Shackled (15 page)

“That’s because my P.I. agency has taken off, and I haven’t needed to work as extra security for any of the charity events in the city lately.”

“Why, that’s wonderful. I’m so happy for you.”

“Peter, do you want a beer?” Jonathan had gone over to the bar.

Jonathan looks happy, Bethany thought.

“Please.”

“I didn’t know you two knew each other.” Bethany sat back down and picked up her glass of wine.

“We actually know each other very well,” Jonathan said.

“It was a case where two people meet and click,” Peter agreed.

She didn’t know Peter as well as she knew Jonathan, of course. But she’d liked him on first meeting. He had a lively sense of humor, and a very sharp mind. Intelligence really appealed to her. It was the trait that had first drawn her to Jonathan.

“We’ve done business together as well,” Jonathan said. He sat down next to Beth. “Peter’s agency has handled a couple of corporate matters for me, and I’ve sent clients his way.”

“And he invested in my company,” Peter said. “Just when I needed it the most.”

“One of the best investments I ever made,” Jonathan said.

The two men were striking in contrast. Jonathan’s mane of blond hair compared to Peter’s jet black. Both men shared one other trait, and that was startling eyes. Jonathan’s deep blue and Peter’s vivid aqua. She had a flash of the two of them on one canvas, side by side, their expressions lusty, nearly feral as their gazes locked on a single point…

Bethany blinked as she realized she’d zoned out. The men had stopped talking and were just…looking at her. She dismissed the idea that there’d been lust in Peter’s stare. She’d carried that over from her tiny flight of fancy.

“Sorry,” she blushed and then decided to be partially truthful, “I just got this image of the two of you on a canvas. Your coloring would contrast perfectly.”

Peter grinned. “Oh, yeah? The two of us, huh? What sort of background?”

Bethany didn’t get the sense he was humoring her at all. Genuine interest lit his face. He turned to meet Jonathan’s eyes then he refocused on her.

She didn’t even have to think. “Against a stormy sky, I think. I don’t know why that image came to me.” Then she laughed and looked at Jonathan. “I think your gift woke up my latent artistic sensibilities.”

Peter looked at Jonathan, one eyebrow raised. “You showed her the studio?”

“Just before you arrived.”

“You knew about that?” Apparently he was a very good friend, if Jonathan had shown him the studio. It would have required her lover to tell him about his interest in her.

Jonathan had planned to come for her. She found that realization interesting.

“Knew about it? I helped put it together. And I’m very glad you like it.”

“Dinner’s ready,” Jonathan said. “Let’s eat.”

“I’ll help,” Bethany said. She gave him a good stare to let him know she meant it.

“Why don’t we all work together to put the food on the table?” Jonathan suggested.

Bethany tilted her head as she considered him. He was a crafty man. She guessed she liked that about him.

“All right, why don’t we?”

The food tasted delicious, and the conversation between the three of them flowed so smoothly. It felt to Bethany as if they’d always been friends together, when this was the first time they’d actually shared a meal.

Peter didn’t stay long after dinner. When he took his leave, he kissed her, a small, chaste kiss on her lips that actually sparked tiny tingles inside her.
My God, I’m turning into a nymphomaniac
.

Peter’s grin and Jonathan’s laughter together eased her twinge of guilt. Maybe it was Jonathan’s fault, suggesting as he had that they bring another man into their ‘scenes’. That thought shocked her, and she let it slide.

In the aftermath of those unruly thoughts, it soothed Bethany to clear the table and load the dishwasher, though Jonathan pitched in there, too. She wasn’t used to being idle and wasn’t certain if she could ever really get used to it. Of course, she wasn’t yet familiar with where he kept everything, but that was a problem she planned to take care of over the next couple of days.

She would learn his house, but she didn’t think she would ever really learn
him
.

Once the dishes were done and the kitchen set to rights, they went back upstairs. Since it was still early, and she’d had such a good nap, she thought spending a bit of time in her new studio would be the perfect way to end the day. Well, at least until she and Jonathan went to bed.

“If there’s anything you need that I didn’t get for you, I expect you to tell me,” Jonathan said. Bethany looked from him to the room he’d so painstakingly and thoughtfully stocked for her.

“I can’t imagine that you forgot anything, but I will. I…thank you. Thank you for this. I should have said that earlier, but frankly, I was too stunned to remember my manners.”

“You’re welcome. I want you to be happy here, Beth.”

She didn’t answer him, simply because the emotions coursing through her were so overwhelming. Instead, she stretched up, kissed his cheek, and went into her new artist’s studio.

The large room held more than just art supplies. He’d created a seating area, including a sculpted divan, shaped with a raise and a hollow to support her knees if she chose to stretch out and rest. It looked comfortable enough to sleep in. Near the seating area, he’d installed a bookshelf unit with several different books on art and art appreciation just waiting to be read.

Bethany lowered herself to one of the chairs as the enormity of what he’d done for her sank in. She had only just decided a few days before to go to Jordan Fitzpatrick. Jonathan had told her he’d been going to come for her anyway, but now she felt the full impact of those words, and more.

A man didn’t totally refurbish a room in his home, spend hundreds of dollars, just for a casual liaison—at least, she felt pretty certain Jonathan wouldn’t. He’d cajoled her into moving in for a month, but he really had a much longer period of time than a month in mind.

Bethany couldn’t decide how she felt about that. He’d kept her off balance since he’d opened Jordan’s office door a couple of days before. She’d lived her life being in complete control, in charge of every moment, every decision, every project since the day she married Tim Craig. Yet she hadn’t been in control of one single thing for the last few days and she felt…

“Huh.” Bethany made the sound, realizing that she felt good. Relaxed, energized. She felt
really
good. Part of that she was pretty certain had to do with the fantastic sex she’d been enjoying. But the rest was from taking a
rest
from doing everything, from being in control. There could be no other explanation.

When she’d decided she needed a master, she’d thought she understood what she’d been asking for, and she had in a way, but she hadn’t realized the depth to which she’d needed one.

Bethany’s eyes tracked to the easels. Folded, held upright against the wall with cords, they awaited her pleasure.

Her
pleasure.

She’d been focused on that since she’d said yes to Jonathan, and wasn’t that a miracle? Wasn’t it a miracle to find what she’d barely dared to imagine, and what she’d imagined might possibly please her? In the last couple of days, she hadn’t had to do anything, decide anything, plan anything, juggle anything. All she’d had to do was enjoy. Enjoy herself, her body, Jonathan’s body, and the surcease he so generously gave her.

Bethany shook her head. She got up and reached out for the larger of the two easels because she felt like standing while she considered the matter of picking up pallet and brush for the first time in more than twenty years.

Jonathan had even, in his way, removed the expectation of competency, of productivity. He’d said that having fun could be enough justification for her to spend time here. Those were words she’d said to herself a long time ago, when she’d thought she had the right to have spare time and use it in any way she wanted. Before Tim had tossed her canvasses, some finished and some not, onto that autumn bonfire. The vision from the past exploded before her as if she lived it all over again.

You were the one who made a big deal about me doing something for a change. You were the one who insisted that the least I could do was take care of the yard trash. That’s exactly what I’m doing. I’m burning the trash.

Bethany shivered as those words from so many years ago slithered down her spine. His tone of voice, the smug expression he wore, all of it had returned for one sharp, clear moment of remembrance.

She also recalled the anger on his face when she’d refused to react the way she had known he’d hoped she would. He’d wanted a fight, and she’d refused to give him one. That had been a victory for her, and the entire incident a turning point in her marriage. That was when she’d stopped reaching out, stopped trying to make it work. From that moment on, Bethany had begun to live a solitary life inside of herself. She cooked, she cleaned, she went to work and paid the bills as she always had done.

She never asked Tim to do anything for her, not ever again.

Bethany shook the memories off, willed them to the ionosphere, where they could be turned into cosmic dust. She stood the easel up and then looked for the canvas she wanted. She nearly grabbed one of the smaller eight-by-tens. Instead, she took hold of a large one, eighteen-by-twenty-four. If she was going to do this thing, by God, she’d do it, and she’d do it
well
. Bethany refused to let herself think about whether or not her talent had deserted her. She refused to think about anything but the image that had sprung to mind, the picture she wanted to paint.

There had been a time when a brush in her hand assured her of hours of peace, of being lost within the textures and the light and the colors of the images in her mind. She would go there again. Yes, she would go there again and revisit once sacred ground and claim it for her own.

All she needed to do was decide how she wanted to present the subject she had in mind. She set her thoughts loose, willed her imagination to soar. There was only one direction it flew to and only one subject that came to mind. Despite her recent flash of inspiration, this one, this first one, would have one subject and one subject only.

She picked up a pencil, and thinking only of that subject, she began with some long, sweeping lines and a couple of well-defined edges. She added the curve of a face, the aristocratic angle of a nose. Hair, that gorgeous blond color that strayed a little too long over a collar, she’d feather that in, try to make it look as soft as it felt. The biggest challenge, of course, would be the eyes. If she could capture the angelic devil, the intelligent companion, and the shrewd businessman—if she could capture
Jonathan
, then she’d know her talent hadn’t deserted her after all.

Chapter 13

“The trouble with the world these days is that no one knows their place anymore.”

Constance discreetly looked around, wondering if anyone in the rarefied Founders’ Club dining room had heard that wizened pronouncement. Most patrons were elderly, and most appeared hunched over their meals or their drinks. Conversation had turned into a low, basso hum. No one paid them any mind, which suited Constance perfectly. Her presence there had become somewhat of a regular thing, which is how she’d planned it over the last few months.

As far as anyone was concerned, Constance Wellington dutifully visited one of her late father’s friends, as a socially conscious woman of breeding would do. Judge Clarence Coldwell was one of her father’s oldest cronies—and one of the few left alive. He still presided over the tenth district court and still held a hell of a lot of power in his hands.

She wouldn’t be wasting her time with him, otherwise.

“You are so right, Your Honor.” Constance gave him what she hoped was an admiring smile and then reached for her Perrier. She’d rather the glass in her hand held scotch, but that wouldn’t go with the image she’d been projecting these last several weeks. She’d “run into” the judge just over two months before, appearing delighted and relieved to see him. Her manner she’d kept subdued, and she had thought the man would have been after her before this, wondering about her sadness, her listlessness. But so far, the old bastard had been absolutely clueless. That shouldn’t surprise her. In that regard, the judge was just like every other man she’d ever met. Constance supposed she was going to have to broach the subject all on her own. She’d waited long enough.