This Heart of Mine (23 page)

"This is getting complicated," he finally said.

She was messing with the NFL, so she ignored her rubbery legs. "Not for me. You're an okay kisser, by the way. So many athletes gnaw."

The corners of his eyes crinkled. "You just keep fighting, Daphne. Now, are we going to get dinner, or should we get back to work on that hickey you want so bad?"

"Forget the hickey. Sometimes the cure is worse than the disease."

"And sometimes bunny ladies turn into chickens."

She wasn't going to win this game, so she stuck her nose in the air like the rich heiress she wasn't, then grabbed the red tablecloth and swirled it around her shoulders.

The North Woods décor made the dining room of the Wind Lake Inn feel like an old hunting lodge. Indian-blanket-print curtains hung at the long, narrow windows, and the rustic walls displayed a collection of snowshoes and antique animal traps, along with the mounted heads of deer and elk. Molly focused on the birchbark canoe hanging from the rafters instead of those staring glass eyes.

Kevin was getting good at reading her mind, and he nodded toward the dead animals. "There used to be this restaurant in New York that specialized in exotic game—kangaroo, tiger, elephant steaks. One time some friends took me there for lionburgers."

"That's revolting! What kind of sick person would eat Simba?"

He chuckled and returned to his trout. "Not me. I had hash browns and pecan pie instead."

"You're messing with me. Stop it."

His eyes took a few lazy tango steps over her body. "You didn't mind earlier."

She toyed with the stem of her wineglass. "It was the alcohol."

"It was the sex we're not having."

She opened her mouth to cut him off at the knees, but he cut her off first. "Save your breath, Daph. It's time you faced a few important facts. Number one, we're married. Number two, we're living under the same roof—"

"Not by my choice."

"And number three, we're both celibate at the moment."

"You can't be celibate for a moment. It's a long-term lifestyle. Believe me, I know." She hadn't meant to say the last part out loud. Or maybe she had. She speared a carrot coin she didn't want to eat.

He set down his fork to study her more closely. "You're kidding, aren't you?"

"Of course I'm kidding." She gobbled up the carrot. "Did you think I was serious?"

He rubbed his chin. "You aren't kidding."

"Do you see the waiter? I think I'm ready for dessert."

"Care to elaborate?"

"No."

He bided his time.

She riddled with another piece of carrot, then shrugged. "I've got issues."

"So does
Time
magazine. Stop hedging."

"First tell me where you think this conversation is going."

"You know where. Straight to the bedroom."

"Bedrooms," she emphasized, wishing he didn't look so grim about it. "His and hers. And it has to stay that way."

"A couple of days ago I'd have agreed with you. But both of us know that if it hadn't been for Godzilla's toenails, we'd be naked right now."

She shivered. "You don't know that for a fact."

"Listen, Molly, the newspaper ad doesn't come out until next Thursday. Today's only Saturday. It'll take another couple of days for interviews. Then another day or so to train whoever I hire. That's a lot of nights."

She'd wimped around long enough, and she abandoned all pretense of eating. "Kevin, I don't do casual sex."

"Now, that's weird. I seem to remember a night last February…"

"I had a crush on you, all right? A stupid crush that got out of hand."

"A crush?" He leaned back in the chair, beginning to enjoy himself. "What are you, twelve?"

"Stop being a jerk."

"So you had a crush on me?"

His crooked smile looked exactly like Benny's when he thought he had Daphne right where he wanted her. The bunny didn't like it, and neither did Molly.

"I had crushes on you and Alan Greenspan both at the same time. I can't imagine what I was thinking of. Although the crush I had on Greenspan was a lot worse. Thank God I didn't run into him with that sexy briefcase."

He ignored that bit of folderol. "Interesting that Daphne seems to have a crush on Benny, too."

"She does not! He's horrible to her."

"Maybe if she'd put out, he'd be nicer."

"That's more disgusting than me and Charlotte Long!" She needed to sidetrack this conversation. "You can get sex anywhere, but we have a friendship, and that's more important."

"A friendship?"

She nodded.

"Yeah, I guess we do. Maybe that's what makes this exciting. I've never had sex with a friend before."

"It's nothing more than a fascination with the forbidden."

"I don't see why it's forbidden to you." He frowned. "I have a lot more to lose."

"Exactly how do you figure that?"

"Come on. You know how I feel about my career. Your closest family members happen to be my employers, and I'm on shaky ground with them at the moment. This is exactly why I always keep my female relationships separate from the team. I've never even dated one of the Star Girl cheerleaders."

"Yet here you are, all ready to get jiggy with the boss's sister."

"I've got everything to lose. You don't have anything."

Just this fragile little heart of mine.

He ran his thumb along the stem of his wineglass. "The truth is, a few nights of sexual dalliance might help your writing career."

"I can't wait to hear this."

"It'll reprogram your subconscious so you don't send out any more secret homosexual messages in your books."

She rolled her eyes.

He grinned.

"Give me a break, Kevin. If we were back in Chicago, it wouldn't occur to you to even think about having sex with me. How flattering is that?"

"It sure as hell would occur to me if we were together all the time like we are here."

He was deliberately missing the point, but before she could tell him that, the waitress appeared to see if there was anything wrong with the meals they weren't eating.

Kevin assured her there wasn't. She gave him a full-blast smile and began chatting with him as if he were her best friend. Since people reacted the same way to Dan and Phoebe, Molly was used to this kind of interruption, but the waitress was cute and curvy, so she found it annoying.

When the woman finally left, Kevin settled back in his chair and picked up the one part of their conversation she most wished he'd forgotten. "This celibacy thing… how long has that been going on?"

She took her time cutting a small piece of chicken. "A while."

"Any particular reason?"

She chewed slowly, as if she were thinking over his question instead of trying to find a way out. There wasn't any, so she attempted to sound grand and mysterious. "A choice I made."

"Is this one more part of that good girl thing everybody in the world believes about you except me?"

"I am a good girl!"

"You're a brat."

She sniffed, a little pleased, but not letting on. "Why should a virtuous woman have to justify herself? Or semivirtuous anyway, so don't think I was a virgin before I lost my mind with you." But in some ways she was a virgin. Although she knew about sex, neither of her two affairs had taught her anything about making love, and neither had that awful night with Kevin.

"Because we're friends, remember? Friends tell each other things. You already know a lot more about me than almost anybody."

She didn't like being more embarrassed about this disclosure than she'd been when she told him she'd given away her inheritance, so she tried her best to look pious by putting her elbows on the table and making little prayer hands. "Being sexually discriminating is nothing to be ashamed about."

In some ways he understood her better than her own family, and his raised eyebrow told her she hadn't impressed him.

"I'm just—I know a lot of people treat sex casually, but I can't do that. I think it's too important."

"I'm not going to argue with you."

"Well, then, that's it."

"I'm glad."

Was it her imagination, or did she detect a little smugness in his expression?

"You're glad about what? That you've had a stadium full of easy women while I've been keeping my legs crossed? Talk about a double standard."

"Hey, I'm not proud of it. It's programmed in those X chromosomes. And it hasn't been a stadium full."

"Let me put it like this: Some people can handle sex without commitment, but it turns out that I'm not one of them, so it would be better if you'd move back into the house."

"Technically speaking, Daph, I've made a pretty big commitment to you, and I'm thinking it's payback time."

"Sex is not a commodity. You can't bargain with it."

"Who says?" His smile turned positively diabolical. "There were lots of nice-looking clothes at that boutique in town, and I can be real free with my credit card."

"What a proud moment this is for me. Bunny-book author turned hooker in one easy step."

He liked that, but his rumble of laughter was interrupted by a couple approaching from the other side of the dining room. "Excuse me, but aren't you Kevin Tucker? Hey, my wife and I are big fans…"

Molly settled back and sipped her coffee while Kevin dealt with his admirers. The man made her melt, and there was no use pretending otherwise. If it were just his good looks that attracted her, he wouldn't be so dangerous, but that cocky charm was chipping away at her defenses. As for the kiss they'd shared…

Stop right there! Just because their kiss had knocked her off her feet didn't mean she was going to act on it. She'd only begun to pull out of her emotional tailspin, and she wasn't self-destructive enough to throw herself back into it. She simply needed to keep reminding herself that Kevin was bored, and he wanted a little hanky-panky. The grim truth was that any woman would do, and she happened to be handy. Still, she could no longer deny that her old crush was back.

Some women were too dumb to draw breath.

Kevin tossed down the last of the Daphne books Molly had tried unsuccessfully to hide when they returned to the cottage. He couldn't believe it! Half of his recent life lay on the pages she'd written. Expurgated, of course. But still…

He
was Benny the Badger! His red Harley… His Jet Ski… That very minor skydiving incident blown
way
out of proportion… And Benny snowboarding down Old Cold Mountain wearing a pair of silver Revos. He should sue!

Except he was flattered. She was a terrific writer, and the stories were great—kid-hip and funny. Although there was one thing he didn't like about the Daphne books—the bunny generally ended up getting the upper hand over the badger. What kind of message was that to send to little boys? Or big ones, for that matter?

He leaned back on the saggy excuse for a couch and glared toward the bedroom door she'd shut behind her. His good mood from dinner had faded. He'd have to be blind not to know that she was attracted to him. So what was the point?

She wanted to jerk his chain, that was the point. She wanted to make him beg so she could feel like she had her pride back. This whole thing was some kind of power trip for her. She was getting off on being cute and funny around him, making him enjoy her company, fluffing her hair, wearing funky clothes designed just so he'd itch to pull them off her. Then, when it was time to do exactly that, she jumped back and said she didn't believe in sex without
commitment
. Bull.

He needed a shower—a cold one—but there was only that pint-size bathtub. God, he hated it here. Why was she making such a big frickin' deal out of this? She might have said no at dinner, but when he'd kissed her, that sweet little body sure had been saying yes. They were
married
! He was the one who had to compromise himself, not her!

His policy of never mixing business with pleasure had blown up in his face. The trouble he was having keeping his eyes off the bedroom door filled him with self-disgust. He was Kevin Tucker, damn it, and he didn't have to beg for any woman's affections, not when there were so many others standing in line trying to catch his attention.

Well, he'd had enough. From now on he was going to be all business. He'd take care of the campground and step up his workouts so he was in top shape when training camp started. As for that irritating little brat who happened to be his wife… Until they got back to Chicago, it was strictly hands off.

"My boyfriend's parents were gone for the night, and he invited me over. As soon as I walked in the door, I knew what was going to happen…"

"My Boyfriend's Bedroom"

for Chik

Lilly hated herself for saying yes, but what art lover could turn down an invitation to visit Liam Jenner's house and see his private collection? Not that the invitation had been issued graciously. Lilly had just come in from a Sunday-morning walk when Amy handed her the telephone.

"If you want to see my paintings, come to my house this afternoon at two," he'd barked. "No earlier. I'm working, and I won't answer the bell."

She'd definitely been in L.A. too long, because she almost found his rudeness refreshing. As she turned off the highway and onto the side road he'd indicated, she realized how accustomed she'd grown to meaningless compliments and empty flattery. She'd nearly forgotten that people still existed who said exactly what was on their minds.

She spotted the weather-beaten turquoise mailbox he'd told her to look for. It perched crookedly on a battered metal pole set in a tractor tire filled with cement. The ditch behind the tire held rusted bedsprings and a twisted sheet of corrugated tin, which made the no trespassing sign at the top of the rutted, overgrown lane seem superfluous.

She turned in and slowed to a crawl. Even so, her car lurched alarmingly in the ruts. She'd just decided to abandon it and walk the rest of the way when the overgrowth disappeared and fresh gravel smoothed the bumpy road surface. Moments later she caught her breath as the house came into view.

It was a sleekly modern structure with white concrete parapets, stone ledges, and glass. Everything about the design bore Liam Jenner's signature. As she got out of the car and made her way toward the niche that held the front door, she wondered where he'd found an architect saintly enough to work with him.

She glanced down at her watch and saw that she was exactly half an hour late for this command performance. Just as she'd intended.

The door swung open. She waited for him to bark at her for not being on time and was disappointed when he merely nodded, then stepped back to let her in.

She caught her breath. The glass wall opposite the entrance had been constructed in irregular sections bisected by a narrow iron catwalk some ten feet from the ground floor. Through the glass she could see the sweeping vista of lake, cliffs, and trees.

"What an amazing house."

"Thanks. Would you like something to drink?"

His request sounded cordial, but she was even more impressed that he'd traded in his paint-stained denim shirt and shorts for a black silk shirt and light gray slacks. Ironically, his civilized clothes only emphasized the Sturm und Drang of that rugged face.

She declined his offer for a drink. "I'd love a tour, though."

"All right."

The house hugged the terrain in two uneven sections, the larger of which held an open living area, kitchen, library, and cantilevered dining room, with several smaller bedrooms tucked into lower levels. The catwalk she'd seen when she'd entered led to a glass-enclosed tower that Liam told her held his studio. She hoped he'd let her see it, but he showed her only the master bedroom below, a space designed with an almost monastic simplicity.

Magnificent works of art were on display everywhere, and Liam talked about them with passion and discernment. An enormous Jasper Johns canvas hung not far from a contemplative composition in blues and beige by Agnes Martin. One of Bruce Nauman's neon sculptures flickered near the library archway. Across from it hung a work by David Hockney, then a portrait of Liam done by Chuck Close. An imposing Helen Frankenthaler canvas occupied one long wall of the living area, and a totemlike stone-and-wood sculpture dominated a hallway. The very best of the world's contemporary artists were represented in this house. All except Liam Jenner.

Lilly waited until the tour was over and they'd returned to the central living area before she asked about it. "Why haven't you hung any of your own paintings?"

"Looking at my work when I'm not in the studio feels too much like a busman's holiday."

"I suppose. But they'd be so joyous in this house."

He stared at her for a long moment. Then the craggy lines of his face softened in a smile. "You really are a fan, aren't you?"

"I'm afraid so. I bid on one of your paintings a few months ago—
Composition #3
. My business manager forced me to drop out at two hundred and fifty thousand."

"Obscene, isn't it?"

He looked so pleased that she laughed. "You should be ashamed of yourself. It wasn't worth a penny over two hundred thousand. And I'm just beginning to realize how much I hate giving you compliments. You truly are the most overbearing man."

"It makes life easier."

"Keeps the masses at a distance?"

"I value my privacy."

"Which explains why you've built such an extraordinary house in the wilds of northern Michigan instead of Big Sur or Cap d'Antibes."

"Already you know me well."

"You're such a diva. I'm certain I've had my privacy invaded far more than you have, but it hasn't turned me into a hermit. Do you know that I still can't go anywhere without people recognizing me?"

"My nightmare."

"Why is it such a big deal to you?"

"Old baggage."

"Tell me."

"It's an incredibly boring story. You don't want to hear it."

"Believe me, I do." She sat on the couch to encourage him. "I love hearing people's stories."

He gazed at her, then sighed. "The critics discovered me just before my twenty-sixth birthday. Are you sure you want to hear this?"

"Definitely."

He stuck his hands in his pockets and wandered toward the windows. "I became the proverbial overnight sensation—on everybody's guest list, the subject of national magazine articles. I had people throwing money at me."

"I remember what that was like."

The fact that she understood what he'd gone through in ways most people couldn't seemed to relax him. He left the windows to sprawl down across from her, dominating the chair he'd chosen in the same way he dominated every space he occupied. She felt a moment of uneasiness. Craig had been overpowering like that.

"It went to my head," he said, "and I started believing all the hype. Do you remember that, too?"

"I was lucky. My husband kept me grounded in reality." Too grounded, she thought now. Craig never understood that she'd needed his praise more than his criticism.

"I wasn't lucky. I forgot that it was about the work, not about the artist. I partied instead of painted. I drank too much. I developed a taste for nose candy and free sex."

"Except sex never is free, is it?"

"Not when you're married to a woman you love. Ah, but I justified my behavior, you see, because
she
was my
true
love and all that other sex was meaningless. I justified it because she was having a tough pregnancy, and the doctor had told me to leave her alone until after the baby was born."

Lilly heard his self-contempt. This was a man who judged himself even more harshly than he judged others.

"My wife found out, of course, and did the right thing by walking out on me. A week later she went into labor, but the baby was born dead."

"Oh, Liam…"

He turned away her sympathy with an arch twist of his mouth. "There's a happy ending. She married a magazine editor and went on to have three healthy, well-adjusted children. As for me… I learned an important lesson about what is important and what isn't."

"And you've lived in lonely isolation ever since?"

He smiled. "Hardly that. I do have friends, Lilly. Genuine ones."

"People you've known for a hundred years," she guessed. "Newcomers need not apply."

"I think all of us get set in our friendships as we grow older. Haven't you?"

"I suppose." She started to ask why he'd invited her here, since she was definitely a newcomer, but a more important question was on her mind. "Am I mistaken, or didn't you leave something important out of the house tour?"

He sank deeper into his chair and looked annoyed. "You want to see my studio."

"I'm sure you don't make a habit of opening it up to everyone, but—"

"No one goes in there but me and an occasional model."

"Perfectly understandable," she said smoothly. "Still, I'd be grateful if I could just have a peek."

A calculating glint appeared in his eyes. "How grateful?"

"What do you mean?"

"Grateful enough to pose for me?"

"You don't give up, do you?"

"It's part of my charm."

If they'd been at the B&B or by the stream in the meadow, she might have been able to refuse, but not here. That mysterious space where he created some of the world's most beautiful art was too near. "I can't imagine why you'd want to sketch a fat, over-the-hill, forty-five-year-old woman, but if that's what it takes to see your studio, then, yes, I'll pose for you."

"Good. Follow me." He vaulted from his chair and headed for a set of stone steps that led to the catwalk. As he reached it, he glanced back at her. "You're not fat. And you're older than forty-five."

"I am not!"

"You've had work done around your eyes, but no plastic surgeon can cut away the life experience behind them. You're closer to fifty."

"I'm forty-seven."

He gazed down at her from the catwalk. "You're making me lose patience."

"Air could make you lose patience," she grumbled.

The corner of his mouth curled. "Do you want to see my studio or not?"

"Oh, I suppose." Frowning, she swept up the steps, then followed him across the narrow, open structure. She glanced uneasily down at the living area below. "I feel as if I'm walking the plank."

"You'll get used to it."

His statement implied she'd be coming back, an impression she immediately corrected. "I'll pose for you today, but that's all."

"Stop irritating me." He'd reached the end of the catwalk, and he turned toward her so he stood silhouetted against the stone arch. She felt a tiny erotic thrill as he watched her approach with his legs braced and his arms crossed over his chest like an ancient warrior.

She gave him her diva's gaze. "Remind me again why I even wanted to see it."

"Because I'm a genius. Just ask me."

"Shut up and get out of my way."

His laugh held a deep, pleasing resonance. He turned away and led her around a curve of wall into his studio.

"Oh, Liam…" She pressed her fingertips to her lips.

The studio sat suspended above the trees in its own private universe. It was oddly shaped with three of its five sides curved. Late-afternoon light glowed through the northern wall, which was constructed entirely of glass. Overhead, the various skylights had shades that could be adjusted according to the time of day. The layers of colorful paint splatters on the rough walls, the furniture, and the limestone floor had turned the studio into a work of modern art all its own. She had the same sensation she experienced when she stood inside the Getty.

Half-finished canvases sat on easels while others leaned against the walls. Several large canvases hung on special frames. Her mind whirled as she tried to take it all in. She might not have had much formal education, but she'd studied art on her own for several decades, and she wasn't a novice. Still, she found his mature work difficult to categorize. All the influences were evident—the teeth-gnashing of the Abstract Expressionists, the studied cool of Pop, the starkness of the Minimalists. But only Liam Jenner had the audacity to superimpose the sentimental over those decidedly unsentimental styles.

Her eyes drank in the monumental, unfinished Madonna and Child that occupied most of one wall. Of all the great contemporary artists, only Liam Jenner could paint a Madonna and Child without using cow dung as his medium, or smearing an obscenity over her forehead, or adding a flashing Coca-Cola sign in place of a star. Only Liam Jenner had the absolute self-confidence to show the cynical deconstructionists who populated the world of contemporary art the meaning of unabashed reverence.

Her heart filled with tears she couldn't let herself shed. Tears of loss for the way she'd let her identity get swallowed up by Craig's expectations, tears of loss for the son she'd given away. Gazing at the painting, she realized how careless she'd been with what she should have held sacred.

His hand curled around her shoulder in a gesture as gentle as the wisps of blue-gold paint softening the Madonna's hair. His touch seemed both natural and necessary, and as she swallowed her tears, she had to resist the urge to curl into his chest.

"My poor Lilly," he said softly. "You've made your life even harder for yourself than I have mine."

She didn't question how he knew, but as she stood before that miraculous, unfinished painting and felt the comforting hand on her shoulder, she understood that all these canvases were reflections of the man—his angry intensity, his intelligence, his severity, and the sentiment he worked so hard to hide. Unlike her, Liam Jenner was one with his work.

"Sit," he murmured. "Just as you are." She let him lead her to a simple wooden chair across the room. He caressed her shoulder, then stepped back and reached for one of the blank canvases near his worktable. If he had been any other man, she would have felt manipulated, but manipulation wouldn't occur to him. He had simply been overcome with the need to create, and for a reason she couldn't fathom, that involved her.