Wild Ride: A Changing Gears Novel (14 page)

Maybe it was her way of saying everything was back to normal after their disagreement of the night before. She couldn’t believe Eric would let on to the man she was sleeping with that he’d seen her naked breasts. It was so out of character for the man she knew.

She’d have gone over to the store today and given him a piece of her mind if Duncan hadn’t made her promise she wouldn’t. He said he didn’t want Eric knowing he was the jealous type, and he’d managed to convince her that nothing but awkwardness would arise if she challenged Gillian’s ex.

He was probably right, but still, she was pissed.

Cooking was one of her passions and she’d enjoyed the homey smells of baking as she’d cooked coq au vin, simple and hearty. The smells of red wine, tomato sauce, vegetables, and spices bubbling around a free-range chicken had made her feel housewifely today as she’d completed her weekend chores around her apartment. The washing, ironing, and cleaning. She loved the smell of beeswax polish on the antique desk her grandparents had given her for a graduation present, the sparkle of windows when she cleaned them, the steamy, fresh laundry scent of ironing.

It had been her habit to cook her grandfather dinner once a week and deliver the meal with enough leftovers for a couple of days. Then they’d chat, play chess, or watch TV in the evening. It hadn’t mattered what—it was the connection that was important.

No psychiatrist needed to tell her that she was recreating her ritual by cooking for Duncan. She grimaced as she realized she’d brought plenty so there’d be leftovers he could heat later in the week. She also had a crusty loaf of bread, a salad, a bottle of burgundy—and something she hadn’t taken to her grandfather’s—a raging case of lust.

Even as she put her feet to the gravel and gathered her bags, she was aware of the excitement in her belly that had been simmering all day along with the chicken.

She only hoped Duncan would be as excited to see her as she was to see him.
A knock on the door yielded nothing. A tiny frown gathered. Duncan’s beige rental was parked in its usual space so she’d assumed he was there.

Was he out walking? After climbing? She glanced around her at the rain dripping from the dark green cedars and firs. A dense mist made the river ghostly and the path beside it anything but inviting. The sun from earlier today had long gone, bringing rain in its wake.

She rapped louder.

Nothing but the depressing sound of rain dripping from the eaves. She started to turn. Surprising him had obviously been a dumb idea. She’d call him on his cell and arrange something. Then she paused, hearing the low riff of a saxophone coming from the other side of the door. Had he fallen asleep?

She stood there another minute outside the door while rain dripped off the trees behind her.

Pushing a plastic grocery bag over her wrist, she tried the door handle and it turned. She eased open the door and stepped inside.

She couldn’t see Duncan, but above the sound of the CD she heard the shower, which explained why her knocking hadn’t received a reply.

She thought about him naked and wet in there and contemplated climbing in with him, but first she needed to get her dinner organized.

The coffeemaker contained half a pot of cold coffee. There was a bowl of bananas and apples on the counter and the trash contained several scrunched takeout containers.

She opened the wine to breathe, stuck the chicken in the oven, and slipped the salad into the small fridge, where it joined an open quart of milk, a block of cheese, some olives, and half a dozen beers. He was such a guy.

She heard the water shut off. So much for joining him. Oh, well, she was certain they’d think of something.

“Duncan?” she called. “It’s Alex. I brought dinner.”

“Great. I’ll shave.”

Good plan. Since she didn’t imagine he was worried about giving the chicken whisker burn, she concluded she was dessert. More pleased with her surprise by the second, she returned to the kitchen to pour wine.

She wandered over to the adjoining living/dining area where an easel was set up. He’d shoved the dining table over to the wall and used it to store his paints, including the crimson tone she recognized from his shirt cuff the day they’d found the body.

She studied a half-completed painting that was a copy of a grainy black-and-white photocopy. The painting wasn’t one she recognized, but it was clearly in the style of Van Gogh. He’d taken the black and white and transformed the scene with colors. Colors she seemed to recognize from the time she’d spent in art galleries all over Europe. Yes, she thought, that yellow was exactly right.

He was good, she thought. Technically very good, but she wasn’t emotionally moved as she imagined she’d be if she were in the presence of a true Van Gogh.

When he emerged, in a towel that showed quite a bit of his mouth-watering physique, his hair springing in damp curls all over his head, his eyes warming at the sight of her and his face freshly shaved, she tried not to let her shiver of reaction show.

In a town like Swiftcurrent, a man like Duncan Forbes seemed like a mirage in the driest desert.

She passed him a glass of wine.

“Thanks,” he said. He didn’t lean over and kiss her as she’d half thought he might, but his eyes promised that and a whole lot more.

“I hope you didn’t already have plans for tonight.”

“Of course I did. If you hadn’t come to me, I’d have come to you.”

She sipped her wine. He was awfully sure of himself. Where did he get off thinking she was so hot for him? Unless the screaming orgasms had given her away.

“How was the climb?”

“Quite the workout,” he said, rolling one shoulder as though it were stiff.

“Did you and Tom get on okay?” She’d had a tough time picturing them together having fun after the way they’d met.

“I was glad he was there,” he said curtly. “He’s a good climber. And he didn’t arrest me.” He gave her a quick kiss. “I’m going to get dressed.” And he disappeared into the bedroom.

So much for
Hi, honey, how was your day
?

She stared at the shut door. “Don’t dress on my account,” she muttered. Had the climb tired him out? But if he was too exhausted for sex, why had he shaved?

When he emerged a couple of minutes later in a creased gray shirt, cargo pants and bare feet, she gestured to the half-done picture and said, “You’re quite the artist.”

“I’m in my Van Gogh period.”

She chuckled. At least he wasn’t pretending. “It’s very good.”

“Thanks. You should see me with sunflowers.”

“Is this an actual Van Gogh?” she asked, gazing at the photocopy.

“You’ve never seen it?” Duncan’s usually lazy gaze sharpened and she felt him staring at her with keen concentration.

Was this some kind of pop quiz?

She stepped closer for a better look. “I’m not much of an expert,” she said. “I know the famous paintings. The sunflowers and the self-portraits and the fields at Arles, Starry Night, but apart from recognizing the style, no.”

“Poor old Vincent. It’s his, all right. A lot of artists learn technique by copying the greats.”

“So you’re an Impressionist?”

“Not really. My own work is more realistic.” He gazed at her, in that sleepy, sexy way that turned her to liquid desire. “But usually I wait for inspiration.”

“Really.”

He stepped closer. “I’m feeling inspired right now.” He lifted her hair and kissed her neck. “Let me draw you.”

This was more like it. Whatever strange mood he’d been in when she arrived had dissipated. She rolled her head to give him better access to her neck. “You want me to pose for you?”

“Absolutely—now take off your clothes.”

She chuckled as his lips continued their lazy tour of her neck.

“You want to draw me nude?”

He grinned against her skin; she could feel it. “Every artist has his specialty.”

She wasn’t at all sure she trusted that grin or the twinkle deep in his eyes when she turned to stare at him, but who was she kidding? When she’d planned to come here, getting naked had certainly been on her mind.

His charm had her responding, as her body reacted with a wash of pleasure to the idea of stripping before him, stretching out for his pleasure while he turned her body into art.

She glanced around at the oatmeal-colored pull-out couch in front of the TV. What she needed was a dark red velvet divan surrounded by ruined pillars or something, not a Sears Special beige couch built for durability rather than beauty, pushed against a cedar-paneled wall. “I don’t know.”

He caught the direction of her gaze and went to the closet and pulled out a white motel sheet, which he flicked so it billowed like a sail and drifted slowly to the couch, giving the practical furniture a dreamy look. He was an artist, she reasoned; he’d paint in whatever background his imagination suggested.

Turning back, she saw the challenge in his gaze and her mind was made up. But he didn’t have to know that.

“How will you pose me?”

“I need to see you naked first, then I’ll work with whatever inspires me.”

“Does this inspire you?” Keeping her gaze on his, she slowly raised her hands to the first button on her shirt.

Duncan watched, half mesmerized as she slowly slipped the button free, baring an inch or so of flesh. Even that subtle gesture had the room temperature rising.

Based on the way he was reacting to her undoing a single button, she’d have him enslaved by the time she was down to her underwear. Especially as her lingerie was her secret weapon. She ordered it from an exclusive company in France at exorbitant cost.

The jazz was sultry and eased into her blood, so she swayed with the music in a slow, sliding way as she slipped more buttons free.

She didn’t want bump and grind—she liked this pace fine. All she was doing was removing her clothes in time to the music. It wasn’t a striptease, exactly, more like free movement. She’d taken dance classes in her college years, mostly to stay in shape, but she hadn’t forgotten the moves.

The artist seemed to be gaining inspiration by the second, watching her unblinkingly from those deep blue eyes.

The buttons undone, she slipped the shirt from her shoulders and let it drop.

The groan he emitted when he saw her gauzy bra was worth every Euro.
Oh, she’d pose for him, all right, for as long as he could stand it. Based on the way he was shifting from foot to foot like a stallion pawing the ground, sniffing a mare in heat, she didn’t think she’d be waiting long.

Her skirt was three-quarter-length, stretchy black wool and she put a little extra sway into her hips as she peeled it down her legs and then stepped out of it.

She rose and his gaze went immediately to the opaque silk panties held together with ribbon, then followed the path of her legs down to the thigh-hugging stockings and all the way down to her black heels.

“Do you want me to keep going?” she asked softly.

“Oh, yeah.”

She removed her bra first, and as her breasts spilled free she saw his hands clamp into fists.

She pulled a ribbon on each hipbone to release the bow and parted her legs so her gossamer panties floated dreamily to the ground.

Would he stop her now? But no. He watched as she turned a wooden dining chair toward her, stepped out of her right shoe and placed her foot on the chair seat. Slowly, she rolled down her stocking. Placing her bare foot on the ground, she repeated the procedure with her left leg, sliding her stocking down in time to a sultry piano scale.

Naked, she turned toward him.

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he took in the sight of her and the knowledge that her body affected him so powerfully only added to her own excitement. He’d better be one fast painter.

“Lie down,” he said.

She sat, the white sheet cool against her naked skin, and reclined, shivering when more of her encountered the cotton. She felt a little feverish. Cold on the outside, furnace-hot on the inside.

Stepping back, he narrowed his gaze and inspected her from top to toe. “Have you ever been painted before?” he asked softly.

“No,” she whispered.

“Try to relax and follow my instructions. And stay still. It’s very important not to move.”

She cocked a brow. If he started issuing orders–

“I’m going to place your limbs the way I want them. Do I have your permission to touch you?” he asked as though he were a calm professional with nothing but the highest aesthetic ideal on his mind. Okay, asking was better than ordering. “Yes, you can touch me.” Yes, yes, yes!

His hands were warm and climbing-roughened as they grasped her shoulders and shifted her toward the center of the room so her breasts thrust forward. He trailed his fingers down her arm as though contemplating, a slight crease between his brows; then, with a small nod, he picked up one hand and laid it beneath the jut of her breasts. She felt them rise and fall with her breathing. Felt the slight caress each time the underside brushed her knuckles.

Next, he touched her inner thigh, above the knee. She was so sensitive, so keyed up, that she gasped softly. “Raise your knee.”

She did.

“Beautiful,” he complimented her in the tone she bet he used on his students when they got an A.

The curtains weren’t closed on the sliding doors, so she could see her reflection in the dark glass, indistinct like a reflection on water, but clear enough that she saw the provocative pose. She could tell him to close the drapes, but the chances were slim that anyone would walk by. And the possibility added to her excitement.

He placed her second hand on her raised thigh, moving it until her fingers curled against the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh. She felt absolutely open, her whole attitude begging to be taken.

The pulse built, low in her belly, echoing in her throbbing nipples. The slight caress of her own hands only reminded her that she’d promised to stay still, remain on display for him, naked while he remained clothed.

“How do you feel?” he asked, so close as he studied and arranged her that she felt his breath on her belly, making her shiver.

How did he think she felt? Contemplative? Sleepy? Angry? “Horny.”