Scandalous (12 page)

Jack began to wade into the water, as I pulled his hair trying to stop him. “The sucking or the sand,” he murmured, still laughing as he went into the water deeper. When it was up to his knees he spun around and I shrieked. My hair flew out, sand flying as I clawed onto Jack to keep from falling. The more he spun, the dizzier we got. He made it four rotations before losing his footing when a wave knocked him
off balance. We toppled over like a drunken totem pole, splashing into the cold water. The salty water filled my clothes and forced clumps of sand out. Gasping, I tried to sit up, but the surf was beating me down.

Jack grabbed my shoulders and pulled me to my feet. Water dripped from his scalp. Inky hair fell across his forehead in clumps of black. Jack pushed a tangle of hair out of my face. “You okay?” The smile was still on his face. I nodded. My shirt clung to every inch of me, revealing how cold I was. I shivered. Jack didn’t move. Another wave beat into our legs, nearly knocking me down, but his arms pulled me tightly against him. Jack was tense, every muscle flexed tight, holding me. I splayed my hands on his chest, not looking him in the eye. I thought it would help break the moment, but it didn’t. If anything it made it more intense. The curve of his toned body beneath my hands felt perfect. The way his shirt clung to him revealed what he would look like without it.

Jack spoke, his voice deep and alluring. “Were you serious before? You wouldn’t go back, if you didn’t have to?” Waves pelted at my thighs, making me wobbly. Jack held me tighter, pressing my body
closer to his. I raised my hands to his neck to keep from falling over.

The sound of the surf filled my ears. I shook my head slowly. I didn’t want to go back. I didn’t want to deal with the mess I left behind, but it was so much more than that. Dread filled me, choking me. What if I was wrong? All this time I thought I’d chosen the right path, believed the right things. What if it was all for nothing? I couldn’t stomach the thought. Answering slowly, I said, “I don’t want to, but I have to. I have to fix it.”

“What if I gave you a way to fix it on your own?” his voice was serious, all traces of laughter gone. The surf beat into us, but I couldn’t tear my gaze away from his face. The suggestion, his idea, was the beginning and the end. It consumed me in ways I couldn’t have imagined. The idea was like Jack in every way—completely tempting and completely forbidden.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I couldn’t believe what Jack suggested, but he was serious. I stood there shocked, mute. “Think about it, Abby,” was the last thing he said before taking me by the hand and walking up toward the studio.

We were both soaking wet and frozen. He spoke to me, and I answered, but I can’t remember any of it. The only thing that kept swimming to the front of my mind was the way his eyes moved over my body. It made me warm, and instead of feeling shy, I wanted more. No one ever looked at me like that—like I was desirable, like I was beautiful. I tried to ignore it, gazing at his broad shoulders as we traipsed through the sand, but that only made it worse. The
way his wet clothing clung to his lean figure made me want
to touch him, and run my fingers along his tight muscles.

My heart was pounding in my chest as he held open the door for me. I brushed past him, feeling his
pecs
rub against my bare arm. I repressed a shiver. I’ve never wanted to stop and hug someone so much in my whole life. But I was kidding myself. I didn’t want to hug him. That wasn’t enough. I wanted to feel my lips touch his warm chest. I wanted to know what his smooth skin felt like when he had me wrapped in his arms. I wanted to touch him and taste him. I wanted to know every curve of his body, every place that made him moan and say my name.

Completely rattled, I pushed past him. What the hell was wrong with me? I gave this up. I gave him up.
Soulmates
were important, not this insane wantonness that was bubbling up from somewhere deep inside of me.

Jack missed nothing. Sensing my mood shift, he said, “I didn’t mean to offend you, Abby. Maybe I shouldn’t have suggested it, but it seemed like a way to free you from your problems. No matter what I do, I’m still trapped—but you. We could fix that. You could pose for me, be a model. No one would recognize you. No one would know it was you. The studio’s empty for the next few days. I could make something they’ve never seen before—something just for you. You could lease it or sell it. You’d be free to
do what you want.” His voice grew softer as he spoke, eyes locked on mine. “Stay where you want.” He sighed, pushing his damp hair out of his face. “It’s something I can give you. Something I’d hoped you would have accepted.” He paused, adding, “I could pay off that debt for you, but I didn’t think you would let me. It seems to be attached to you in a way I don’t really understand.”

I shook my head. Looking up at his beautiful face, my voice was soft, “No, I wouldn’t let you. It was my mistake. I have to pay for it. You’re right. It’s not like racking up a credit card, it’s more than that. That debt symbolizes who I am and what I’ll become. Paying it off means I wasn’t wrong all these years.” Lowering my lashes, I looked away, adding, “And you didn’t offend me Jack. It’s not...” my throat tightened. I couldn’t say it.

Soaking wet, Jack stood in front of me. Tilting my chin up, he asked, “It’s not what?” His voice was soft, his hands warm. Closing my eyes, I pulled my chin back. He released me.

“It’s just not a good idea, not with the other paintings the way they are.” I felt so hot, but my skin was freezing. Why was he making me say this? But Jack’s face was still, waiting for an explanation. I stammered the words out, fumbling my fingers as I
spoke, nervously looking everywhere except at Jack’s eyes, “Not with me.”

He nodded once, arms folded across his broad chest, shirt clinging to his skin. “Don’t do that, Abby. Don’t act like I can’t handle it. I wouldn’t have offered if I thought I wouldn’t be able to do it. There’s no touching, and I don’t date the models. You’d be the model, Abby. We’re both adults, and I don’t think either of us wants to flush our reputation away.”

My stomach was twisting in knots as he gazed at me. Finally he asked, “If the debt was gone, what would you do? Would you continue working as a minster somewhere? Or would you do something else? Start over?”

The pit of my stomach fell. It was the question that I dreaded, the one that plagued me at night. If I said I’d start over, that was total failure. And not just failure, like I chose the wrong career—it was failure that would crush my faith. It would destroy my life,
who
I was, everything I did—it would have been for nothing. Pressing my lips together, I tilted my head, eyes looking away from him as I said, “I’d find another congregation—get transferred. There would be more places that could take me without that debt hanging over my head. I don’t think I’d start over
again.” As I spoke the last words, they felt barbed. I was certain
he heard,
I wouldn’t choose you
.

His shoulders stiffened as I spoke. “Then let me do this for you, Abby.” His eyes shone like twin gems, earnest and pleading. He was offering me freedom. My curiosity didn’t dismiss his suggestion yet.

“I don’t think I can, Jack. But, what would it look like? Would it be like Cheri’s painting?” My heart hammered in my chest.

Jack smiled softly. “Come here,” he held out his hand and I took it. He led me through the studio to a full length mirror and flipped on the light. “It wouldn’t be like Cheri’s painting. It would be yours—the only Jonathon Gray masterpiece that was in full color. Everything else is muted, like ghosts whispering from the past. But you, your painting would be vibrant and stunning. It would reflect you, how I see you. What I want for you...” his voice softened as he looked at me in the glass from behind my shoulder.

“I’d paint you from here,” he placed his fingers gently on my waist and slowly dragged them up my side, passing over the curve of my waist to the side of my breast, touching my shoulder gently, and ending his caress on my cheek, “to here.” My shirt clung to
my body, revealing everything. As his fingers moved it felt like someone dropped an anvil on my chest, and breathing became difficult. Jack’s eyes watched me in the mirror, his hand sliding along my side, grazing my body. When he first turned me toward the mirror, I nearly died. I had no idea he could see so much through the wet clothing. I wasn’t even wearing white. It didn’t seem to matter.

He added, “There’s a skirt that would cover your lower half. It’s not a full nude, and it’s nothing like Cheri’s. It’ll be so much more.” His lips were by my ear as his breath warmed my neck.

Staring in the mirror, my heart slammed into the side of my ribs, jerking wildly when he touched me. My lips burned. I wanted to feel his kiss, know his taste. That’s when I could see it. He wasn’t the issue here. It was me. I couldn’t pose for him because he was making me such a mess. Jack barely touched me and I melted. Everything about him was making me crazy. Even looking at me in the mirror, his gaze was different than mine. A horrible realization flooded me.

“Jack?” His eyes had been drifting across the reflection. They snapped back to my face when I said his name. “Am I shadow and light?
Curves and lines?”
I forced the question out. I had to know.
What was he looking at when he saw me—a woman or a piece of art?

His hand traced my cheek. Tilting my head to the side, I extended my neck, feeling his fingers slide over my skin. “Of course you are,” he smiled deeply not realizing that his words shattered me. My stomach sank, landing in my toes. I couldn’t breathe. All this time he was looking at me, I thought he wanted me. I thought the feelings were mutual, but Jack was being Jack. I was his muse, but there was nothing more.

He added, “I’ve always wanted to paint you. Every line, every curve flows through your body with such clarity. It’s like you were formed to inspire.” As he spoke, his gaze drifted over my wet shirt, down to my waist.

“You’ll conceal my identity?” I asked, and he nodded. If he’d said anything else, I would have said no, but the look on his face and the tone of his voice... I was nothing but shadows and light to him—a grouping of lines that made a nice shape. It didn’t matter if he saw me, painted me, or touched me. Jack didn’t see bare skin. Jack didn’t want to trail his lips over mine. He never did. I don’t know why I said it. Maybe it was because people do stupid things after 2:00am, maybe it was because it cemented what he thought of me and allowed me to get over him.
Damn, fifteen years passed and I was still hung up on a guy who didn’t want me. I was so messed up.

Looking him in the eye, I nodded, saying, “Okay, but let me take a shower first.” I stepped away from the mirror, Jack shocked into silence behind me. It took him a moment to realize what I said.

He beamed in disbelief, “You’ll do it?
Really?”
He sounded giddy. It crushed me. His enthusiasm stomped me into the ground. How did I mistake that for something else?

I nodded, pulling my cold shirt off my skin as I walked, remembering the old adage,
Nothing
good happens after 2:00am
, and totally blowing it off.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I stood in the studio shower with hot water pelting me for way too long. The sea was freezing. It didn’t matter what time of the year it was, the water was always cold. As I rinsed off, more sand piled around my feet. I’d be shampooing sand out of my hair for days. Determination flowed over me as I dried off. This would help me kick my lusting after Jack. And I was curious what the painting would look like. Every other piece he had hanging in the gallery was muted, like a distant memory, soft and faded. I was his muse, and I was here. I shook my head, padding out of the studio shower barefoot. The cement floor was cold under my feet.

“Jack?” I called when I didn’t see him. A large roll of canvas had been spread out. There were streaks of orange and yellow across it. He’d started. It was already different than what he normally did. I
padded toward the canvas, keeping my dripping hair from leaving drops of water on it.

A door opened and Jack walked through. My fingers clutched my towel tightly. The bravado that I’d mustered before must have been washed away, because I felt naked and I was holding a towel. “Abby,” he smiled walking toward me, holding several cans of paint. “You ready?” I nodded since I didn’t trust my voice. I smiled back at him with a confidence that I didn’t feel.

After putting down the cans, Jack pointed at the stool with a paint brush in his hand and another between his teeth, “Sit.” He popped open the tops of several cans and stirred while I walked toward the stool like it was the chair. Staring, I stepped toward it slowly, like it was going to kill me. But I didn’t stop. It was like a moth flying into a flame after its wings caught fire.

I sat on the stool, the towel still gripped in my hand. The hem of the towel was short and when I sat, it climbed up showing
all of my
thigh. Nervously, I pressed my lips together. Jack had a brush behind his ear, one in his mouth, and several in his pockets. He gave me one look and said reassuringly, “Don’t be nervous Abby. I won’t touch you.” Like that
would calm me. He stared at my white knuckles, gripping the towel like I’d die if I let it go.