PaintedPassion (2 page)

Hearing the sensuous cadence of instrumental jazz and a soft,
melodious voice humming, he paused on the landing. He followed the sound into
the spacious master bedroom.

He averted his gaze from the king-size bed, but he couldn’t
stop staring at an open dresser drawer filled with lace bras, panties and black
silk. A sheer triangle of pink caught his eye. His mouth dried faster than a
raindrop in a sandstorm. Images of her dressed in the colorful pieces of
material assailed his mind, causing his thickening flesh to throb against the
zipper of his jeans.

Beyond the bedroom, open bi-fold doors revealed a sitting
room Trella had converted into a studio. She sat in front of an easel, her back
facing him.

Glass doors led from the sitting room onto the terrace. The
partially open doors allowed the spring breeze to ripple through her hair. He
moved closer until he peered over her shoulder, admiring her work as her hands
moved confidently across the canvas. He recognized the Phoenix metro area, also
known as the Valley of the Sun, below.

“Beautiful.” He froze as the word left his lips. He hoped
she’d assume his comment was directed at her work rather than at her.

She turned, smiling at him. “I never get enough of the
view.”

“You were supposed to be resting,” he admonished.

She returned her attention to the canvas. “Painting relaxes
me.”

“Not the same thing.”

“Yes, it is. Besides, my gallery showing is a month away.”
She brought the brush down the canvas, leaving a trail of blue in its wake.

“Do you always work up here?”

She giggled. The sound warmed him, and he knew he wanted to
hear it again. “No. This property had two guest casitas when we bought it.
Miguel is staying in one, and the other is my main studio.”

He watched the scene below take shape as she worked her
magic with the paint. “Who was on the phone?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. The person hung up.”

Strange…first a wrong number, now a hang-up call. Concern
ricocheted through him. “Have you received a lot of these calls?”

She rose from the stool. As she stretched, the orange and
white striped tank tightened across her abundant breasts with the movement. Her
nipples pushed against the fabric, taunting him.

His mind yelled at him to leave, but his feet, weighted with
indecision, refused the command. She lowered her arms, and he tracked the
movement before returning his attention above her neck.

She sighed. “Someone’s probably trying to reach the person
who had the number before me.”

Perhaps, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He picked up the
receiver from the phone on her nightstand and activated call return.

“Well?” she asked as he returned the receiver to its base.

He shook his head. “Private number.” He made a mental note
to initiate a trace on her phone line. “Food’s ready. Come down when you’re
ready.”

The spell broken, Carlos returned to the kitchen as if
El
Diablo
himself chased him. He still had the numbers of a few females he
used to hook up with. He’d call one and see if she were up for a quickie. He
needed to release the tension being around Trella induced within him.

She strolled in a few minutes later. He fixed their plates
before sitting on an adjacent stool. She poured lemonade into two glasses.
Determined to keep the conversation light, he asked about her parents and
laughed with her as she regaled him with stories of her time abroad in Paris.

The satisfying sound of her throaty laughter sent a trickle
of pleasure down his spine, gripping him in its hold and leaving him wanting
more. Another hour of conversation with her and he’d need a cigarette—and he
didn’t smoke.

“Since you cooked, I’ll clean,” she announced.

“And since it was your food, I’ll help.” He stacked the
dirty dishes in the sink then opened the dishwasher.

“Not there.” She stopped him. “I prefer washing by hand.”

He’d never met a woman who hadn’t praised the appliance. He
eased the door shut, eager to hear her reasoning. “Why?”

“Washing dishes gives me time to think about my day, what
I’ve accomplished.” She pulled her bottom lip between even white teeth. “Sound
crazy?”

A little. “No. You wash, I’ll rinse.”

Not wanting to interrupt her mental musings, he stayed
silent, concentrating on the task at hand. His day hadn’t consisted of much
else except driving, so acknowledging the day’s accomplishments didn’t take a
lot of time on his part.

She handed him the last dish, her fingers brushing his. He
tensed as a spark soared through him.

Shit. His skin warmed, and he tightened his grip on the
plate to keep from dropping it. He swallowed hard, unable to stop wondering how
her hands would feel on his chest, on his back and in his hair.

While she wiped the countertop, he picked up his glass,
draining the lemonade in one gulp. Yep, he needed to leave before he lost what
little remained of his common sense.

“Stay the night,” she whispered.

Commit me now. I’m hearing things
. “What?”

“After Louis…I never spent a night in this house alone.”
After a second, she waved the words away. “Never mind. Forget I asked. It’s not
as if you probably don’t have other people to visit.”

“I don’t.” The words rushed out before he could stop them.

“Are you sure?”

What happened to hooking up with an old friend? “No bother.”

Her features relaxed into a smile. “The memories—”

“I understand.”

Her small hands gripped the sides of his shirt. “Thanks.”

He placed his hands on her shoulders as he held himself
stiff to keep from drawing her closer.

“Park your Jeep in the garage. I don’t need to be the
subject of my neighbors’ morning gossip sessions.”

She shifted, sending her sweet scent flowing into his
nostrils. His body relaxed in response. Carlos lowered his hands to her waist,
wrestling with the overload of sensations. He knew he should stop touching her,
but his body wasn’t obeying his mind.

“I’ll open the garage for you.”

Hands off now
. He stepped back, releasing her from
his hold.

She walked away. He forced himself to remain where he was,
determined not to turn around and stare at her delectable rear view.

“Carlos?”

He looked over his shoulder.

“Are you coming?”

Jaw tightening, he nodded. He could make it through the
night in the same house with her without giving in to his lustful thoughts.
Couldn’t he?

Hector swiveled in his chair to face the painting gracing
the wall behind his desk. The artist had bestowed the name
Sweet Honey
on the rendering of a young woman dressed in lingerie, the pale yellow of the
lacy bra and slip highlighting the woman’s honey-toned skin. Half the time he
swore the painting depicted a woman dressing for a date. The rest of the time
he deduced she was undressing.

He closed his eyes, pretending the woman in the painting was
his fantasy woman. She’d undress for him, tease him with her hands as she
prepared to take him into her body. Her skin would be soft and fragrant when he
touched her.

The hot suction of the mouth on his cock fueled his
imagination, and instead of the straight hair of the young female whose face
was between his thighs, it was hers, her thick waves flowing below her
shoulders.

His cock swelled. He tangled his hands in her hair, tugging
her closer until she swallowed all of him. As his seed spewed from him, he was
seeing her on her knees, accepting his gift.

* * * * *

Was she out of her mind? Arms full of white linens, Trella
shut the closet door with her foot. She entered the guest room, piling the
linens on the nearby nightstand. The man was dangerous to her peace of mind,
and she invited him to spend the night.

She slid the fitted sheet over the pillow-top mattress. She
stared at the center of the bed, seeing instead the man with dark-chocolate
eyes who towered over her.

When she’d opened the front door and saw him standing there,
she couldn’t stop herself from seeking warmth inside his arms. Her fingers
itched to roam through the thick, rebellious waves of midnight-black hair. For
one crazy, irrational moment, she wanted him to kiss her, to feel his lips on
hers—a connection to another person she hadn’t experienced since Louis.

She smoothed the cool Egyptian cotton. Her dear, sweet
husband. Theirs had been a marriage filled with laughter and friendship. Louis
had been a tender lover, but they never had passion between them. Which was
fine with her. She had no desire to love someone so completely she risked
neglecting her own life.

But even while she sensed the impetuosity of passion lurking
beneath Carlos’ quiet surface, she’d been unable to resist its call. The brush
of their fingers in the kitchen had turned her insides to liquid heat, leading
her to do something stupid—like asking him to stay.

She slid two plump down pillows into pillowcases. Thankfully,
she wasn’t Carlos’ type. Every woman she’d ever seen him with was tall and
slim.

Carlos walked into the room, jeans hinting at the muscles of
his powerful thighs. “You didn’t have to dress the bed for me.”

Dragging her attention from his body, she noticed the black
overnight bag he carried in one hand. “You’re providing peace of mind.” She
shrugged. “We’re even. Towels are in the bathroom.”

He set the bag on the floor, the form-fitting white t-shirt
straining against his biceps with the movement. “What type of alarm system do
you have?”

She frowned as her mind made the leap from his biceps to
formulating a response to his question. “Um, a standard one.”

“Does it cover windows, too?”

“Only doors, I think. This was Louis’ domain. He just gave
me the code, and I was happy.”

Carlos nodded. “You need to take a more active approach to
your safety, Trella.”

She sighed, sinking onto a black leather bench at the foot
of the bed. “Sometimes, it’s hard to think about things Louis handled.”

He put a large hand on her shoulder. “I’ll help you.”

She glanced down, noticing his clean nails. A tingle went
through her, and she wondered why he’d never married. He certainly had plenty
of females to choose from.

Catty much
? She squared her shoulders, and his hand
fell away. She rose to her feet.

“The remote for the TV is in the top drawer of the
nightstand.”

“Thanks, Trella.”

She left the room, praying her lapse of common sense was
temporary.

* * * * *

Groaning, Carlos tossed under the sheet, unable to relax
enough to sleep. He’d tried counting sheep, but they morphed into tantalizing
images of Trella in white jeans. Despite how badly he wanted her in his arms,
yielding to temptation included a one-way ticket to hell.

Thrusting the cover off, he climbed from bed and strode to
the window. He stood there, watching the lights of the Valley in the distance.
Sleep in the same house as Trella? Impossible.

He left the room, wandering down the darkened hallway toward
the kitchen. Spending the night equaled utter stupidity. One whiff of the woman
and his common sense evaporated like steam.

He needed something to occupy his mind, such as figuring out
why Louis worried about her safety.

He entered the kitchen as a beam of headlights cut across
the wall. He stooped, senses keen and ready. Crouched low, he eased his way to
the window. Avoiding the swath of light, he straightened until he saw the dark
outline of a vehicle revealed by landscape lighting.

After a moment, the car continued around the circular drive
and back onto the street. He made a mental note to have cameras installed. The
house needed an extra layer of security beyond a standard house alarm system.

Concern drove him to check every door and window downstairs.
He paused in the doorway of the laundry room. Trella’s orange tank lay atop the
washing machine. He stared at the fabric, remembering how her nipples had
strained against it. He didn’t recall walking farther into the room, but
seconds later, he stood in front of the machine.

He picked up the cotton, soft to the touch. He raised it to
his nose, engraving the soft light floral scent into his brain. Before the idea
of taking it overwhelmed him, he replaced it then retraced his steps to the
bedroom.

Carlos climbed under the sheet and lay on his back, praying
for sleep. Thirty minutes later, he remained wide awake.

He stalked from the bed, returned to the laundry room and
snatched up the tank top.

Yes, Sister Mary Frances, I’m in hell.

* * * * *

Early the next morning after completing her morning workout,
Trella knocked on the guest bedroom door. Not receiving a response, she eased
the door open.

The bed was empty, the covers askew. She’d taken two steps
when Carlos, singing an off-key rendition of Santana’s
Black Magic Woman
,
opened the bathroom door.

She gasped as her gaze roamed the expanse of golden tan
skin, his wide chest. Muscular abs tapered to toned thighs and legs. Reversing
direction, she stopped at his midsection as his manhood thickened, hard and
fast, as if glorying in her perusal.

He was a living piece of art. Her nipples tightened, and
tingling expanded through her from low in her belly. She stepped closer, driven
by the urge to feel the planes and valleys of his torso beneath her hands.

“Go back to your room.” Carlos finally spoke, his delicious
baritone rolling over her heated skin like a refreshing summer rainstorm with a
hint of thunder.

Shaken from her daze, she struggled to recall her purpose.
“Um…coffee.”

He snatched the sheet from the bed. He wrapped it around his
middle, his erection tenting the material beneath his waist.

His hand touched her arm, scorching her skin. Someone
moaned. Did she make the wanton sound? Despite the fact her mind shouted how
wrong this was, her nipples tightened in anticipation.

“I’m having cameras installed today.”

She blinked, struggling against the sensations buffeting her
body. “What?”

His hand fell away. “A security camera system. You need an
upgrade.”

Pull yourself together
. He was Louis’ friend who
cared about her safety, and she was two minutes away from begging him to do
her. “Very…uh, good. Thank you.”

“You mentioned coffee?”

“Coffee? Yes. In the kitchen.” Somehow, she managed to wade
through the thick haze of lust and regain her composure. “I’ll let you dress.”
She left, closing the door behind her with a definitive
click
.

Trella slumped against the wall. The man deserved to be in a
magazine or a calendar. She’d love to paint him. Defined yet not overly
muscular, his body promised sheer strength.

She peeled herself from the wall and concentrated on putting
one foot in front of the other. In the kitchen, she poured a cup of coffee,
grabbed a bagel and her sketchpad then darted to the patio.
Why are you
running away?
At this point, she required sanity, and that meant distancing
herself from Carlos.

Trella sat on one of the half-moon benches that curved along
the concrete walk. A gecko scurried past her feet, probably intent on
discovering a place to hide.

She sipped her coffee. She had to put this thing with Carlos
into perspective. If she didn’t pull herself together, she’d embarrass them
both. He was an exemplary friend. Always had been. Her reaction to him was
nothing more than a case of ridiculously inappropriate lust.

Sure, she could rationalize her behavior, but how to explain
his? She tapped a pencil against her bottom lip. As much as she wanted to
flatter herself into believing his reaction to her was something more, his
physical response to her in the bedroom a few minutes ago was probably the
effect of having a woman stare at him.

She needed to clear her thoughts of him if she wanted to
accomplish any work today. Opening her pad, she allowed the memory of a naked
Carlos to fill her mind. One look at him and her nipples responded as if he’d
palmed them with his large hands. She smiled as the charcoal pencil brought him
to life on paper.

Thank goodness he was leaving today.

* * * * *

Carlos stared out the kitchen window as Trella worked,
seemingly oblivious to the stirrings of the morning around her. Dressed in
clingy black pants and a white t-shirt, she sketched furiously, as if getting
rid of extra energy. He knew the feeling. A breeze ruffled her hair around her
shoulders. She didn’t appear fazed by the heat, while unfulfilled desire burned
him up inside.

When she’d surprised him in the bedroom, his brain had shut
down, and not from the rush of blood flowing below his waist either. He’d been
afraid she would notice her top lying amid the pillows.

But she hadn’t, not the way her gaze had been glued to him.
If he were honest, he didn’t mind the fact she’d seen him nude. He regularly
worked out, and her response to his body stroked his ego. He prayed she
attributed his erection to the fact a beautiful woman studied him and not
because he wanted her.

Madre de Dios
. Every searching sweep of her gaze had
ignited his desire into a flame, the wondrous look in her eyes inviting him to
touch her. Instead, he’d summoned the self-control necessary to extinguish the
fire threatening to explode beyond its boundary.

After this morning’s incident, he dreaded facing her again.
He delayed leaving the bedroom, running a comb through his hair so many times
it was a wonder he had any left. When he spotted her outside, he’d used the
opportunity to return her top to the laundry room.

Engrossed in reliving the morning’s events, he didn’t hear
anyone come into the kitchen until a familiar voice broke the silence.

“Planning to stare her skin off?”

Carlos whirled around. Miguel lowered his bulk into a chair
at the table. An artery-clogging breakfast of assorted doughnuts and Danishes
plus two cartons of milk sat before him.

Carlos had confessed Louis’ dying request only to his
cousin. As a result, Miguel had passed on an opportunity to work a young
Hollywood celebrity’s bodyguard and had gone to work for Trella, instead.

“Seen anyone watching the house?” Carlos asked. “Any cars
driving by slowly?”

His mouth full, Miguel shook his head. A full minute passed
before he answered. “No.”

“Someone drove around the fountain last night. Wish I’d been
able to get a look at the license plate.”

“Did you tell her?”

“No. No need to worry her.” He opened a cabinet, extracting
a colorful mug with the words
artists do it better
emblazoned on the
front. Carlos filled the cup with coffee.

With a nod, he indicated the food on the table in front of
Miguel. “That stuff’ll kill you one of these days.”

“Probably, but I’m going to enjoy every bite.” Miguel
swallowed then gave a low whistle. “You need to get laid or what?” He sucked
his teeth. “Guess Trella wasn’t down for what you were up for, right?”

Carlos choked on a swig of hot coffee. “You talk like that
around her?”

Miguel waved away Carlos’ concerns. “Chill. Trella and I are
friends.”

The doorbell pealed melodiously throughout the house. Miguel
heaved himself from the chair. “I’ll get it.”

Alone again, Carlos returned his attention to Trella. Maybe
he’d inspired her. Whatever she worked on, her pencil moved across the paper as
if she couldn’t wait to see the finished product.

His cousin returned with a large vase containing an explosion
of three dozen peach roses. With a low whistle, Miguel set the display on the
table. “Whoever sent these wants folks to know he’s interested.”

Carlos wondered who sent them. Not that he cared…but out of
concern for Trella. Right.

“Did you send them?”

He blew his breath out in an effort to release the sudden
tension flowing through his body. “Nope.”

“You should’ve.” Miguel chuckled. “Have you looked at her?
Banging body, intelligent and a sense of humor.”

“She is an amazing woman,” Carlos agreed.

“Make a move, man.”

He didn’t need advice on women, especially from his cousin.
“What’s the plan for the day?” he asked, changing the subject.

Miguel finished his juice. “We’re stopping by the gallery
and taking scenic photos from South Mountain.”