Country Roads (7 page)

She stood staring ahead for a long moment before she turned away from the window and gave him a wavering smile.

“It went pretty well,” she said, her voice hitching midsentence. “He was giving me another half an hour before he called the police.”

Paul tried to project humorous sympathy. “So he bought into the artistic well needing to be refilled?”

“More or less, since he already thinks I’m having a nervous breakdown because I’m painting such ugly pictures.”

He could see the shimmer of pain in her eyes and wanted to curse her uncle for his cruelty. Before he could make a better decision, he drew her into what was meant to be a comforting hug, murmuring adjectives into her sun-warmed hair. “Your paintings are magnificent. Bold. Powerful. Even a total philistine like me wants one.”

As his palm slid over the skin bared by the scooped back of her blouse, he sucked in a breath. She felt as silky and smooth as he had anticipated.

She tilted her forehead in so it grazed his shoulder, and spoke into his chest. “Maybe I
am
going crazy. It’s not normal to pick up and leave without a word to everyone who cares about you.”

It was hard to think straight as he felt the soft press of her breasts against him when she gulped in air. He got a grip on his reeling brain. “That’s your uncle trying to make you feel guilty. You needed a second opinion. That’s a perfectly rational response to your situation.”

“I needed to take sanctuary in Sanctuary,” she said, leaning back into his arms to look up at him, her green eyes huge against her pale skin. One tear had painted a glistening path down her cheek. “You see how messed up I am? I can’t tell whether I’m crazy or not. Maybe you’re right about the artistic temperament.”

She looked so small and bereft; he lowered his head to kiss her. He meant to comfort and distract her, but as soon as he touched the heady combination of softness and salt on her lips,
he forgot his original purpose. She ran her fingers over his face as though she were trying to learn it by feel alone while her mouth turned hot under his. He buried his hands in her glorious hair, tilting her head so he could angle his mouth harder against hers. She opened to him on a moan, and the tiny sound snapped him out of his insanity. He jerked his head up and gripped her shoulders to set her away from him.

She licked her swollen lips, her eyes glazed with confusion.

“I’m sorry,” he said, dragging one hand through his hair. “I was trying to take your mind off your uncle.”

“You did.” Her voice was husky. “Really well.”

“Good. Glad it worked.” He felt like an ass. “Let’s talk about what you need for your stay here.”

“Um, okay,” she said, then cleared her throat of a lingering rasp. “We should.” She walked over to the desk to seize a pen and pad of paper before propping her hip against the windowsill opposite him. He understood the message. She wanted him to stay at arm’s length. “Is there an art-supply store in town?” she asked.

His brain was still filled with the taste of her. “There must be one. We have a lot of artists in the area.” He tried to think of what store they patronized, but all that came to him was the image of her red hair spread across a pillow, in particular the one on his bed. He scrubbed his palm against the back of his neck. “Just write down what you want, and I’ll figure out where you can get it.”

Once he could think straight again.

Julia looked down at the paper to hide the smile curving her lips. If the former mayor couldn’t think of a place to buy her supplies, he must be
somewhat
shaken by their kiss. She was. It had started
out as an offer and acceptance of comfort, but it had ignited into something entirely different.

She felt the heat climbing up her cheeks as she remembered she had actually moaned out loud.

“I’ll need to replenish the minutes on my cell phone. And some clothes. A book to read. An ATM to get cash.” She kept talking as she scribbled.

“I only know one women’s clothing store, so you should talk to the receptionist here about the clothes. I ought to be able to handle the rest.” His fingers tapped at blinding speed against his thigh. “Why don’t I draw you a map? You can walk most places, or I’ll have the inn call the one taxi in town.”

“What if it’s already busy?”

“Someone will probably volunteer to give you a ride.”

“Are people really that nice here?”

He looked away for a split second. “It’s like anyplace else in the world. There are some kind, generous folks, and some folks who take advantage of them. It’s just easier to know which is which in a small town.”

“I don’t want to take advantage of anyone,” Julia said, horrified that she might be in the second category.

He made a gesture brushing her comment aside. “You’re not the kind of person I was talking about. You just need a little temporary help. Now, let’s get going on the map.”

She started to hold the tiny pad of paper out to him before she remembered the sketchpad she’d shoved in her duffel. “Wait, I have something better.” She dashed into the bedroom and rummaged around until she found it.

When she returned to the living room, he took the book out of her hand before sitting down on the sofa. He flipped it open to the first page, which was a study of a horse’s hoof, and whistled with admiration. “I feel like I shouldn’t use this paper for something as ordinary as a map.”

Julia dropped into the chair next to him. “It’s just doodles, sort of like the notes you might take on a legal case. If you turn to the back, there’s blank paper.”

He glanced up at her. “May I look at some of these first?”

“Sure.” Gratification washed through her that he was interested in her rough drawings, especially since he claimed not to like art.

He slowly turned the pages, asking her a question every now and then. When he reached the blank portion of the book, he set it down on his knees. “You can draw anything. I always thought artists sort of specialized, like you and your horses.”

She shrugged. “I went to art school, so I got exposed to all kinds of subjects and mediums.”

“So you really could paint my portrait and do a darned good job of it.” He tossed the pen spinning up into the air and caught it before he drew a few straight lines on the empty page. “All right, here’s Washington Street, our main drag.”

She watched his hands as he jotted down street names and marked the establishments on them to match the items on her list. He moved with an eye-catching speed and assurance. She began to sense the coiled energy he concealed under his smooth, composed facade.

“That should get the basics taken care of,” he said, holding out the pad. “If I pick you up at six thirty, does that give you enough time to collect what you need?”

She glanced at the antique clock on the mantel and nodded.

He pushed up from the couch. “Then I’ll leave you to settle in.”

She jumped up, wondering how to say good-bye to him. A handshake seemed too formal, while a hug seemed overly casual. And a kiss was too breathtakingly risky. She decided on the safety of formality. Holding out her hand, she said, “Thank you for rescuing me.”

He hesitated a split second before he took her hand. “Right. This is a professional relationship.” There was an undercurrent of irony in his voice.

“Oh, you mean the…” She waved her free hand in the direction of the window where he had kissed her. “That was just you being kind to a crying woman.”

His eyebrows rose, but he didn’t disagree with her. She felt a little pang of disappointment.
Well, what did she expect him to say? “I’ve fallen madly in love with you at first sight”?

As her uncle would point out, that didn’t happen in the real world.

B
EFORE SETTING OUT
on her expedition into town, Julia had taken one look at the claw-footed bathtub and banished the doctors’ warnings against baths to take a long, luxurious soak. Her bathroom at home didn’t have a tub, since showers were the safer means of bathing for her, so this was the height of indulgence, with a fillip of danger.

Walking the streets of Sanctuary had been another treat, its nineteenth-century storefronts offering a delightful parade of colors and textures. She soaked in as much visual pleasure as she could while she grabbed necessities such as cash, a replenished cell phone, and a book before jogging back to the inn.

Now she twirled her hair up and stabbed a lacquered chopstick through it. Trying too hard. She yanked the chopstick out and let the red curls fall down over the shoulders of her silk top. She hooked long amber dangles in her earlobes and stood back from the mirror to take stock of the full effect.

Not that she had a lot of choices. She’d brought one outfit to wear to the gallery, and this was it. Slim moss-green pants tucked into slouchy russet suede boots. Her top was something she’d bought from a fellow artist: a series of coppery triangles stitched together so they fell from the shoulders to form sleeves and a bodice in an almost sculptural effect.

“The necklace!” she said, rummaging around in her bag to find the silver swoops strung with chunks of amber. Fastening it on, she struck a pose.
Was it too artsy?

“You never worried about that before you met a certain pressed and tailored lawyer.”

She’d thought about Paul the entire time while she bathed and dressed. She’d come to one conclusion: if that kiss led to something more, she would let it. It would be a weekend fling. She’d never had one before, and it seemed like something you should do when you were declaring your independence.

Besides, wasn’t that the knight’s reward when he rescued the damsel? A little hanky-panky in the castle chamber?

A knock sounded, and she swiped on some shimmering lipstick before jogging into the sitting room to swing open the door.

“Gosh!” she said, taking in the length of Paul’s legs wrapped in faded denim and the sinews of his forearms exposed by the rolled-up sleeves of his white button-down shirt.

His smile flashed in the dim hallway. “Much better than hello. ‘Gosh’ right back at you.” His tone was light, but his eyes were intense. He stepped into the room. “Did you figure out the old plumbing?”

“Honestly, no. I took a bath instead of a shower. That tub is practically a swimming pool.”

His gaze turned to molten silver, and she somehow knew he was imagining her swimming naked. The idea of a fling became a little too real, making her grab her suede handbag and clutch it to her chest. “Shall we go?” she asked.

“My ’Vette awaits you.” He swept an arm out with a slight bow, reminding her of her earlier knightly metaphor.

As she passed him, she left more space than was necessary between them. He fell into step beside her, shortening his stride to match hers.

“Tell me about Claire and her husband,” she said to deflect any further fantasizing on either of their parts.

She listened with half an ear as he escorted her to his car and held the door for her. She got the basics: Claire had come back to her hometown of Sanctuary to help out her sister, fallen in love with the local vet, Tim Arbuckle, and stayed, buying in as a partner at the Gallery at Sanctuary. Paul told the story without editorial embellishment, but there was an undercurrent in his voice she couldn’t interpret.