Nightsong (11 page)

Still he could not draw away without searching out the hem of her sweater and sliding his hand inside. Her skin was hot and as smooth as a lustrous pearl, and when he again reached the curve of her breasts and pushed aside the lace of her bra, she shivered, just a little, and arched against him. He wished he could strip away the covering and see the satin skin his hand caressed. But there was too much clothing between them, too much cool air around them, and one too many things he hadn’t told her. Yet.

He reluctantly withdrew his hand and then slowly took his lips from hers. She looked into his eyes for a long time, and Phillip thought his heartbeat filled the silence with its thundering pulse. But when her fingertip feathered across the corner of his mouth, he knew he wouldn’t have heard a twenty-piece orchestra. There was only Elleny. Her brown eyes and delicate features were all he saw, the quick in and out of her breathing was the only sound he knew. He was falling in love with her. Maybe he was past falling and already there.

The idea came unexpectedly, exactly the way she’d become a part of his life, his thoughts. But no. It couldn’t be happening. Not to him. Not now. Not with a forever kind of woman like her.

He took a step back in direct reaction to the possibility and tore his gaze from hers. “Elleny,” he began, but his voice was a hoarse, incoherent murmur. He had to say something, had to stop this from going any further, even if it already had gone too far. Raking a hand through his hair, he cleared his throat and resolutely turned to her.

“Elleny.” At least he sounded steady. He curled trembling fingers into a fist and pushed it inside a pocket. “I don’t know how to say this.”

The truth would not come. He couldn’t blurt out the information that her late husband had been a thief, that he had lied to her and that in order to discover the truth, Phillip had found it necessary to lie to her, too.

She had to know, he freely admitted that. But she didn’t have to know
now.
“I can’t explain, Elleny, but I don’t want any complications in my life right now.”

Her eyes widened, and she started to speak, but Phillip pivoted and began to walk toward the cabin before she could say anything that would challenge his resolve.

And right now it wouldn’t take much.

“I’ll unload the SUV,” he called over his shoulder. “Is there any special place you want the paintings?”

“Anywhere will do.” She fell into step behind him, and he experienced a sense of relief—and disappointment—that the moment had passed. It would come again. He had little doubt of that, but in the meantime he needed some space for thinking and considering the possibilities.

His gaze settled on the SUV and a frown pierced his contemplation. An old sketchpad, crumpled and worn from use, was hidden beneath the passenger seat. It was out of sight, but Phillip knew he would be conscious of its presence on the trip back.

There had been no sign of the van Warner in the loft studio. It hadn’t taken long to examine the canvases for size and thickness, once he’d gotten over the initial impulse to look at each individual painting. But at least he had found the sketchpad.

He needed time and better light to verify his hunch, but his gut feeling told him there was something worth seeking inside the faded red covers. There was no name on the pad, no signature on the few incomplete sketches he’d seen, but Phillip felt certain it had belonged to Mark. It might, just might, provide a link to the location of the van Warner. And Phillip had been very glad that Elleny wasn’t around when he’d found the tablet wedged between the wall and a bright-colored canvas. And he’d been relieved that she was nowhere in sight when he’d hidden it in the car. He wanted to be sure he had concrete evidence before he told her anything.

But the first possibility of a clue in six weeks of frustration seemed curiously unimportant.

And his first taste of love in as many years was bittersweet.

Moonlight caught the lavender satin of her robe, turning it to muted silver. With each step the ribbon-bound hem flared around her feet, almost brushing the top of the ground as she passed. Elleny kept her eyes focused on the path before her, although they occasionally strayed to the garage apartment window where a soft, golden glow beckoned her like a bonfire on a foggy night.

There was a hollow feeling in her stomach, and her heart was beating like hummingbird wings. It had seemed so simple in the sanctuary of her bedroom. Needing, wanting, loving all blended into a perfect rationale that had led her through the shadowed house and outside. Her destination was Phillip’s arms, although she wasn’t sure he would allow her in.

No complications,
he’d told her that afternoon, and she’d thought of little else since. But thinking hadn’t eased the empty ache of wanting him past the point of reason, and no amount of reasoning had altered her strengthening belief that she loved him. And despite what he’d said, she believed he loved her, too.

Maybe his divorce had been more traumatic than he’d made it sound. Maybe that was his reason for being so cautious of relationships. Of all the possibilities that had occurred to her, that one seemed the most likely. Although it still didn’t quite fit with her perception of him.

Elleny reached the bottom of the stairs and paused to look up at the closed door. The risk she was taking rippled through her and settled jellylike in her knees. She had no experience with this sort of thing. Going to Phillip and honestly, openly telling him she wanted to make love was a little bit frightening. But in her own room she had reached the conclusion that it was more frightening
not
to go.

There were no guarantees in life or in loving. Promises could be broken, commitments could be violated, but memories couldn’t be taken away. She was willing to wager the pain of losing against the possibility of happiness, and regardless of the outcome, she would have no regrets in the years to come.

Taking a deep breath of conviction, she started up the steps, her nylon slippers a mere whisper in the darkness.

* * * *

Inside the studio Phillip lay on the daybed staring at the square of night sky visible through the skylight overhead. With hands clasped behind his head, the sketchpad balanced tent-like across his bare stomach, he bent one pajama-clad leg at the knee and ruffled the already scattered sheets with his foot. He probably ought to get up to turn off the light, but why should he bother?

What difference did it make if the room was dark or well lighted? His mind would chase the same restless questions, his body would know the same tense longings.
Elleny. Elleny. Elleny.
It was a litany of all his senses, repeated over and over with soft persistence. What was she thinking as she lay in her solitary bed? Was she asleep? Awake? Dreaming?

He pressed his head against the pillow, massaging the muscles in his neck in a rotating motion. He had never before thought so much about one woman—the way she looked, the way she moved, smiled, spoke, even the way she felt to his touch. He’d never even thought it was possible to fall fathoms deep in love ... until today. And now he wondered why he hadn’t recognized the feeling sooner.

Ironic that he should admit how deeply, irrevocably he loved Elleny on the same day he’d denied the physical need to make love to her. She hadn’t understood his mumbled excuse of
no complications.
He hadn’t really understood it either, but as with so many other things, it had seemed
necessary.
And now the opportunity might not come again.

The moment of truth was approaching with the surety of the sunrise. He’d retrieved the sketchpad from the SUV earlier that evening, and within a half hour he was staring at the concrete evidence he needed – an incomplete, but almost perfect sketch of the van Warner original.

He inhaled. The sketchpad shifted and slid from his stomach to fall between the mattress and the wall and then slipped the rest of the way to the floor beneath the bed. Phillip started to retrieve it, then decided not to bother. Settling more comfortably into his meditative position, he frowned at a star winking brightly a world away.

So now, he thought, he had proof that Mark Damon had copied the van Warner at least once. There was no indication of where the original watercolor might be hidden, but Phillip was certain he was closing in on the painting. It was only a matter of time.

And what about Elleny, his heart persisted. When was he going to be honest with her? And once he’d told her, would she turn to him for comfort, for help in dealing with the inevitable disillusionment? Or would she turn from him and not look back?

A sound, soft and indecisive, made him stiffen. Then he sighed the tension away and wearily rubbed his eyes. He’d been hearing noises all evening –
imagining
noises.

It was just a symptom of his unsettled mood. Nothing more.

The knock was louder, definite this time, and Phillip was on his feet so quickly his soles stung from their sudden contact with the floor. Rubbing a shaky hand along his jaw, he tried to retrieve his presence of mind from the instinctive reaction to being startled. It was after midnight. Who…?

No.

He looked at the door.

The knock came again, this time accompanied by a quiet, feminine whisper. “Phillip? Are you awake?”

Elleny.
It was Elleny.

He glanced around for his robe, eventually found it hanging from the hook on the back of the bathroom door, and hastily pulled it on. His hand grappled for the end of the tie belt as he made his way toward the door, stopped to rake suddenly nervous fingers through his hair, and then turned the knob to open the door.

“Elleny...?” The word rushed past his lips and dropped into the vacuum of sound that abruptly surrounded him. There was nothing, no one, except this moment.

Elleny stood before him, captured in moonlight and shadow, delicate, lovely as an orchid awaiting the final, perfect touch of dawn. Dark curls tumbled past her shoulders, her eyes were wide and softly brown in the pool of light that swept past him to encircle her. His grip on his robe slackened, and he felt the pounding, deafening rhythm of his pulse.

“Is … Is something wrong?” It was a vacant question, void of meaning, unnecessary because he knew why she was here. But it seemed important to say something.

Elleny breathed again. At least he’d opened the door. And it was still open. The tip of her tongue glided over lips that felt incredibly weak. “No.” She meant to say more, to explain, but her voice hovered, captive, in her throat.

Phillip nodded in understanding of what she didn’t say, and an evanescent smile rewarded him. He stepped back, making room for her. “Do you want to come in?”

“Yes, thank you.” She walked through the doorway, and the sound of the lock flooded the studio with privacy. A shiver coursed a path to her fingertips, and she turned nervously, one hand moving to touch the ribbon-bound lapel of her robe. Phillip stood only inches from the door, as if he were considering the advisability of getting too far from the exit.

The corner of her mouth lifted with the thought, and the feeling of shyness ebbed a little. He looked devastatingly disheveled. His hair was uncombed, his jaw wore the faint promise of tomorrow’s whiskers, his black, terry cloth robe gaped open to reveal the crinkly growth of dark chest hair. The pajama trousers he wore were a soft, wrinkled blue, loose-fitting and somehow ... risqué. Her brows arched in approval, but she frowned with insecurity when her eyes met his.

What should she say? What should she do? The awareness, the awful possibility that she might be wrong, that he might not want her, spun from one corner of her thoughts to another. All the right things to say, the appropriate way to conduct a seduction, had come to mind so easily when she’d been alone. All was forgotten now when she faced rejection eye to eye.

“What can I offer you, Elleny?” He crossed his arms over his chest, an action diametrically opposed to the low, sensuous suggestion in his voice. “Coffee? Conversation? A few complications?”

Searing, spiraling heat streaked across the pocket of air between them, unexpected, a little frightening, a lot thrilling, like a faraway flash of lightning in an otherwise black midnight. The undefined restlessness that had been a part of her ever since the first moment she’d met his dark gaze took shape and gave her courage. “No complications, Phillip. Just tonight.”

“And?”

She swallowed the awkward knot of self-consciousness and faced him with dignity. “You. Tonight. Nothing more.”

Phillip closed his eyes and then opened them slowly to reassure himself that this was indeed real. He’d thought he knew this woman, the nuances of her personality, the boundaries of her behavior. But he’d never dreamed she would come to him, wanting him badly enough to overcome her innate innocence of spirit. Or was it because of that innocence she could face him, honestly communicating her needs and emotions to him?

He had been much less than honest with her, and now he was trapped between trust and deception. She trusted. He had deceived. It was too late for regrets. Or forgiveness. Whatever he did at this point would end in betrayal of the trust shining so clearly in her eyes. This was hardly the time for a confession, even if he had the resolution to make one. And silence was as fraudulent as any single lie he might have told her.

He moved toward her, stopped, raked unsteady fingers through his hair, once and then again.

“Elleny.” He looked at the floor, looked back to her, saw embarrassment warm her cheeks and knew her intention almost before she did. He caught her wrist as she whirled toward the closed door, and at the touch of her silken skin beneath his fingertips, he lost all semblance of reason.

“Let go,” she whispered hoarsely. “I shouldn’t have come.”

There were tears in her voice, and suddenly, he was angry. Angry with himself for letting the situation reach this point. Angry with Mark Damon for deceiving Elleny in the first place. And angry with her because she had loved a man so obviously unworthy.