The Colors of Love (19 page)

Chapter 11

"Let's dance," Alex said.

Jamila stood and walked ahead of him, past the empty stage. The music came from somewhere unseen. Recorded, he supposed. When they reached the small, empty dance floor, she turned and walked into his arms.

She would fit perfectly into his arms, her head resting just here, in the curve of his shoulder. His arm, holding her, fit precisely the curve of her back.

Slow music. He couldn't identify the familiar notes, but he would never hear this music again without remembering this woman moving slowly in his arms. He wanted to bury his face in the soft abundance of her hair, needed to see her lips, to know if her eyes were open, or if the slow weight of the moody music had closed them.

"Look at me."

She turned her head as he pulled back slightly, staring straight into his eyes. Hers had the look of a woman just awakened from sleep. If he bent his head, just slightly, his lips would brush hers. He couldn't stop himself, wasn't prepared for the electric heat of her mouth, could never be prepared.

"Jamila..." Her name sounded like the woman, deep erotic colors, heat, intensity. He wanted, needed to draw her closer, deeper, to bury his mouth in hers, to drink her rich honey flavor until he was filled with her.

"We—" Her voice choked off the word, and fire flashed in her eyes as she turned her head away. He drew in a shallow, careful breath. His lungs seemed incapable of deep breathing as he pulled her closer, her soft erotic movements torture against his hard body.

When the music ended, he couldn't let her go. He hadn't meant to need her. Want, yes. Desire, of course passion, but
not
need.

"Let's get out of here," he said tightly.

His hand touched her back and she turned to walk to their table. He kept the contact as he walked beside her, pleasuring himself with the warm softness of her skin. The dress was cut low in back, her skin so white and soft. He was almost certain she wasn't wearing a bra.

Juvenile mind, he told himself harshly. Smarten up and get with the program. He reached for the check, rigidly forced his focus to the credit card transaction, his signature, the tip. He succeeded well enough that by the time he stepped outside with her, he had his imagination under control.

The sun had slipped below the horizon, leaving streaks of red over the harbor. On the water, a sailboat floated, motionless, its sail slack, blood-red from the sun.

"We could go to my place," he said. When she turned her head, he couldn't stop himself reaching to touch the smooth pale curve of her cheek.

"No," she breathed. "Not tonight. I need—can we go slowly?"

"Yes, I think we should." He took her arm and felt flesh under his fingers, wondered how he could touch without taking, kiss without drowning. He stepped down onto the pavement. "Let's drive."

"Yes." She sounded muted, as if she'd moved away from him in her mind.

He pulled her around to see her eyes, her mouth. "A drive along the ocean shore, and then I'll take you home."

Her smile flashed and was gone.

Suddenly his heart was pounding hard and he had to force himself to walk slowly, not to hurry her as they crossed the parking lot to his car.

Slow. It was exactly what he'd planned, but in the dark intimacy of his car he could hear her breath, shallow, disturbed, as if she felt the same turbulence that had thrown him off balance. Of course they should go slowly.

He sorted through his CDs, rejected the moody music for something lighter, hoping the notes would seep into him and ease the pressure against his chest.

Perhaps they did, or perhaps it was the beauty of the sunset that lingered as he drove north. She didn't speak. Whenever he glanced at her, he saw her head leaned back against the headrest, her eyes staring forward through the window. She was silent, and her breathing softened with each mile.

He should do this more often, get in the car and just drive, chase the sunset along the water's edge. Jamila's silent presence created warmth in his mind, and he wondered how she would paint the two of them together, driving north in silence.

On impulse, he signaled and turned into a small side road leading to the water's edge. As the car slowed, the pavement gave way to uneven, hard-packed earth. The road forked near the water's edge. To the left, a gravel drive swept past a large Victorian-style house placed to give every room an ocean view. Alex took the right fork, pulling into a small ragged parking lot.

He parked, got out of the car, and opened the door for Jamila. She stood slowly, rising into the curve of his arm, her bare upper arm brushing his jacket.

"Are you cold?"

She shook her head.

They walked hand in hand over uneven ground toward the water. Driving, he hadn't seen the moon that hung low over the water in the southwest, but now it dominated the sky. Harvest moon, bigger than real, bathing the world in pearly light.

They needed no words. When she shivered, he turned her into his arms and held her gently while he studied the moonlight on her face, the dark mystery of her shadowed eyes, the deep invitation of her lips.

"I'm going to kiss you."

Her lips parted at his words, and her tongue touched moisture to her bottom lip. He brushed her cheek with the side of his index finger. Soft, satin skin. "I'm telling you because you said you wanted to go slowly, but when I kiss you..."

He drew in her scent, spread his hand open on her back, each finger touching the naked warmth of her flesh. She shifted, lifted her mouth, touched.

His mouth settled onto hers, lips savoring in slow motion. He drew her closer, gently, carefully, because now it seemed that she must be fragile, spun glass in his hands.

He expected madness, the driving hunger he'd experienced previously in her arms. Instead, the world stopped. The woman in his arms trembled, and he drew back, needing her eyes, finding them dark and filled with a woman's secrets.

"What do you want?" he asked. He felt dizzy, disoriented, standing on the edge of a cliff that dropped off into unknown dangers. "Tell me what you want."

Her lips parted and he saw her throat flex as she swallowed. "I want you to make love to me."

"Now?" he asked, needing certainty. Just under the surface of his calm, lust waited, willing him to set it free, to ravish and possess. He feared that once started, he might not be able to stop. "Here?"

Her hands trembled as they framed his face. He felt the pulse in his jaw beat against her fingers. "Here," she said, "in the moonlight, at Evensong House."

"Evensong House?" he echoed.

He felt something tear as she left his arms. "It's a hotel, that old house on the point. I stayed here last year." Her voice sounded uncharacteristically hesitant. "I thought—"

"Yes," he said, and reached for her hand.

He led her toward the hotel, rather than back to his car. He knew it would have been sensible to move his car to the Victorian hotel's parking lot, at the
very least
to lock the car before he walked away from it. But he feared that climbing into the car, shutting doors, moving out of her touch would somehow destroy the connection, that it would shatter and he'd be alone, watching her walk away.

Somewhere, deep inside, he knew his fear was a danger signal, that he should escape this woman before he lost himself. He gripped her hand harder and forced himself to walk slowly over the uneven ground, to fight the need to pull her faster, to run toward the welcoming lights shining from the windows of Evensong House.

On the edge of the drive, he stopped. As if driven by the same impulse, she turned to him.

Fear, he thought, the kind of fear he hadn't felt since he was a sixteen-year-old kid, trembling as he slid his palm inside Wendy Usher's sweater.

"You're sure?" he asked, knowing he could no more walk away from this woman than he could stop breathing.

Her hand tightened on his. "Let's go in," she said, a whisper that sounded no more confident than his own thoughts.

* * *

Warm, fragrant air swept over Jamie when Alex opened the door to Evensong House. She stepped inside and was immediately drawn to the log fire burning in the stone fireplace.

Sometime in the last year, the management had replaced the aging brocade sofa and easy chair with two sofas wearing a bright colonial print. She stepped past the empty sofas to the fire, reaching her hands toward the warmth.

Twenty-eight years old, and she stood with her back to the registration desk, her heart beating because she was afraid to walk up to the desk with Alex. Afraid the elderly woman who'd taken her registration last year would stare at her, asking why they wanted a room, why they had no luggage. Would know the answers.

When Jamie heard voices, she forced herself to turn and look. This desk clerk was Jamie's age, a stranger, not the motherly woman who had taken Jamie's registration last year, asking questions about Jamie's being an artist, asking if she intended to paint the hotel.

How on earth should a woman behave in this situation? Should she walk up to Alex and take his arm, or remain here, waiting for him to turn away from the registration desk?

This was the twenty-first century, for crying out loud. She should be up there offering her own credit card to split the hotel bill.

Alex would love that, she thought with an inner laugh. A very conventional man, he opened doors for her and generally behaved as if being female meant she wasn't capable of making her own decisions. Next time, she decided, next time she would produce her credit card for the clerk.

Tonight, she needed all her energy just to get through this.

He probably believed she'd had other lovers, that she knew what to do. She'd read books, of course, and she'd watched movies. She knew there would probably be pain, but that it should be brief, and probably not unbearable. She didn't think she was afraid of the natural pain of losing her virginity, but—would he expect her to undress when they got to the room? Should she take her own clothes off, or would he?
Could
she undress herself with him watching?

She shivered and jerked her head back to the fire.

"...a double," she heard Alex's voice say clearly.

She clasped her hands together and stared at the flames licking the big log in the fireplace. She should have done this before, but she had never wanted to make love with a man before—oh, she'd fantasized making love with some
theoretical
man, but the real ones had all seemed less interesting than her paintings and her dreams.

Until Alex.

She hadn't realized that when the time came, now that she ached to be with Alex, she'd wish for confidence and experience.

Something touched her shoulder. She gasped.

"Sorry I startled you. Shall we go upstairs?"

Turning slowly, she found his face as quietly calm as his voice. "Yes," she said, "of course," surprised to hear steadiness in her own voice. She tried a smile and it seemed to work because he smiled back. Was this his automatic smile? Bedside manner?

Oh, lord! Bedside manner! She choked on a wild urge to laugh.

She would pretend this was a painting, herself a woman in oils... a woman who had just entered a country hotel, planning to go to bed with the doctor.

"Which way?" Are we upstairs, or downstairs?"

Alex's eyes narrowed and he gestured to the stairs beside the registration desk.

She decided that the Jamie in her painting would
not
reach for Alexander's hand. She would walk ahead of him up the stairs. The only problem was, three steps up, she became abruptly conscious of her own body's movements, aware that he was behind her, watching.

You're only an image on canvas, she told herself, and finished climbing the stairs in a rush. At the top, she had no idea which way to turn, so was forced to wait for him.

Had she actually
run
up those stairs? What on earth could he think?

"Are you okay?"

"Of course," she replied brightly.

He gestured to the left and she walked beside him, her heart hammering with each step. In his arms, she'd felt passion surge up, hunger sweeping over doubts and hesitation. Here, in the hotel corridor, she felt no passion, no hunger, nothing but awkwardness and embarrassment.

A man and a woman in a hotel corridor, painted in colors of apprehension. Greens and yellows, she decided, with the rose flush of desire caressing faces and hands.

Alex unlocked the door to a room, opened it, and turned to let her enter.

"Your mother trained you to have good manners. All that opening doors and ladies first stuff."

"My Aunt Stella."

"Does Aunt Stella live in Seattle?"

"San Francisco." He closed the door behind her and she heard the bolt snap home.

"Do you see her much?" She threw the question back as she walked past the massive bed to the window where heavy drapes stood open to the moonlight. She slid the patio door open and stepped onto the balcony. The bed was safely behind her now, out of sight. "I didn't have a balcony when I was here last year."