The Colors of Love (16 page)

Diana called while Alex was seeing a patient midafternoon. He returned the call just before six, missed her again. He checked his voice mail and found she'd left a message.

"Darling, we seem to be playing telephone tag. I have to go to Rome for the weekend. I haven't had time to go over the document you emailed me yet, but I had a brief talk with Grandfather. He wants you to meet with the board next Wednesday at five. His secretary will get in touch with you about that. I'll talk to you at the beginning of the week."

He hung up the phone in his office, went out to the reception desk, and found Vanda had left. He looked at his book for next Wednesday, then left a note for Vanda asking her to shift everything from after four o'clock Wednesday to another day.

Meanwhile, there was nothing he could do to influence the outcome. He picked up the phone to call Dennis, changed his mind, and dropped it into the cradle.

Normally, he'd be glad to talk to Paula if she answered the phone, but he didn't want to be questioned about Jamila. A year ago he would have called Emma to tell her the news—more likely, he would have dropped over to her house. Of course, Emma and Gray would welcome him, would listen with sympathy for his impatience, but tonight he was in no mood to sit in their home, witnessing marital bliss.

If Diana weren't away somewhere, he would phone her.

No, perhaps not tonight. He wanted a clear head before he had a lengthy conversation with Diana. The last few days his head had been anything but clear.

He left the office and got into his car, thinking he'd go somewhere for dinner. He felt oddly disconnected, aware that his condo was waiting for him, empty and sterile, that he didn't want to go home to sit alone and restless, watching the evening light fade.

He wasn't on call this weekend, but found himself wishing he were.

He drove to Eduardo's, saw the pack of people at the door, and realized he hadn't made a reservation and was in no mood to sit alone at a table waiting for dinner. He'd go to Paula's after all, he decided. Paula would grumble and offer him pot luck, then he'd field the inevitable questions about Jamila and enjoy some time with Danny, shoot the breeze with Dennis a bit. Relax.

Fifteen minutes later, his car stopped outside Jamila's door. He couldn't remember making a conscious decision to drive to Ballard instead of his sister's Laurelhurst home. The car seemed to have come of its own volition.

He turned off the engine, but didn't get out. Her porch light was burning although it wasn't fully dark yet. She'd be in her studio, the evening light streaming through windows from the harbor.

He got out of the BMW and approached her door slowly. Last night she'd been furious, and he had no idea how she'd greet him when she answered the door tonight. If she was painting, she might not hear the door. If not...

She'd be angry.

He raised his fist and knocked on her door. He should have rehearsed something to say, but he hadn't intended to come here at all. He didn't know what he wanted, what he expected to achieve by hammering on her door at seven on a Friday night when she'd told him she never wanted to see him again.

He knocked again, louder. She'd be painting, of course, buried to the world, creating uncomfortable images.

He swung around to glare at the street, wondering how long he'd stand here pounding on her door, why the hell he'd come in the first place. He'd ended up on her doorstep too often this last week. He felt deeply uneasy, waiting for her to answer, no clear plan in his mind, his car parked carelessly in her drive as if he'd driven up without thinking and had just—

His car.

Her car wasn't there.

He descended her stairs and walked around the corner of her house all the way to the front edge. Three steps more and he could see in through her window. The sun hung low enough in the sky that the studio was all shadows, just one faint light burning near the basket chair he'd never seen her sit in. Her easel stood in shadow, the chair occupied by a sleeping orange cat.

What the hell was he doing, prowling around her house like a sneak thief? He walked back to the front of the house, suddenly certain that she'd drive up and find him staking out her house, and that she'd put the worst interpretation on it.

Where the hell was she?

He returned to his car and yanked open the door. Inside, he reached for his cell phone and dialed her number, although he knew now that she wasn't home. It was a measure of how much she'd been on his mind that he'd already committed her number to memory.

After five rings, her voice announced, "I'm either painting up a storm, or out looking for inspiration. Leave a message."

He pressed the END button on the cell phone. He needed to
see
her, not talk to a damned machine. At eight, darkness had dropped over her home like a blanket, but she still hadn't returned home and he found himself growing angry. Where the hell was she?

By nine, his anger became overshadowed by worry. Living alone as she did, who would know if she had an accident? Driving that old green car, she might have broken down and become stranded. She didn't have a cell phone, didn't want the distraction, she'd said. If she had car problems in a bad area of the city and had to walk—

What the hell was she doing, anyway?

Sometime before ten he realized the obvious solution for her absence.

Friday night. She'd gone out on a date.

While he sat, waiting for her, worrying that she'd driven into a concrete wall or been attacked by a rapist, she'd been out dancing with another man. Dinner and dancing, and she would be wearing something colorful and drifting, the fabric making a mystery of her body as she moved,
his
hand spread out on her back, fingers touching the naked flesh above her low-backed dress. She would look into his eyes and hers would narrow as if the weight of her lashes, the desire pulsing in her veins, made it impossible to hold lids and lashes up. As if—

Damn it!

He flung his car door open and burst out of the car, pacing the sidewalk in front of her door. He had it bad. The sickness had been driving him mad for days now, turning him from a rational man into some kind of madman. Until tonight, he hadn't even considered there might be other men. She hadn't mentioned anyone and he'd been too busy telling himself he didn't want her, didn't give a damn about her except for Sara.

He stopped his pacing abruptly and went back to his car. Ten o'clock. If he remained here, parked outside her home, waiting to confront her when she returned, she'd be justified in accusing him of stalking.

He turned the key and shoved the car into gear.

At home, he tried to work on the journal article, but his mind wouldn't focus. He went to bed and slept badly, waking frequently.

* * *

Alex located the gallery at ten-thirty Saturday morning.

Northern Images. In the window, a painting of an old man standing on the back deck of a fishing boat evoked images of a lifetime spent laboring over nets through all the moods of the ocean. Above the painting, a banner announced, "Introducing Jamila—a strong young Northwestern talent."

He opened the door and stepped inside, immediately aware of a hushed atmosphere, as if he were in a museum or library. Carved wooden beams and walls draped with neutral wall hangings provided a unique setting for each painting. A carved oak sign directed him upstairs to the exhibition of Jamila's work. A dark red runner carpeting the mahogany stairs swallowed the sound of his shoes as he climbed.

At the top of the stairs, he found hardwood floors leading to a series of alcoves. A tall blond woman in her forties appeared, exuding expensive subtlety.

"Make yourself at home," she invited in a low, pleasant voice. "If you haven't seen the exhibit yet, may I suggest you begin here." She gestured to Alex's left. "I'm available if you have any questions."

He had intended to ask for Jamila, but found himself turning instead to his left as she'd suggested.

He had called Jamila an hour ago and been frustrated to get her machine again. Was she home painting, ignoring the phone? He'd hung up and had driven to her house, only to find her drive empty. Had she returned home late last night and gone out early? Or had she stayed out with her unknown lover?

Did she have another man? She'd said she intended to be Alex's lover, but did that mean there was no one else in her life, that he would be simply one of many?

He had no intention of being anything to her, Alex told himself grimly, but he couldn't leave things as they were. As the counselors would say, he needed completion. At the very least, he needed to explain and put things between them on a rational basis.

So he'd come to the gallery, telling himself it would be better to find her somewhere neutral, somewhere public, where they could talk without heat. Instead, he found himself captured by her paintings. He stared at a picture of a young girl skipping rope on a sidewalk and saw the woman she would become.

Ten feet away, a boy sat cross-legged in front of a closet where a litter of puppies scrambled for their mother's teats. The boy's motionless face reflected dreams of running with the puppies as they grew, playing ball with a Daddy who wasn't there to play.

Alex shook himself, stepping back from the painting, trying with distance to see how she could create images that weren't even there.

These images were different from the one he'd seen on her easel, but no less effective. Concrete images of people, so that he would swear he'd know the old man from the fishing boat downstairs, the children up here. He moved slowly through the exhibit, seeing the world through her eyes.

The harbor at dawn, fishermen stirring while the world slept... the lighthouse sending warmth to the unseen pilot of the tugboat passing by... the same lighthouse, an anchor as nature raged over the water, tossing white foam angrily across deadly, jagged rocks.

As he turned from the second lighthouse, he heard voices, low and feminine.

He crossed the carpet, drawn to the sound. He could see no sign of the gallery's owner, but he heard Jamila's voice and followed it until he came to an open doorway. Through the door, he saw a lushly carpeted office where he suspected sales were closed. Jamila sat on the edge of the desk, speaking to the gallery owner, who seemed to be studying her with concerned gray eyes.

"Three so far," Jamila said, speaking quickly. "The third is acrylic. They're all dry, so I've crated them up and I want to get them—" She broke off and turned her head, as if she sensed Alex watching.

He said her name, but she seemed frozen, motionless. Then she swung her legs around and slipped off the desk, fumbling for a moment before slipping into her shoes.

"Did you have a question?" asked the gallery owner.

"He's here for me."

Jamila crossed the carpet to Alex and stood just out of his reach. He wanted her closer, to touch her cheek with his fingers, but his feet seemed frozen to the carpet. She tilted her head back and her eyes narrowed. He searched for anger in her face, her eyes, but found wariness instead.

"What do you want?"

"Talk." His eyes flicked to the woman named Liz, found her watching with a frown. He forced a smile, said quietly to Jamila, "I need to talk to you."

"Talk?"

He spread his hands, dropped them when he saw her flinch. "Let me take you out for a coff—a cup of tea," he corrected, remembering her grimace as she'd sipped coffee at Paula's. "We'll talk."

"We've talked enough." Her voice was flat, emotionless, and he realized he had no idea how he could get her to listen to him if she wouldn't come now.

He felt an unwilling understanding of men who dogged a woman's life because they couldn't accept that it was over. Not that it had even started. Nothing had happened, only sparks, fire—nothing he could call a relationship.

He didn't
want
a relationship. He didn't know what he wanted, only knew he needed to be free of this tangle of emotions that had begun Saturday night—early Sunday morning—when he first saw her in the ER.

"I want to apologize."

Her eyes widened, but the flash of emotion quickly disappeared. She slipped her hands into the pockets of her canvas slacks and he wondered if she'd made the motion to conceal some sign of her own feelings. He couldn't read her at all in this instant and he felt uneasy, uncertain whether more words, or fewer, were needed to persuade her.

"Liz," she said. "Can we use your office for a minute?"

Chapter 10

Jamie walked away from Alex, and didn't turn back to face him until she stood behind Liz's desk.

He had stepped inside the office, moving to one side to let Liz leave. When the older woman had gone, he reached out to shut the door.

"Leave the door open, please." She saw a muscle jerk in his jaw, but he left the door and crossed to the desk.

"Sit," she said, gesturing to the two leather chairs on his side of the desk. She'd known that it wasn't over. She was glad he'd found her here, because she would be more in control of her emotions here, knowing Liz was close by, knowing there could be no repetition of that shattering kiss here in the gallery.