Anywhere You Are (21 page)

Grace shot a glance to her sleeping subject as her pencil flew over paper, stroking, flicking, until she had the shape and shading just right. For several long minutes she worked, the only sound in the quiet bedroom the scratching of the graphite on her pad.

Finally, she pulled back, looking at her sketch with a critical eye. Quickly, she scratched a few more lines on the paper.
There.

Satisfied, she slid her sketchpad onto Marc's night table, then pushed a lock of hair from his forehead.

He really was beautiful when he was sleeping, all the solemnity and seriousness erased from his handsome face, leaving him looking younger, freer. Work-wise, the last couple of days had been rough for him, and he'd actually fallen asleep last night in the middle of a sentence. Maybe she should encourage him to go into his Manhattan office. He'd have more resources at his disposal instead of this half-office he'd created for himself here. He'd assured her that once the India deal was done, he was moving on to more local projects, but somehow she guessed that he'd still work just as hard.

A blinking light on her cellphone caught her eye. Reaching for it, she noted that she had numerous emails and one missed message. She slipped out of bed wearing only her panties and Marc's dress shirt.
Mmm.
It smelled like him and she reveled in it. The spicy maleness, wafting around her like her own personal perfume.

Padding out of the room, she punched in her voicemail box code. She skipped through the greetings and intro until she got to what she was looking for.

“Hello, Ms. Davingham? This is Maribelle Anderson at Anderson Gallery in downtown Eastbridge. I have some room in our schedule next month, and was hoping you'd have time to meet me for a little chat so we could talk logistics.” Grace was stunned, barely hearing the woman as she rattled off her telephone number. My God, what luck! She thought it would be months—no, years—before she'd get a gallery showing.

What had made the woman change her mind? She hit the save button, just as her cellphone started ringing. Strange. She rarely got this many calls on a weekend. She clicked another button to answer.

“Hello?”

“Ms. Davingham?”

“Yes?”

“This is Arnie Healy from Nature Press.”

“Mr. Healy,” she said, then swallowed hard to get out the nervous lump in her throat. “Hello.” Her agent had been trying for months to get someone—anyone—on the phone to talk to him about Grace's proposal, but he claimed he'd struck out over and over again.

“You've been a busy woman lately.”

“I have?” She cleared her throat. “Uh, yes. I have. Several commissioned pieces completed, another one sold, and a potential for a local gallery showing.” May as well put the best possible spin on everything.

“Oh, you've been doing much more than that,” he said with a laugh. “And I'm sure you can guess as to why I'm calling.”

“I'm not actually sure,” she said, not wanting to presume anything.

“So modest. I like that, and the public will, too. Obviously, I'm calling to offer you a contract.”

“Are you kidding?” She could hardly believe it. The good news just kept on coming this morning! Maybe there was something in the atmosphere?

“Ohmigosh, thank you!” she shouted, before slapping a hand over her mouth. “Sorry. That wasn't very professional.”

“It's refreshing,” he assured her.

“Wait—does Reed know about this?” Her agent had suggested that she simply write them off and move on to other projects. More lucrative projects involving film. But Grace had still held out some hope.

“He knows, but I asked permission to call you myself instead of having him pass it along because there are certain…contractual stipulations, and I was hoping to review them with you.”

“Isn't this something you should be talking about with my agent?”

“Eventually,” he said. “But I figured if you weren't interested, there'd be no use trying to bang out a contract.”

“I see.” Truthfully, whatever the stipulations were, she didn't care. She was going to publish her first book, and with one of the most respected publishing houses in the entire country. She was so happy she almost started screaming, but she managed to contain herself and focus on what the guy was saying. “Why don't you tell me what they are, then?”

“Great,” Mr. Healy continued smoothly. “It'll take some time from your submission to publication—maybe a year and a half—but we wanted you to be prepared for a book tour when the book is finally released.”

“Sure. That sounds fun.”

“Good. We'll also require an option clause. We'll want rights to your next book, too. That is, if you choose to publish one.”

That sounded reasonable, too, especially because of the caliber of the publishing house. “No problem.”

“Excellent. Your art, your detailed descriptions of your subjects, your obvious passion for this project makes us think that this has the potential to be a hit. Your fans are going to really get to see the substance behind Grace Davingham.”

She stilled. “You mean Grace Eden.” There was a silence on the other end of the line, and her heart sank. She'd known this was too good to be true. “You want me to publish under my real name, don't you?”

“Well, yes,” Mr. Healy said. “That's a given. At any rate, I'd have thought that's what
you
would have wanted, given all the recent publicity you've gotten for your environmental work. After all,” he said, mirth in his tone, “we
do
want to make money, Ms. Davingham.”

She got it. Grace Davingham was interesting, while Grace Eden was just a hack. This wasn't about her talent or her passion or her art. It was about publicity. About fame. About that stupid picture of the American bittern that was front-page news. But no one even cared about the bird.

Her name was why she'd gotten the phone call from Maribelle. Why she was getting offered a publishing contract. All the joy and magic evaporated faster than dew on a hot summer morning.

“That painting wasn't meant to be used like that. All the publicity was a mistake.”

“I don't think so,” he said. “But if so, it was a good one. Can you imagine what this publicity can do for your cause?”

“To be honest,” she said, “it's not really my cause.”

Mr. Healy continued as if she hadn't spoken. “Celebrities supporting issues they're passionate about isn't anything new.”

“I didn't sanction that picture for that kind of use.”

“Who cares? This one is helping to shine light on those endangered species you want so badly to protect.” That was true…sort of. “Think of the book deal as an extension of that publicity. We publish the book under your name, and people buy it, and the public gains even more awareness of the plight of endangered species in Connecticut.”

“As simple as that?”

“As simple as that. Of course, we'd also ask that you promote the book.”

“The book tour.”

“It would really help you gain additional awareness.”

“And help sell books.”

“Yes,” he laughed. “That too. We'd also love for you to continue the publicity trajectory you've been on so far. Our top picks would be for you to increase your social media presence, and maybe even do some TV again. So that's the offer, Ms. Davingham. I'll be sending your agent a copy of the contract with all the stipulations we require. Take your time. Look it over. And let me know if you have any questions.”

“Thank you. I'll do that.”

She hung up, feeling torn. On the one hand, this was her dream—to be published by Nature Press and promote awareness of endangered species, which in turn might help save them. On the other hand, she'd be completely selling out to do it. And selling out would mean she'd be back in the limelight, with all the pressures and strain that came with it.

It was a huge decision, one she'd need to think about.

She went back to the bedroom. Marc was awake, sitting with his back against the headboard as he stared at her open sketchpad. He looked up, his eyes filled with wonder.

“Do you think I really look like this?”

She went to him and perched on the edge of the bed, then cocked her head at the picture. “I think it's a pretty good likeness.”

He looked back at the picture again. “But I look so…happy.”

She smiled at him. “Yeah.”

“Aw, Grace,” he said, setting the sketchpad aside and pulling her in for a hug.

“I was offered a gallery showing, right here in Eastbridge,” she blurted out.

His face warmed with a brilliant smile. “That's amazing! I knew you were talented enough to make it happen.”

That wasn't quite true, though she didn't have the heart—or the stomach—to tell him that once again she'd gotten the job because of who she was. “There's more news, too,” she said. “I was offered a publishing contract. But there are stipulations.”

“There always are,” he said.

“But these are big ones. Ones that would change…everything. I'm not really sure what to do.” She looked away, then back. “What would you do?”

“I close deals,” he told her bluntly. “And I usually do whatever it takes to make that happen. But not everyone is as single-minded as I am. So I'll tell you the advice I'd give to anyone in your position. Figure out how badly you want it. Then weigh what you want against what you're willing to give up to get it.”

She'd wanted it for so long, and now that she'd been offered what she'd always desired, it almost didn't feel like it had actually happened. But she couldn't share her conflicting feelings with Marc. Not until she'd processed them herself. There was one thing she did know, though.

“I want it,” she finally said. “Badly.”

“That's step one. Now you have to figure out what you're willing to do to get it.”

“What would you do?”

“It depends on the situation,” he said. “But I'll tell you this: When I want something that badly, I do whatever is in my power to hang on and never let go. Like you.” He tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I love you, Grace.”

Her heart stuttered, then kicked back up again, stronger than ever. Marc loved her. And with that knowledge, she felt as though she could take on anything.

“I love you, too,” she told him. “So much, Marc.”

And when he bent his head to kiss her, she let herself be swept up in the pressure of his mouth, in the weight of his hand on her shoulder, the soft words that he murmured as he eased her back on the bed. Her focus narrowed down to the two of them, then and there.

She plastered her hand on his chest, then dragged it down the front of his undershirt until she reached the top of his boxer briefs.

He stopped her with one big hand.

“No.”

Quickly, she glanced up at him. His eyes were dark with passion. Needy. “No?”

His thumb swept over her cheek. “No.”

“But why?”

“It has come to my attention that every time we have sex, we're like racehorses coming out of a gate.”

“And what's wrong with that?”

“Nothing. But we haven't had a chance to do things my way.”

Intrigued, she licked her lips. “What way is that?”

“Slowly,” he said, his tone serious. “Very, very slowly.”

“I've never done slow.”

His lips curled in a delightfully wicked smile. “Then let me show you what you've been missing.”

“Okay,” she breathed. He was looking at her so directly, it was impossible to say no.

He took her hand—the one that had been trying to jump the gun—and pulled it so that it was resting on his waist. The other, he arranged around his back. Then carefully, so carefully, he took her face in his hands and gave her such an intense look it took her breath away.

“I set the pace,” he said. “Slowly.”

Before she had a chance to give him a sassy retort, he bent his head and touched his mouth to hers.

And
whoa.

Immediately, she knew this kiss wasn't like the others.

The other kisses they'd shared had been desperate. Grasping. This one was designed to seduce.

He didn't so much kiss as he did
taste,
a nibble here, a flick there, igniting nerve endings all over her body.

But when he moved from
tasting
to
devouring,
she grabbed onto his shirt and dug in her nails.

“Easy,” he murmured, stroking her back lightly but firmly.

She unclenched her fingers and tried to relax.

“Good girl,” he said when her grip loosened, and he rewarded her by going back to her mouth, then her neck, skimming his mouth right over that sweet spot and making her shiver.

Heat swept through her. He was in full control, and she'd never felt more out of her element.

She'd always had sex without thinking and she liked it that way. It made everything seem more intense, but less important. But Marc wasn't allowing her to rush, to do things her way.

And it was hot.

Using only his mouth and the gentle pressure of his hands, he drove her higher. Then higher still. And he hadn't yet truly touched her. Not in any way she'd grown used to expecting.

In Marc's capable hands, parts of her body she'd never given a second thought to before became erogenous zones—her shoulder blades, the tips of her fingers, the lobes of her ears.

But she wanted more. So much more. Then he kissed her, and just when she thought he was going to take things to the next level, he moved away.

She made a small whimper in her throat and reached for him, but he shook his head. “My way, remember?”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Stand up.”

“Wait, what?”

“Just do it.”

Her limbs leaden, she slid from the bed and stood, watching him.