Scandalous (10 page)

Jack stood up, and came around the counter. He stood in front of me, looking down at my face. Blue eyes and smooth skin dusted with stubble occupied my gaze. A tendril had come free from my sloppy pony tail while we were talking. Jack’s eyes narrowed in on the strands, taking the curl and tucking it behind my ear while he spoke, “I’m not Jonathan Gray, not with you...” his voice was hushed. He said the words and let them hang in the air. “I’ll always be Jack. You’ll always be Abby.”

It felt like I was floating. While his hand touched my hair, gently pressing it behind my ear, his fingers trailed along, down the side of my face and onto my neck. His voice swam in my mind. The butterflies in my stomach wouldn’t settle down. They flew in a thousand different directions when Jack touched me. A shiver shook me, making me step back, but the counter was behind me. Jack was in front of me.

His eyes were soft, wanting. They were all over my face and neck, searing a path of heat as they washed over me.
“Abby, say something.
I need to know what you’re thinking.” His fingers brushed back the hair again, lightly. The touch nearly made me gasp. The pit of my stomach twisted as heat flushed across my cheeks.

I couldn’t tell him what I was thinking. Glancing down, away, I stuttered, “I... I... can’t tell you.” He had to know he was doing this to me. Didn’t he? I didn’t know what to do. I was trapped between his body and the cabinets. Time seemed to stop.

Jack’s breath washed across my cheek. He lifted his hand, turning my chin back toward him. Blue eyes pierced through me, making me melt.
“Why not?”
His voice so soft, so seductive.
I could feel the reply on my tongue. My heart wanted to say it, but my mind bit back the words. Silence passed between us.
We stayed like that, his lips within a breath of mine. When he said, “Tell me, Abby,” I could feel the warmth of his breath slide over my mouth. I felt so lost, like I’d been drifting for so long. Jack made me feel found. It took every ounce of restraint not to close the gap between us. I wanted to slide my body into his arms and feel his lips against mine.

Releasing the breath slowly, like it was my last, I said, “I’d like that—Jack and Abby. The way things used to be.” Jack watched my lips as I spoke, his dark lashes hooding his eyes. His breath hitched when I spoke, and he froze. Suddenly it felt like a decade ago. We were face to face, a kiss apart from being something more and Jack was frozen again.

But this time, it didn’t last more than a second. The warmth that was in his eyes cooled. Jack stepped away from me like he hadn’t realized what he’d done. Heat raced across my cheeks. I turned around, facing the counter to hide the blush. Moving slowly, so he didn’t notice my hands trembling, I picked up my half-consumed cold coffee and dumped it down the drain. Without turning around, I felt Jack’s warmth behind me. I knew he was there. Staring blankly, I told myself not to turn. He placed his cup next to mine, and stepped back. I stared at the black liquid, heart still pounding, drowning out all other sounds.

Jack was leaning on the opposite counter. When I turned around he smiled softly, not holding my gaze for more than a second. I felt insane. Was he toying with me? Did I misread him? I didn’t know. I leaned back against my counter, across from Jack.

“So, since I have no clients for a while, let’s do something different tonight.”

Glancing up at him, I asked, “Like what?”

He shrugged, pushing off the counter, “I’m telling everyone else to take the week off ‘til I can sort out who screwed me, so it’ll be just me and you. We can do whatever we want. Eat pizza, watch movies, paint... whatever you want.”

“Sure.
Sounds good.”

He turned to leave. I followed him to the door, admiring his sculpted shoulders. Each muscle had a defined curve like he worked out, but I never saw him doing anything. Picturing Jack covered in sweat pushed my pulse higher. I pressed the thoughts back. They needed to be crushed before they messed things up. While I was tripping over my awkward thoughts, Jack turned back and gave me a peck on the cheek.

Grinning he said, “See you later, Tyndale,” and tugged my ponytail. He bounded down the steps as I stood there shocked, wondering what the hell just happened.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Good God, he made me nuts. I peeled myself off the back of the door after he left and took a cold shower. The rest of the day passed painfully slow. I should have gone back to sleep. Last night sucked so bad that I was lucky if I had a few hours, but I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t think. Jack wanted to spend time with me.
Just me.
He sent everyone else away for an entire week. The giddy girl inside of me wanted to squeal and jump on every bed in the apartment, but I knew I needed to hit her in the head with a brick before she rode off with my brains. I couldn’t kiss Jack. It didn’t matter that I wanted him. It didn’t matter what he did or how I responded. Part of my profession was self-denial. Jack was off limits. I had to stop thinking about him like that.

By nightfall, I convinced myself that I could do it.
That we could just be friends.
Those feelings would vanish if I commanded them correctly, but I knew nothing about lust or love or like. And that
giddy twit inside of me took control the moment I saw Jack. She squealed within me with as much gusto as if I’d given her a unicorn. Why couldn’t I control her?

Jack spoke, melting my brain, after dinner, “So, what do you feel like?” He was standing at the counter. The lights in the gallery were switched off, and it felt like we were surrounded by black walls.

Jack asked dangerous questions. I shrugged, like I didn’t care—like I was apathetic—trying to hide whatever was causing my mind to malfunction. “I haven’t seen the Galleria yet.” He looked at me in surprise. “Let’s walk through there. Then maybe we can go outside. Play mini golf or something down by the water.” That sounded platonic, right? Show me your erotic art and then let’s play golf. Sure. Jack smiled at me, grabbing a bottle of wine from the fridge.
“Sounds great.
But you have to take the tour like a patron. It’s the best way to see it.” His blue gaze flashed in my direction. I nodded, until I realized what he meant. Jack produced two crystal glasses and poured the wine into each. Handing me one, he said, “Come on.”

Refusing to take the glass I said, “Jack, I can’t drink that.”

“Why not?”
He seemed surprised.

“I’m not supposed to drink. You already know that.”

“Abby, this is a special occasion. It’s part of the experience.” He placed the glasses on the counter, before causally leaning his tone body back against it. He tilted his head a little, his hair shifting in the light, “If you don’t want to, you don’t have to, but it changes things a little bit.”

I didn’t understand. Eyeing the glass, I asked, “How is slightly intoxicated good? Don’t you want people to see what you painted, and not leave with some drunken ambiguous impression in their minds?”

Jack smiled at me like I was cute, cute and maybe a little bit stupid. He turned his head, clearing his throat, saying, “No one gets smashed on half a glass of wine,” he laughed. “And it doesn’t do what you think. God, haven’t you ever had a drink?” I shook my head. I didn’t drink, the church used grape juice, and with my dad the way he was, I swore liquor off.
All of it.
Jack didn’t know about my dad. I never told him. Without another word, he seemed to sense he was missing a piece of my story, a piece I wasn’t sharing.

He explained, “A little bit of wine is good. A little bit removes preconceptions, apprehensions, and
allows you to see what I see. It lets you surrender to yourself a little bit and see things the way I do. For you, a sip or two would be fine. It’d let you see... me.” He swallowed hard, like he was offering to reveal something very important.

A chill worked its way up my spine. This was a hard line, something that I said I’d never do, but I wanted to see what he saw. I wanted the chance to get inside his head. It was too tempting to pass up. As I stood there, indecision on my face, a million thoughts racing through my mind, Jack backed away. He didn’t hold out my glass again. I moved next to him, and took it in my hands. Pulse pounding in my ears, I lifted the crystal to my lips. The wine slid down my throat with a warm burn. I pressed my lips together, and looked up at him, still holding my glass, wondering if I’d gone insane. “Let’s go. Show me what’s really happening inside the mind of Jack Gray.”

Jack lifted his glass, and turned back, correcting me, “The heart of Jack Gray. Art is always a reflection of the heart, the soul of the painter.”

I followed him into the Galleria. It was pitch black. “Wait here,” he said and I heard him walk away. The first thing I noticed was a pale blue spotlight slowly growing brighter and brighter on the
other side of the room. Music wafted from somewhere. My chest tightened. This seemed romantic, but that had to just be me, right? Patrons didn’t come in here and get this taken with Jack. They saw the millionaire Jonathan Gray.

He was back before I could give it more thought. Tilting his head to the side, he said, “Follow me.” We walked across the dark space, music slowly drifting through the air. Stopping in front of the illuminated painting he said, “Each canvas will light one at a time. During a show, each patron is given a drink and we follow the lights through the gallery until the last canvas is displayed. Then they all turn on and you can wander around and check stuff out. It makes it more dramatic this way.”

My fingernails tapped my glass nervously, “More romantic, too.” He arched an eyebrow at me, surprise on his face. Quickly I added, “You know what I mean. You’re trying to be evocative here, so don’t go giving me the eyebrow. You want your patrons to feel something when they look at the walls. That’s what they’re buying—the idealized version of Jonathan Gray.”

He took my arm and turned me toward the painting. “Maybe, but I want you to tell me what you see. Tell me what you think of Jack, the boy you
knew, when you look at these.” His voice was soft, as if he were asking a question that could shatter him. One look at his face told me that I could. This made him nervous, but he was excited as well.

Looking at the painting on the wall, I felt my heart clench. It was monochromatic blue, so pale it almost seemed white. The painting was of a woman, nude, showcasing her from the waist up. Her long hair trailed behind her as she danced. Her eyes were closed, a hand by her face another crossed over her breasts. Lifting the wine glass to my lips, I took a sip. My eyes moved across the entire canvas. It was huge. Jack and I fit in front of it, and we could have added ten more people and lined them up shoulder to shoulder—they all would have been able to stand in front of it.

Jack’s voice was soft, “What do you see?”

Fear made me reluctant to glance at him. I could feel his gaze on the side of my face, waiting. I didn’t want to lie to him, but if this reflected Jack in some way, well, it wasn’t something good. I swallowed hard, trying to find the right words. “I see a broken heart. Something lost that haunts you. It’s in the colors, the position of the model’s body. It’s like a million different shades of tears, strewn across a canvas.” I breathed hard, worried that I’d offend him.
The lights went out, and slowly, a yellow spot light grew brighter across the room. Jack’ features were rimmed in light—his smooth skin, the curve of his cheek, the fullness of his lips—they were parted, his eyes watching me, before he put his hand on the small of my back. I repressed the urge to shiver, as he led me across the room.

Stopping in front of a gold painting, he asked, “What do you see, Abby?” his voice was a whisper.

I sipped from the wine first this time. My heart was pounding. This was a lot more intimate that I’d thought. Jack stood next to me, watching me as my eyes slid over the canvas, the wine glass held loosely in his hand. The paint on this one was a myriad of
golds
with a few highlights of crimson. The model’s body was fuller this time. Her soft curves replaced the harsh angles of the last piece. It was sensual, seductive. But there was something else. Where the woman’s hand covered her breast, there was a splattering of red. The thick paint was smeared through with soft brush strokes.

“You’re still wounded, still mourning someone in this work, but the pain has faded somewhat. The colors, the flow of the composition... it seems like you long to be free, but you can’t be. You perceive yourself as trapped. I think people look at this and
see the model, and think she’s the one who feels that way, but it’s not that way at all. It’s you, it’s Jack who feels the pain and isn’t certain what to do. The femininity of it just hides that it’s your emotions we’re feeling.” Glancing at him, I felt bolder, asking, “Am I right?”

I sipped the wine, as he swallowed hard, saying, “More than you know.” His eyes lingered on mine. The lightness that was typically there, the playfulness, was gone. Jack was like his painting, open and vulnerable.

The light faded as another turned up. We walked through the gallery, seeing image after image that portrayed a deeply haunted Jack. When we stood before the last canvas, my breath caught in my throat. His hand was on the small of my back, my wine glass nearly empty. Stepping forward, I reached out and touched the paint.