. On some, like
Tempest
, he brought out hidden ones, the kind a person kept to themselves.

I glanced back at the computer, then the thick pad of paper beside it. My fingers itched to pick up the pen, sit on the sofa, and allow myself to write the way I liked to. Except after what happened, I wasn’t sure I could ever do that again. Unless I copied every page immediately, locked all of it up into a vault, and never spoke of it to another person. A small huff of frustration left my lips. I didn’t know if anyone would ever read anything I wrote, even if I was able to do so again, not after this fiasco, anyway.

The headache started to build and my fingers rubbed at my temples, trying to effect some relief. Caffeine hadn’t helped and neither had my spur of the moment idea. Drawing in a deep breath, I grimaced at the lingering odor of nail polish hanging in the air. When I had seen the electric blue bottle of polish in the drawer, I hadn’t been able to resist painting my toenails with it. I was, after all, at the beach. It seemed almost wrong not to. Now, though, I needed to go for a walk and get some fresh air. My toes were still drying, but Karen had flip flops I could borrow to protect them.

Looking over at the chair, I smiled. Dixie was sitting on the cushion, looking at me, her little body almost trembling in excitement. She loved it here with all the open spaces to run and investigate. The beach below us held endless exploration for her, and I didn’t even need to keep her on her lead in the daytime. She stayed close as we walked, running up and down the packed sand together, often playing fetch. If we went for a walk later in the evening, I snapped on her lead, just in case something spooked her. The large retriever hadn’t come for another visit, but I could only assume Zachary was keeping his dog away from the beach, in order to not interact with me. I imagined him to be the quintessential artist: aloof and brooding, eating only when necessary, holed up in his studio, creating and gnashing his teeth as he swirled paint on his canvas, shunning the world around him.

I chuckled at my imagination. Then a quiet sigh broke through my lips. I could understand shunning the world. That was the same as what I was doing. Maybe he could give me some pointers.

As I descended the few stairs to the beach, I was surprised to see the large golden retriever as well as the mysterious Zachary. I stood for a minute, observing him in private. He was standing, barefoot in the surf, staring out over the water as his dog frolicked close by. Zachary was a tall, dark silhouette against the sand and stormy, strange-colored sky of the late afternoon. Wearing dark jeans and the same overcoat that showed off his broad shoulders, a beanie once again pulled low on his head, he stood with his hands in his pockets, motionless, as the water swept across his bare feet. The rolled-up edges of his pants were dark with the ocean spray clinging to the material. I shivered just watching him. The water had to be freezing.

Seeing her new friend, Dixie let out a happy, little yelp, which had the retriever bounding over to her, once again licking her head and huffing as he greeted her. The two of them took off, heading right toward Zachary. He leaned down, greeting Dixie, allowing her a sniff, then patted her head and straightened up. He didn’t turn around or acknowledge my presence. With a roll of my eyes, I walked forward, stopping when I was close enough to be heard, but not have my feet in the frigid water. I waited, but he said nothing, ignoring me completely.

Unfriendly indeed.

“That’s Dixie—my dog.”

His chin dipped with a brief nod. “Elliott.”

I couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “You or the dog?”

His lips quirked at the edges. “My dog.”

“I’m staying at the Harpers’ house.”

He nodded.

“I’m not Karen—I’m a friend of hers.”

His sarcasm was thick. “I realize. I
have
met her—more than once. There is a slight resemblance, perhaps, but I can see you aren’t her. Your hair rather gives that away.”

“I’m sure it was a thrill for her,” I murmured, surprised to hear the trace of a British accent in his voice. I chose to ignore the remark about my hair.

Nothing.

“They’re letting me stay here for a while.”

“How kind.”

I shook my head.
Was he for real?