Warrior (13 page)

It was nothing more than the truth. “I read your file.”

“Yeah. I guess you would have.” Jess folded her hands under her head and frowned at the ceiling. “You were right, by the way. She did get rich on my art.”

Misery was so plain in those blue eyes, Galar wished he could deny it without lying. Because he couldn't, he only sighed. “That may be, but according to what I've read, she also grieved for you. I don't think she ever got over it.”

“Maybe.” She was silent for a long moment. “It's ironic, really. Ruby always thought my work sucked.”

“Well, she did kick the drugs. Maybe once she was off them, she realized how good you are.”

Jess was obviously sunk too deeply in her funk to notice the attempted compliment. “What changed everything was when she got David Sheraton involved. He was this Atlanta gallery owner with a reputation for spotting talent. He said my work was brilliant and started carrying my paintings. They began commanding huge sums of money. Critics started writing articles calling me a tragic genius.”

He sighed and sat down on the bed next to her. “Somehow I have the feeling this story is more complicated than that.”

Jessica snorted. “You have good instincts. I had an interview with Sheraton three weeks ago. Showed him my portfolio. ” Her brooding gaze met his. “He said, and I quote, ‘I'm not seeing anything special here.'”

Galar winced. “Bastard.”

“Which begs the question: Why did his opinion change a hundred and eighty degrees in three weeks? And then I realized—I was dead. I was a pretty girl who'd been mysteriously, horribly murdered. So first there's the morbid curiosity factor, which turned all my paintings into instant collector's items. Sheraton looked at my portfolio and thought,
Ka-CHING
.” Her mouth curved into a bitter smile. “Apparently
that
was special.”

Recognizing the deep wounds under that smile, Galar thought,
All right, what am I going to do about this?

The best way to deal with Jessica's painful realization, he decided, was honesty. He sighed and reached for her hand. Her long, slim fingers felt cool and limp in his. “Unfortunately, that's not an unusual attitude. Another artist was targeted by an art thief assassin last year. We saved him, but the assassin came after him a second time and cut his throat.”

That got a reaction. Her brows snapped down. “But why? What did his death accomplish?”

“Had he survived, the value of his original art would have declined because he could still produce new work. So a collector hired the killer to take him out.”

“What about the art that will never be produced?” Jessica sat up and folded her long legs under her, glowering. “What about the things he could have said, the way his talent could have grown if he'd been given a chance? Didn't that matter?”

“Not to a man who'd just spent sixty million galactors on a painting that was suddenly worth about half that.”

“Money,” Jessica snarled. “It was never about the art. It's all about money. All that stuff about my talent in those books—it was all bullshit. My paintings aren't really art—they're collectibles. Like fucking baseball cards.”

And here was the heart of her sudden depression. “That might explain your initial popularity, but I assure you, it wouldn't have mattered after the first twenty years or so.” He caught her eyes with his, willing her belief. “Critics have acclaimed your work because it's good.
You're
good.”

Her mouth twisted bitterly. “Am I?”

“Yes, you are. Come on.” He rolled off the bed, reached down, and drew her to her feet. “I think it's time I remind you just how good.”

Jessica followed Galar
out of the room and down a corridor to another elevator. After a quick, smooth descent, they emerged into a hallway. Depressed as she was, she couldn't help but notice the enticing width of the shoulders that contrasted perfectly to his narrow waist and tight, muscular ass. The view was enough to lift her spirits all by itself.

She was still admiring him when Galar stopped and opened a door. He stepped back, gesturing her through. Curious, Jessica stepped inside.

Into the studio of her dreams.

The ceiling was high, airy, while the floor underfoot was made of some kind of gleaming wood as smooth and polished as glass. One entire wall was a window with another breathtaking view of the mountains.

It faced north, revealing a beautiful starlit sky and moonlight-kissed mountains. For centuries, artists had favored studios with north-facing windows as a source of perfect, even light. The view from this one would provide a stunning backdrop for her work. A long, low couch upholstered in dark green sat in front of the expanse of glass, draped with a deep red cloth.

An easel sat before it, massive oak and sturdy, of the type Jess had always dreamed of, but had never been able to afford. A huge canvas sat on it, stretched over a wooden frame, already primed with gesso.

Beside the easel sat a heavy wooden taboret, arranged with a dazzling selection of oil paints and a set of new brushes of every size and design. Two cans—turpentine and linseed oil—stood among the colorful tubes, unopened. A pile of clean rags waited beside them.

Jessica scanned the taboret with the joyous delight of a child on Christmas morning. “There are hundreds of dollars' worth of art supplies here!” Reverently, she examined the precious tubes. She'd always dreamed of owning oils of such quality, but she'd never had the money.

Wonderingly, she turned to look at Galar. A smile of pleasure curved his handsome mouth—the delight of a man whose gift has been well received. “You did this for me,” she said slowly.

Not exactly the act of the cold-blooded bastard Riane had described.

“You're going to be here for a while, and you need a place to paint. Is everything the way you need it? The computer said this is how art studios should be arranged, but if it's not right . . .”

Warmth spread through her chest, feeling remarkably like sunshine. “It's perfect.”

“Are you sure? Because I can—”

“It's perfect,” Jessica interrupted. On sheer impulse, she stepped over to him and rose on her toes to kiss him on the cheek. He was so tall, she had to brace a hand on his shoulder to steady herself. His cheek felt warm against her lips, angular and firm. “Thank you.”

She dropped back to her heels and looked up into his face. Heat flooded those golden eyes with fierce male desire. Jessica caught her breath. Staring into that burning gaze, she swallowed.

No, there was nothing at all cold about Galar Arvid.

Her heart began to pound, and she found herself looking away. Her mouth felt dry as she managed to say, “You don't know how much this means to me.”

For something to do with her hands, Jess moved to the art taboret and began to arrange the paints in the order she always used them—flesh tones at the top, then warm earth shades, then the deep blues and greens, then jewel tones. Finally the huge tube of titanium white.

“What would you like to paint first?” Galar asked in that deep, seductive rumble of his.

Jessica turned to look at him, at the angular contours of his handsome face, at the enticing shades of his blond hair. The word was sheer impulse. “You.”

He inclined his head in a courtly kind of nod. “It would be an honor. Nude?”

Jessica blinked. There was absolutely no insinuation in his tone at all, but she felt heat spill into her cheeks.

Galar smiled slightly. “My people don't consider nudity an automatic invitation to sex. And I've noticed your studio pieces are usually nudes.”

“Yes.” Jess mentally cursed the blush. How unprofessional could you get? She'd painted male nudes before, after all. Though none of them had looked like Galar. “And yes, I would like to paint you.” Especially with the starlit night providing a perfect backdrop for his blond masculinity. “How about now?” She realized she probably sounded way too eager, but she was itching to paint.

She needed this. Craved it, in fact. Desperately. To lose herself in the paint, in the smell of linseed oil and canvas, in the sweet, heady rush of creation. She wanted to forget what she'd lost, forget the frightening, alien world she'd have to somehow make a place for herself.

How had Galar known? They barely knew each other, yet somehow he'd sensed the perfect thing to pull her out of her funk.

There was more to this man than knife-edged cheekbones and great shoulders, no matter what Riane thought.

Like Jess, Galar still wore the civies he'd worn outside. Now he grabbed the hem of the cable-knit sweater and tugged it over his head, then folded it and put it beside the couch. Jessica caught her breath at the beauty of his sculpted torso, then breathed out in a sigh as he slid out of his jeans. His legs were long and brawny, with big, well-shaped feet. Sometimes muscular men could look a little short-legged, but Galar's big, lean body was in perfect proportion.

Jess tried very hard not to stare between those powerful thighs. Even soft, his sex was impressive—a long, veined shaft with a plum-sized head, the heavy balls covered in wiry blond curls.

“How do you want me?”

Any way I can get you.
Somehow she managed to keep the words from coming out of her mouth.

A professional model would have known how to arrange his body. Galar, however, was not a professional model, and Jessica found herself guiding him into the pose she wanted.

His square chin felt slightly rough with beard stubble as she angled his head up. She showed him how to bend one knee until his thigh hid that luscious shaft—she knew she wouldn't be able to concentrate with it on display. Jess positioned one powerful arm over the knee, then escaped back to her easel with a sense of relief.

Scooping up a stick of charcoal for the initial sketch, she went happily to work.

Galar had to
tell his computer to suppress his erection.

Again.

He'd been telling the truth when he'd said his people didn't consider nudity an invitation to sex. Privacy was at a premium in the barracks conditions aboard ships, space stations, and paramilitary installations like the Outpost. It was only good manners to ignore whatever bare skin you saw.

But he hadn't realized how it would affect him to have a woman look at him the way Jessica did. That gaze of hers set his Warlord hunger burning like a torch.

The sizzling intensity that had first drawn him to her was back, blazing in her eyes, coiling through her slim body. She painted in long, furious strokes for more than half an hour, only to abruptly stop.

Galar's mouth went dry as Jessica strode toward him on those long legs. She crouched to stare up into his face, then studied the line of his body. It took every erg of his self-control to keep from dragging her into his lap and devouring that soft mouth.

Just as he was about to reach for her, Jess rose, turned with a roll of her lovely ass, and walked back to the easel. He managed not to snarl in frustration.

Galar inhaled, fighting for self-control. The breath carried the scent of her, richly feminine despite the overlay of paint. He wanted to bury his hands in her hair, feel the long, dark, silken strands against his palms, his fingers. He wanted to jerk up her red sweatshirt and cup those round, pretty breasts, taste her nipples. Were they pink? he wondered. A deep rose? A soft, dusty brown?

He wanted to reach between her legs and find her softest flesh, make her slick and ready.

Her lips parted, and the pink tip of her tongue peeked between her teeth.

Jess had never
seen anything quite like Galar's eyes. First they were a glowing gold, like honey in the sun, shaded with depths of amber and ocher. But as she painted him they began to burn, first with a single spot of red, then with flecks of crimson that had grown until now his pupils were a scarlet blaze.

And the look on his face—intent, almost predatory. Staring at her like a starving wolf looking at a lamb just out of reach. His sensual lips were slightly parted, an erotic flush riding those bladed cheekbones.

If any other man had looked at her like that, she would have gotten the hell out of the room. But this was Galar.

And she could feel herself getting wet.

With every breath she took, the lace cups of her bra gently abraded her stiff nipples. It was amazing she could still paint. Amazing she wanted to, when part of her ached to throw the brush aside and join him on that couch.

But the fact was, she loved what she was doing to them both too much to stop. The luscious heat she felt sizzled onto the canvas like an electric charge, energizing every brush-stroke.

His painted eyes stared out of the portrait at her with a stark masculine hunger that reflected a breathtaking reality. Though his big body lay in a pose of mock relaxation, the need that coiled through him was every bit as naked as he was.

Jessica suspected this painting would make her blush when she was eighty. She was also quite sure that it would never appear on anybody's wall but her own.

So she went on painting despite the ache in her nipples, the heaviness between her thighs, the wet heat that built with every stroke.

Despite the burning red blaze in his eyes.

She found herself longing to test the boundaries of his control again. Laying the brush aside, Jess moved toward him as her heart pounded in a jungle drum thump. He watched her coming like a leopard staring at an approaching gazelle.

Waiting for the moment to spring.

She stopped just beyond his reach and sank slowly, gracefully, to her knees, moving like a geisha in a dance. She pretended to study the long, powerful line of him sweeping from chest to waist to hip. Avoiding his eyes. Somehow she sensed that if she met that red-coal gaze of his, his control would snap and the game would be over. And she wasn't ready for it to end. Not just yet.