The Truth about Love

Her expression changed. He watched the sadness close in, dousing the happy memories, saw not just loss of a loved one, but loss in a wider sense-a loss of innocence, of trust, of security.

She didn’t reply, yet his fingers flew.

After a very long moment, she murmured, “When she died, we lost all that-this place and all who lived here lost our wellspring of life.”

“And of love?” He hadn’t meant to say the words; they just slipped out.

After another long silence, she replied, “More that love became tangled and confused.”

He continued sketching, very aware-elementally aware-when she drew in a deep breath, and shifted her gaze to look at him.

For some moments, her expression was unreadable, then she asked, “What do you see?”

A woman trapped through others’ love for her. The words rang in his mind as his eyes held hers, but he didn’t want to reveal how clearly he saw her, not yet. “I think”-he closed his sketch pad-“that you saw her more clearly than she saw you.”

She tilted her head, studying him, examining his words-and, he suspected, his motives. Then she inclined her head. “You’re right.”

He looked steadily back at her. His comment, he felt sure, was also true for others-like her father, Mitchel, Jordan, even Brisenden. Their view of her was of a weak female; they were the type to assume that females were inherently less able, less strong than themselves on any plane. He’d grown up too close to too many strong women to make such a mistake. Jacqueline was nothing if not strong, and commitment only strengthened her resolve.

If he were the killer, he’d be very wary of her.

The thought came out of nowhere, and chilled him. Suppressing an inner shiver, he looked down at his sketches, flipping through them, rapidly evaluating what he’d done.

Released from his scrutiny, Jacqueline watched him. For this pose, he’d stood to sketch her; he’d fallen into a comfortable wide-legged stance, broad shoulders square, his long-limbed, lean body loose and relaxed. While in the throes, he didn’t seem to feel the urge to move, as if all his vitality, all the intensity that was so much a part of him, were concentrated in his fingers and his eyes, and the brain that connected them.

He was fascinating, compelling. To her, yes, but she wouldn’t be the only female so affected. Eleanor would find him attractive, too. He had such a high-handed tendency to command, to order…she felt her lips curve; she wasn’t even sure he was aware of it, so focused was he on his goals.

It was that focus, intense and powerful, that would draw Eleanor-she’d want to force him to turn it on her. To surrender it to her.

For a moment, Jacqueline wondered-did she feel the same, for the same reason? An instant’s reflection returned the answer: no. That’s where she and Eleanor differed. Eleanor would delight in using force, yet for her, the conquest would be in his willingly lavishing on her the intensity of devotion she saw in him as he sketched, as he viewed her as his subject.

Not as her.

A ripple of awareness skittered through her as she recalled his “price” and the reckless promise she’d made in the moonlight, that she’d meet it whatever it might be. Had he been viewing her as his subject then, or as her? At the time she’d assumed the former, but now she’d realized there were moments when he was as physically aware of her as she was of him…

She’d thought his attentions, the hot kiss he’d pressed to her palm, had been to learn how she responded to such things, that he’d wanted to know as a painter. What if he’d wanted to know as a man?

The idea left her feeling as if she were teetering on the brink of a precipice, unsure whether to step forward or back. Back would be safe, yet forward…as fascinating and compelling as she found him, if he beckoned, would she go?

Another shiver, this time one of anticipation, coursed down her spine. She let her gaze slide over him again, felt the compulsion rise.

Closing his sketch pad, he looked up. His eyes fixed on hers.

After a moment, his gaze drifted up. “Your hair…”

“What about it?”

“When I paint you, it needs to be different. Can you unpin it? It’ll help if I see how we need it to be, then you can wear it that way from now on.”

Her hair was secured in a neat chignon; raising her hands, she started removing pins. The chignon unraveled; she set the pins down, shook the long strands free, then threaded her fingers through them, drawing them out, letting them fall across and over her shoulders.

He frowned. “No, that’s not right, either.”

He closed the space between them in a few long strides. Setting his pad and pencils down, he sat on the coping, facing her.

She felt her lungs constrict, but she was growing used to the effect.

His gaze was locked on her face, gauging. He reached for her chin, turned her face to his, then reached for her hair, long fingers sliding into the unruly mass.

She caught her breath, prayed she wasn’t blushing, prayed she’d be able to hide her reaction.

His frown remained as he bunched her hair, shifting it this way, then that, clearly unsatisfied. Then he twisted the tresses and set the bunched curls on the top of her head. Looking into his face, she sensed him still…

With his other hand, Gerrard reached for her chin, fought not to notice the delicacy of bones and skin as he gently gripped and turned her face first to the left, then to the right, then to the precise angle he thought was best suited for the portrait, all the while holding her hair atop her head.

There. Angle right, and hair up, a neat knot with a tendril or two trailing down on the right, a subtle highlight to draw attention to the exposed curve of her throat.

That was the line he wanted to capture, vulnerability, grace and strength combined. Youth, yet with intrinsic wisdom, instinctive and true. A pose that had clarity, that resonated with truth.

Again his gaze skimmed the line of her throat, skin white and flawless, tinted by the fading golden light. Raising his gaze, he took in the medley of browns, vibrant and earthy, worldly, too, of her hair; he would capture that and use it.

He lowered his gaze to her face.

Met her eyes, the mossy shade darker, the gold more intense as they widened, darkened.

Her lips were lush, edged with rose gilt.

Time stood still.

He raised his gaze to her eyes, saw a curiosity the counterpart of his own staring at him from the hazel depths.

What would it be like?

Lowering his head, tipping her face up, he touched his lips to hers.

Felt them quiver. And took, seized, albeit gently, with all the expertise he’d learned over the years. He increased the pressure beguilingly, seductively, brushing lightly, tantalizing and tempting.

He wanted to devour, yet it was she who captured him with a tentative response so slight it was like gossamer, a fleeting moment of innocence and pleasure. For one fraught instant he felt completely caught, taken captive-then reality returned, and he realized what he’d done.

Realized he’d gathered her into his arms.

Realized he’d taken the step he hadn’t yet made up his mind he would take. He’d been tempted, not solely by his own desires but by hers, too, yet the feel of her in his arms, of her lips beneath his-the feelings those sensations evoked-assured him at some elemental level that this was right.

Yet if he was wise, he’d go slowly.

Lifting his head, he looked down into eyes the color of woodland moss. He drew in a breath, surprised to discover his lungs parched and tight. “I’m sorr-” He broke off, unable as he looked into her eyes to utter the polite lie. He felt his jaw firm. “No. I’m not sorry, but I shouldn’t have done that.”

She blinked up at him. “Why not?”

He searched her eyes; she was asking with her usual candor, an open honesty he’d grown to treasure. “Because it’ll make it that much harder not to do it again.”

The truth. She heard it; he saw comprehension widen her eyes, followed swiftly by calculation.