Текст книги "A Different Blue "

Автор книги: Amy Harmon

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

I gulped and swore under my breath. Tiffa just winked at me. “That's a bargain, luv. Someday your work will sell for far more, I guarantee it. 'Bird Woman,' 'Rubicon,' 'Witch,' and the one you named 'Armor' are the only pieces I have left. All of those will be stunning, but I need more. What do you have completed?”

I had carved one called 'The Saint.' It was St. Patrick immortalized in wood, though the stooped man with a shepherd's staff walking in the curling flames that appeared to dance around him could easily be mistaken for something entirely different. The one Wilson had named 'Loss' was in the basement too, covered by a sheet beside my workbench so I wouldn't have to see it. It might be my best work yet, but it hurt to look at it. And there were several others, including the intertwined branches that I had frenetically lost myself in a month ago.

“I can come up with ten.”

“Then it's set. Get me the pieces, and I will make it happen. And Blue? Don't tell Darcy. It will be our little surprise.”

I finished my shift at the cafe late Thursday night and headed for home, my mind on Saturday's exhibit, on the carvings I had assembled, and on the call to Reno I hadn't yet made. They must think I was nuts. Detective Moody had left two messages on my voicemail and I'd received another from Heidi Morgan at the lab. I told myself after the showcase I would call them.

A big part of my indecision was Wilson. I had shared this journey with him, and in the last month I had hardly seen him. He'd become my best friend, and I missed him desperately, and was angry with him for pulling away. I'd decided “space” was just another one of those, “it's not you, it's me” slogans people use when they want to end a relationship. But friendships weren't supposed to end. I wished we'd never shared that damned kiss. Wilson hadn't been the same since.

I was standing in front of my apartment door, perusing my mail, when I heard Wilson's door open and shut above me. I tensed, listening to his footsteps near the top of the stairs, and then grimaced as I heard Pamela's voice asking him about the exhibit at The Sheffield on Saturday.

“I saw the tickets. Were you going to surprise me? Is it my Valentine's Day surprise?” Pamela teased, and her flirtatious tone made me want to run up the stairs and hurl her over the banister. She must not have sensed my murderous intent, because she kept right on talking.

“We can have dinner with my parents before. They'll be staying at the hotel through next week.” I had forgotten about Pamela's connection to the hotel. Tiffa said the Sheffield family wasn't the sole owner of the hotel any longer, but money talked, and the hotel still bore the Sheffield name.

Pamela and Wilson reached the bottom of the stairs and I slunk back, hoping they wouldn't see me. I should have gone into my apartment and closed the door. Now it was too late to do so without alerting them of my presence. So I stood, frozen, watching Pamela loop her arms around Wilson's neck and stand up on her toes to place a quick kiss on his lips. I looked away. I should have watched, should have made myself acknowledge that she was the girl in his life. And I was the neighbor. The project. The whim? I had no idea what I was to Wilson anymore.

“See you Saturday?” Pamela asked.

I didn't hear Wilson's answer, I was too busy unlocking my door. I decided I didn't care if they knew I was there. I shut the door behind me. When I heard a soft knock several minutes later, I considered ignoring it. It could only be Wilson, and he would only make me feel worse. But I was just a girl. And the guy I liked stood on the other side of the door. So I opened it.

“Hi,” I said cheerfully, as if I was completely unaffected by what I had just seen. Wilson didn't look like a man who had just enjoyed a goodnight kiss. He looked a little upset. And a little stressed. I tried not to read anything into it.

“Hi,” he replied softly. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Sure. Mi casa es su casa . . . literally.” I turned and walked into my home, feeling him at my back. “Did Camilla just leave?” I asked pointedly. When Wilson didn't answer I looked up at him in question.

“Camilla?” he smirked, folding his arms. “You asked me if Camilla just left.”

“Is that what I said?” I frowned.

“Yes. You called Pamela Camilla.”

“Hmmm. Freudian slip,” I mumbled, a little embarrassed. It wasn't my fault. I had been thinking of kisses, and lately kisses made me think of Camilla . . . and The Golden Girls.

The carving I had been working on the last time we talked sat on my kitchen table, and Wilson halted beside it abruptly. He studied it intently, turning it this way and that, but I was distracted, knowing that any mention of Camilla had to remind him of what had transpired between us more than a month ago.

“Tell me what you see when you look at this sculpture,” Wilson asked after a while, his eyes roving down the sensual lines of the stained mahogany. His hand traced the contours reverently.

I had whittled away the heaviness from the branches, creating hollows and sinews and shaping the suggestion of lovers wrapped around each other while still maintaining the natural innocence and simplicity of the merging branches. The branches were mountain mahogany, the wood a natural reddish brown. I had rubbed several applications of black stain into one branch, and it gleamed like a black jungle cat, the golden red tones melding with the dark stain so the black looked like it was silhouetted in sunlight. I applied no stain to the other branch but had simply buffed and glossed the golden red wood until it glowed like amber. The effect was that the two limbs in the sculpture appeared to be different wood, branches from two different kinds of trees. The result was a statement all its own.

I looked away. I felt hot and angry, and my chest was tight with a feeling Wilson always seemed to stir in me.

“I'd rather not.”

“Why?” Wilson sounded genuinely confused by my refusal, since I was usually eager to discuss my carvings with him.

“Why do you want my explanation? What do you see when you look at it?” I said crossly. Wilson withdrew his hand from the sculpture and grabbed my braid where it hung over my shoulder. He tugged it gently, wrapping it around his hand as he did.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing's wrong. I'm preoccupied,” I protested. “And my art is not about what I see. It's about what I feel. And right now I don't really want to discuss what I feel.” I tried to pull my hair free from his hand, but he wound it tighter, pulling me toward him.

“I see limbs and love and lust,” Wilson stated flatly. I stopped resisting, and my eyes rose to his. Wilson's gaze was wide and frank, but his jaw was clenched as if he knew he was crossing that invisible line he had drawn for himself.

“I'm not surprised you see those things,” I said softly.

“Why?” His eyes were intense, and I was suddenly furious. I was in love with Wilson, no doubt about it, but I would not be toyed with, and I sure as hell wasn't going to play kissy face ten minutes after Pamela left.

“You've just spent the evening with Pamela,” I reminded him sweetly. “She is a beautiful woman.”

Wilson's eyes flashed, and he dropped my braid, turning back toward the sculpture. I could tell he was mentally counting to ten. If I made him angry, it was his own fault. What did he think I was going to do? Wrap myself around him after he had ignored me off and on for months? I wasn't that girl. But maybe he thought I was. I took several deep breaths and ignored the tension that simmered between us. It was thick enough to slice and serve with a big dollop of denial. He took several steps, his hands fisted in his hair, putting some distance between us.

I stood my ground, waiting for him to make the next move. I had no idea what he was doing here. And he didn't seem to know either. When he looked at me again, his mouth was set in a grim line, and his eyes held a note of pleading, as if he needed to convince me of something.

“You said your art is about what you feel, not what you see. I told you what I see. Now you tell me what you feel,” he demanded.

“What are we talking about, Wilson?” I shot back. I walked toward him, hands shoved in my pockets. “Are we talking about the sculpture?” He watched me as I approached, but I didn't stop until our toes were almost touching.

“If we're talking about the sculpture, fine. I see desire and belonging and love without space.” I said the words like I was a guide at an art museum, putting emphasis on the word space. “What do I feel? Well, that's easy. I've been at work all day. I'm tired, Wilson. And I'm hungry. And I don't like Pamela. There. That's what I feel. How about you?”

Wilson looked at me like he wanted to shake me until my teeth rattled. Then he just shook his head and walked to the door. “I'm sorry I asked, Blue,” he sighed. He sounded weary and resigned, like one of those TV dads just trying to tolerate his teen-aged daughter. “Goodnight, Blue.”

I was too confused and befuddled to even respond. He walked out of my apartment without another word.

Chapter Twenty-Five

 

I spent a ridiculously long time curling my hair. When I finished, it hung in shiny dark waves down my back. I took great care applying dramatic makeup, more than I'd worn in months. I thought it suitable for an artist at her first exhibit. I had splurged on a cocktail dress that would highlight my eyes, and the electric blue was exactly the same shade. It hadn't been very expensive, but I was crossing my fingers that it didn't look cheap. It had small cap sleeves and a high neckline, but it draped lower in the back, almost to my waist. It skimmed my curves without being too tight or suggestive, and it ended just above the knee. I found a pair of high-heeled sandals to match. I thought I looked pretty good and squealed a little when I was ready. I looked grown up and alluring but sophisticated too, like Tiffa. I waited just inside my door, listening for Wilson to leave his apartment. If he and Pamela were meeting her parents for dinner, he would be leaving soon. I didn't have to wait long. Wilson strolled out of his flat and started down the stairs at exactly 6:30.

I calmly locked my door and walked toward the front door, just like I planned, reaching the base of the staircase before Wilson did. He was scrolling through his phone, but when he heard the click of my heels, he glanced up and his eyes widened. I tried not to smile. I had desperately wanted that reaction. He could think about me the whole time he was out with Pamela. I hoped he had a rotten time. His eyes traveled up and down the length of me and seemed to get stuck on my legs. It was all I could do to not giggle. I cleared my throat instead. His eyes snapped up to mine and he glowered at me. Wait. That wasn't what I wanted. Blushing, stammering, compliments – all of that was good. Glowering looks were not part of the plan.

“Where are you off to?” His voice sounded funny. Almost angry.

“Out,” I said lightly.

“I see.” Wilson's expression was indecipherable. “That frock's a bit short.”

“Really?” I laughed, incredulous. I looked down at the hem that really wasn't very short. “And why exactly do you care how short my skirt is?”

“I don't,” Wilson replied brusquely. He definitely did. Maybe he was jealous. That was a good thing. A very good thing. I shrugged and walked past him toward the door. My hair brushed against the bare skin of my back. Wilson cursed.

“Bugger! So it all starts again, does it?” Wilson bit out behind me. I froze. Pain lanced through me, and I spun on him. His face was like granite, his eyes icy, his jaw clenched. His arms were crossed and his stance was wide, almost as if he were bracing himself for my comeback.

“What do you mean, Wilson? What am I starting again?” I kept my voice low and contained, but inside I was quaking.

“You know exactly what I mean, Blue.” Wilson's voice was harsh and his words clipped.

“Oh, I see,” I whispered. And I did. It was written all over his face. Revulsion. He didn't see a glamorous woman on her way to a classy exhibit. He saw a tawdry teenager with a sordid past all dressed up for a night on the corner.

“I'm reverting to my slutty ways. That must be it.” I raised one thin eyebrow disdainfully and held it there, waiting for him to correct me. He just glared back and was silent.

I pivoted in disgust and yanked the front door open.

“Blue!”

I didn't turn, but I paused, waiting for an apology.

“I'm not going to watch you destroy yourself. If this is the road you want to go down, I won't come after you.” Wilson's voice was hard, almost unrecognizable.

I shook my head, unable to speak. Where had this come from? What had I done to make him go all parental and self-righteous on me? I wanted to scream at him, scratch his eyes out, and tell him what a jerk he was being. But I didn't want to be that girl anymore. In spite of what he thought, I wasn't that girl anymore. So I turned and leveled a look at him.

“I guess the dye is cast . . . huh?”

I turned and walked out of the building, my spine stiff, but my chin quivering. If he watched me leave, I didn't know. I looked neither to the right nor left, but drove away looking straight forward. I did not cry. I did not curse. I just drove, stone-faced, to the hotel.

Tiffa had told me to go to valet parking and I did, refusing to be embarrassed by my dumpy old truck. I stepped out of it like I was royalty and dropped my keys in the valet's hand with a comment to make sure he didn't “scratch my baby.” The man was good at his job, and he didn't even bat an eye. I was grateful for his ability to hide his real feelings and vowed that tonight I would hide mine just as well. It was a talent I had let get rusty.

I swept through the door and asked the first official looking person I saw where I could find the art exhibit. He directed me to the elevators and instructed me to get off on the gallery floor, marked with a G next to the button. Panic bubbled up in my chest, and for a moment I considered leaving. Just kicking off my heels and heading for the door. I gritted my teeth and stepped onto the elevator, along with several other people in formal attire. I stared at myself in the mirror, trying not to see what Wilson had seen. My pleasure in my appearance had been crushed into tiny, vicious shards. My reflection stared back at me defiantly. My eyes looked too big in my face, and the pink in my cheeks had been leached out with the joy I no longer felt. What had I been thinking?

Tiffa descended on me as soon as I stepped out of the elevator. The room beyond was soft with strategic lighting and carefully placed art. A huge painting of a weeping face took center stage. The tears were so lifelike they shimmered wetly in the lights.

“Blue! You look wonderful! Smashing! Where is Darcy?” Tiffa looked beyond me to the elevator doors that were firmly shut. “He is going to die when he sees your pieces on display! I can't wait!” She squealed girlishly, and I felt a wash of intense affection sweep over me. But like the tide, the wave of love was yanked back into the sea of my disappointment as my thoughts were focused once again on Wilson.

“I didn't tell him.”

“Yes, luv, I know. I invited him!” Tiffa whispered theatrically. “I told him he had to come tonight. I said there was a brilliant new artist whose work he had to see. I sent him tickets and everything. Did he bodge it up then?”

You could say that. I felt pretty bodged up. “I don't know what Wilson's plans are.” My voice sounded flat and cold, and Tiffa's eyebrows shot up. It wasn't quite true, but I didn't elucidate.

“Hmm.” Her eyes scoured my face. She pursed her red lips in contemplation. “He bodged it good,” was all she said. Then she looped her arm through mine and pulled me forward. “Come see how we've arranged your pieces. They are breathtaking, Blue. I've already had a slew of people ask after them. You are already a hit.” I let myself be pulled along and vowed to forget Wilson and the way he had looked at me. I was “a hit.” Tiffa said so, and I was going to do my best to enjoy the moment, surreal as it all was.

'Bird Woman' filled an entire corner. She was elevated on a black platform. The lighting overhead turned the wood into liquid gold. For a moment, I saw the sculpture as others would, and my breath caught in my throat. There was only the hint of a woman in the dramatic sweep of wood and the suggestion of outstretched wings. It was the reason I hated to title my sculptures; the title limited it. I didn't want to do that. I wanted people to interpret what they saw without influence from me.

A few people stood around it, studying it, turning their heads this way and that. My heart pounded so loudly I thought it would shake the room and its precious contents. Tiffa glided toward the man who seemed most enamored by the woman encased in wood. She reached out a graceful hand and touched the man's sleeve.

“Mr. Wayne, this is the artist.” She slid her other hand down into my own. Mr. Wayne turned toward us. His silver hair was slicked back from his face. It was an interesting face, more suited to a mobster than an art connoisseur. He was powerfully built, and his black tuxedo fit him well. He seemed surprised by the introduction, and his mouth curved as his gaze met mine.

“I want her,” he said bluntly, his voice as accented as Tiffa's. He must work at The Sheffield, too. I felt heat flood my face, and Tiffa laughed, that tinkling waterfall sound that said, “You are so wonderful – I adore you!”

“And you may have her. The sculpture, that is,” Tiffa responded with a mischievous twinkle. “This is Blue Echohawk.” She said my name as if I were someone very important. I tried not to giggle. I settled on stone face. It was my go-to face when I had no clue of how to respond.

“Your work is beautiful. But more importantly, it's fascinating. I find myself getting lost in it. That's when I know I want something.” Mr. Wayne raised the glass of clear liquid he was drinking and sipped it thoughtfully. “I almost didn't come tonight. But Tiffa can be quite insistent.”

“Mr. Wayne is an owner of The Sheffield, Blue,” Tiffa said simply. I tried not to quake. Tiffa turned back to Mr. Wayne. I wondered briefly if his first name was Bruce. He looked like he could have a Batmobile stashed on the roof.

Tiffa continued, “The Echohawk pieces are going to be worth a fortune someday. The Sheffield scored a major coupe in the art world tonight.” Tiffa oozed confidence. I felt like putting my hand over her mouth.

“I agree.” Mr. Wayne cocked his head to the side. “Well done, Tiffa.” He extended a hand to me. “Would you show me your other pieces?”

Tiffa didn't even hesitate. “What a brilliant idea. I will be around, Blue.” And she was off, moving on to another couple without a second look. Mr. Wayne smelled expensive. He threaded my hand through his arm, the way Wilson did sometimes, and we moved to my next sculpture. Maybe it was a British thing, the courtly manners. Or maybe it was something that rich, educated, men did. I had had so little experience with any of the above. I moved beside him and tried to think of something clever to say. My mind ran in dizzying circles as I groped desperately for something – anything – to converse about. I suddenly realized Mr. Wayne wasn't waiting for witty remarks but was engrossed in the sculpture before him.

“I think I've changed my mind. I want this one instead.” I noticed the sculpture in front of me for the first time. 'Loss' bowed before me in anguished repose. I wanted to turn away. I had been relieved when Tiffa had sent the truck to pick it up. I didn't respond, but looked beyond it, hoping Mr. Wayne would move on.

“It's almost painful to look at,” he murmured. I felt him looking at me, and I brought my eyes to his. “Ah, there's a story here, I can tell.” He smiled. I smiled too, but it felt forced. I knew I should tell him about the piece, sell it, sell myself. But I couldn't. I had no idea how. An awkward silence followed. He eventually spoke, saving us both.

“Someone told me once that to create true art you must be willing to bleed and let others watch.” I felt a little exposed and suddenly wanted to melt into the shadows of the room where I could observe without being observed.

“There is suffering in every line. It's simply . . . wonderful.” His voice was gentle, and I berated myself silently. Here I was on the arm of someone who could be enormously helpful to me in my career, and I wanted to escape.

“Then it's yours,” I answered suddenly. “It is my gift to you, to thank you for this opportunity.”

“Oh no.” He shook his leonine head emphatically. “No. I will buy this sculpture. Thank you, but a tremendous price was paid in the creation of this piece, and it should not be given away for free.” His voice was both tender and kind.

My heart thudded painfully and emotion rose in my chest. “Thank you,” was all I could manage. And we moved on.

The night continued, a blur of expensive clothing and heady praise. I lost my pain in the pleasure of attention and moved from one effusive patron to the next, Tiffa always nearby. Toward the end of the evening, Tiffa stopped and waved to someone across the room.

“He came, luv. Are you still miffed at him? Should I keep him away so you can make him suffer?” My head shot up, finding the “him” she referred to standing in front of the weeping visage that welcomed new arrivals to the gallery. Wilson looked pressed and proper in his black tux. Tall, handsome, his hair slicked back, barely a wave in sight. I wished I could run my fingers through it and tousle it into floppy curls. I turned away immediately. He had seen Tiffa wave and had been in the act of raising his hand in response when he saw me at her side. His hand froze mid-wave.

“And he brought that naff cow with him,” Tiffa moaned. “What is with my little brother? His taste in women is ghastly. Well, now we know what he did with the other ticket. He's positively dead from the neck up.” She muttered the last part under her breath. I wasn't sure what she referred to. Pamela wasn't exactly a cow. Or a dog. Or anything remotely unattractive, as much as I wished she were.

“I'm leaving now, Tiffa. Have I schmoozed and schlepped enough?” I said brightly, already pulling away.

“No! Blue! What in the world is going on with you and my silly brother? This is your big night!”

“And it's been amazing. But I don't want to talk to Wilson right now. We had a pretty tense moment right before I came tonight. I am not ready to be anywhere near him.”

“Miss Echohawk!” Mr. Wayne approached from my right, a small Asian man walking beside him. “Miss Echohawk,” Mr. Wayne extended his hand in introduction, “this is Mr. Yin Chen.” The little man bowed slightly. “He is intrigued by your work. He begged for an introduction.”

Next to me, Tiffa was practically vibrating. This must be someone important. What was his name? I suddenly felt like the top of my head was going to pop off and float away like a helium balloon. Should I bow too? Tiffa did. So I copied her.

“Nice to meet you,” I murmured, clueless.

“Mr. Chen is especially interested in the one you've titled 'Cello,'” Mr. Wayne smiled down at Mr. Chen indulgently.

Mr. Chen! That was it. Not too hard to remember. From the corner of my eye, I saw Wilson approaching with Pamela on his arm. I stepped on Tiffa's foot, probably more viciously than was warranted. Tiffa gasped slightly and moved to engage Mr. Chang(?) in conversation. I turned to Mr. Wayne, and he dipped his head discreetly and murmured softly in my ear, pulling me aside, which was fine with me as it moved me away from Wilson.

“Mr. Chen (Chen!) is a Bei Jing mogul – one of the whales we like to take very good care of whenever he's in town. He fancies himself quite the art oficianado. If he likes your work and thinks you are the next big thing, he will move heaven and earth to buy up as many pieces as he can.”

“Will he buy them all?” I asked, trying not to squeak like a child.

“Unfortunately for Mr. Chen, they have all sold.” Mr. Wayne smiled down at me.

“All of them!” I whispered, stunned.

“Yes. All of them.”

Wilson's tuxedo jacket was flung over the railing and his tie was loose, hanging in a tired curl. His top few buttons were undone, and he was slumped on the stairs, elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of him. I watched him through the glass of the front door for a moment, wondering what he could say that would make me forgive him. He had revealed too much, and I couldn't get his words out of my head. They blinked in neon, buzzing continuously in my brain.

I had been congratulated, praised, even adored that night. But it was Wilson's words that filled my head. The Bei Jing Mogul whose name I couldn't seem to remember had commissioned five separate pieces and had presented me with a check for $5,000. I would receive another check for the same amount when the carvings were completed, and The Sheffied was letting me take the full commission. The night had been a success that I could build a future on. A success I hadn't even dared dream of. But my heart ached in my chest, and I had felt sick to my stomach all night because of Wilson.

He stood as I unlocked the front door. I dropped the keys into my purse and headed for my apartment, not acknowledging him. I had driven around town for hours after leaving the exhibit. For the first time since moving in, I hadn't wanted to go home to Pemberley.

“Blue.”

I had to dig the keys back out again at my door. Smooth. My hands shook, and I sneered down at them. I would not shake! I would not show him weakness.

“Blue.” It was just a whisper, and I flinched against the quivering in my limbs, the shattering of my heart. And then he was next to me, his head bent over mine. I kept my head bowed, staring at the lock on my door.

“I was worried about you.”

“Why?” I responded quietly. The key slid into the lock, and I turned the knob gratefully. “Didn't Tiffa tell you? I was the high-priced call girl for the event. They hired me to keep Mr. Ying Yang happy.” I batted my eyelashes at him, not really looking at him as I shoved the door open and walked into the narrow entryway of my apartment.

Wilson jerked like I'd shot him. And then he was crowding me up against the wall, slamming the door behind us so hard the picture of me and Jimmy teetered and fell, crashing to the floor. Wilson's hands bracketed my head, and he leaned into me, his lips trembling.

“Stop. Stop that. It isn't funny, Blue. It's sick. It makes me want to hunt down Mr. Bloody Chen, whatever the hell his name is –”

“Isn't that what you thought when I left tonight?” I interrupted. “That I was on the prowl?”

“Why didn't you tell me?” he choked out in disbelief. “I was so bloody proud. It was brilliant. All of it. And you didn't tell me. You let me go on like a complete arsehole.”

“I let you? I got all dressed up and you . . . you insulted me and implied I looked like a . . . wh-whore.” I pushed against him, shoved him angrily, needing to breathe, not wanting to break down in front of him. But he didn't back off, instead his hands dropped to frame my face, forcing my gaze to his. I looked away immediately, defiantly.

“I was afraid.” I watched his mouth and tried to focus on what he'd said to me earlier. I reminded myself of his revulsion, his disdain. But his lips were so close. He was so close. His breath smelled sweet, and I felt a shuddering deep in my belly.

“I was afraid, Blue,” he repeated, insistent. “You've been through so much. And I am half mad over you. I don't think you are ready for the way I feel.”

My heart thudded to a standstill, and my breath hitched. And then . . . his lips brushed mine. Slowly, tenderly. Barely there. He spoke again, his words tickling my mouth. I gripped the back of his shirt, twisting the fabric, desperately trying not to lose my mind.

“I've tried to give it time. I've tried to give you time. And then I saw you tonight. You were all dressed up, ready for a night out, impossibly beautiful, confident, strong. And I thought I had lost you once and for all.”

I could feel his heart pounding in his chest, and mine raced to join the cadence. And then his mouth closed over mine again. Not hesitant, not whispering. And I too felt lost. Completely. It was a kiss too long denied. Asking, opening, claiming. And the room spun as I clung to him. My hands moved over the length of his back, pulling him into me, needing more.

His wrapped his arms around me and lifted me up and into him, opening his mouth on mine, demanding entrance. He tasted like black licorice and snowflakes. Simultaneously forbidden and familiar. Hot and cold. Sinful and safe.

His mouth left mine to rain kisses on my eyelids, my cheeks, my throat, and his hands gripped my hips desperately, crushing the fabric in his hands as if he resented the barrier. I felt like I was riding a wave, mounting a crest, and I couldn't get close enough to him. Then he lifted me, wrapping my legs around his waist, as he claimed my mouth again, swallowing my name as he spoke against my lips.

“Blue, I need you so much. I want you so much.”

And his face rose in my mind . . . the way he had looked as he told me he wouldn't follow me down “that road.” I broke away, panting, my legs still locked around him, his arms braced around my body.

“Do you want me, Wilson? Do you want me? Or do you love me?” The words rushed out of me, and Wilson's eyes were heavy with passion, his lips a breath away, seeking me again, as if he hadn't registered the question. I pulled back further, denying myself, denying him. His brow furrowed and he nipped at my lips, pulling my head toward him, demanding more. I resisted, even as my body trembled with need. I unlocked my legs from his waist, letting my feet find the floor. I smoothed my skirt down, grateful that my legs held me. If I didn't stop now, I wouldn't have the strength to say no. And tonight I had to say no.