Take Me I'm Yours (Coffee House Chronicles) (13 page)

“I mean, I don’t remember him looking
that good
at the wedding. Did he?”

“I…” Marion was at a loss for words
.

That fateful day wouldn’t go away no matter how hard she tried. At Delilah’s words, the flash of memory hit her. Graeme walking into the room wearing that tuxedo. It was quite a change for him since back then all he wore were jeans and
T-shirts. And now…he wore that great shirt, nice slacks and good shoes.

“Hello, Marion?” Delilah snapped her fingers. “Is anybody home?”

“Sorry, I was…” Her voice trailed off again.

“Looking at his ass. I get it.” Delilah turned and admired. “It is rather spectacular. I can see why you want to get hot and sweaty with him.”

“Delilah, shh. Not here.”

“I don’t think his art will mind.” She thumbed over her shoulder to the display behind her. “How come you didn’t tell me he had a penchant for designer clothing? Those are Prada shoes he’s wearing, by the way. And an Armani shirt. Damn, that’s hot.”

“Yes, he is. But I don’t like him for his clothes.”

“I bet you don’t. I bet you like him for what’s
underneath
those clothes and I don’t blame you.” She patted Marion on the shoulder then. “Go get him, girl.”

“Are you giving me your blessing?” Marion asked, turning to her friend for the first time
since appearing back at her side.

“Yes, but on the condition you give me
all
—and I do mean all—the juicy details tomorrow.”

Chapter Nine

Marion laughed. “You got it.”

“And on that note, since you have a ride home, I’m gone.” Delilah downed her champagne.
“Besides, I have my eye on that very hot, tall, European-looking man over there.” She nodded in the direction of a man who couldn’t take his eyes off her.

“Be careful,” Marion warned. As if she needed to warn her best friend of anything.

“Honey, please.” She flashed a wide grin. “Why should you get to have all the fun tonight?” Licking her thumb, she placed it on one derriere cheek with an audible
hiss
.

Every man within two feet of Delilah knew she was hot.

Marion laughed. “Well, have fun.”

“I will and girl.” She nodded toward Graeme who was surrounded by ladies. “You better go stake your claim.”

Marion’s heart tripped at the sight of all the young attractive girls surrounding Graeme. He seemed to enjoy it way too much, flaring the jealousy inside her. As Delilah sauntered toward Mr. GQ, she charged toward Graeme and then stopped short. He laughed at one of the girls while she batted her eyelashes and looked at him demurely. She recognized her as the girl from the art supply store whose name was Rebecca.

The nerve.

Smoothing her free hand down her dress, she walked calmly toward Graeme, pasting on her best smile. She was trying to come up with something smart and witty to say, but unfortunately words failed her.

“There you are, baby,” he said and held his arm out to her. Her heart fluttered as his gaze landed on her and all she could think about was slipping next to him. At least she didn’t make a fool out of herself by causing a scene. Thankfully, her good sense prevailed
.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Excuse me, ladies.”

“But Graeme, I—” Rebecca began. Disappointment flooded her youthful face and Marion secretly cheered for joy.

“I’ll see you in class, Rebecca.” He gave her a jaunty wave as he wrapped his arm around Marion’s shoulders. As they walked away, he whispered in her ear. “Thanks for saving me. Is that for me?” He nodded toward her glass.

“Sure.” She handed it over, a little woozy from the two she’d already downed. She certainly didn’t need another one, although it would release
all
her inhibitions if she did. “You have quite a few admirers.”

“Bev seems to think so
too. I’ve already sold four paintings.”

“Bev?”

“The manager of the gallery,” Graeme explained. “Come on. I’ll introduce you.”

He downed his champagne in one gulp as he led her through the gallery. Bev, or Beverly St. John as she was introduced, turned out to be an older lady. Probably in her late fifties, if Marion had to guess, with straight white hair, dark black eyebrows, and cool black eyes. She had an air of sophistication and chic-ness and was certainly in a different social class than Marion. She smiled politely, shook her hand and then listened quietly as Bev and Graeme talked art
.

Marion was lost about thirty seconds into the conversation and took interest in the paintings around her. Graeme’s talent was beyond compare. At least Marion thought so
.

When she thought no one would notice, she slipped away from his side and wandered toward a painting hanging alone. As she neared, she read the title as
Black-Eyed Girl
. She glanced surreptitiously at Bev to see if the girl in the painting remotely resembled her. With some relief, Marion discovered she didn’t.

Turning back, she gazed at the woman in the portrait who happened to be naked. Long dark hair cascaded down her shoulders, covering her breasts. A swath of cloth draped over he
r hips, covering the V at the apex of her thighs.

She reclined casually
on a chaise under a willow tree. Almost as if being naked in nature was of no consequence. She had high cheekbones, a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and full, sensual lips painted a pale pink. Her eyes were definitely black, but Marion thought she could see a hint of color there somewhere. Her eyebrows were perfect arches, her chin came to a point, clearly indicating her heart-shaped face. She had long slender fingers, perfectly manicured nails and narrow hips.

There was something vaguely familiar about the portrait
.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

The male voice startled her. She turned to see a man dressed in an expensive suit. He had a pencil mustache and an aquiline nose and he gave her a warm smile.

“Yes, it is,” she agreed.

“This is one of his earlier works.” He gazed at the painting with an admiring eye. “Not at all like his other fantasy work.” He had a slight accent, something European she couldn’t place.

“I noticed that,” Marion said.

“It’s a one of a kind. Perhaps you’d like to purchase it?” he suggested.

“Oh, I’m not
sure.”

“Forgive me. I’m Jon Ramsey. I work here at the gallery.”

“Nice to meet you.” She shook his hand. “I’m Marion.”

“You are a friend of the artist?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Then you must have it. I will give you a deal on it
too.” He looked thoughtful a moment as he gazed at the painting, trying to assess an amount. “It’s yours for one thousand.”

One thousand dollars? Is he kidding?
“That’s very kind of you, but I don’t think I can.”

“What a shame. It’s a real bargain. His other work goes for twice that and then some. This is sure to be worth quite a lot in the coming years. Especially since he has not done another piece like this.”

Marion was still taken aback by the fact that Graeme’s paintings sold for at least two thousand dollars. If she had the cash in her pocket, she’d snatch this one up. She loved the dreamy look in the girl’s face, the way she reclined. As though she had not a care in the world. And even looking at it now, there was something vaguely familiar about that face, though Marion couldn’t place it.

“All right, you twisted my arm. Eight hundred. No less,” Jon said.

“I really do appreciate it. I can’t.”

“Ah,
’tis a shame. Perhaps I hold it for you for a day or two if you change your mind, eh?” Jon offered.

“I’m sure I won’t, but thank you.”

“Jon, are you harassing the ladies again?” Graeme said as he joined them.

“It’s hard to resist one as lovely as
she. I was trying to convince her she simply must have this painting for her collection.” He waved toward the painting.

Graem
e glanced at the painting. His face blanched before re quickly recovered, reaching for her. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and turned her away from the painting. “Oh, she doesn’t want that. Apparently, no one does.”

Graeme steered them away from the painting,
walking briskly away. Jon fell in stride next to them.

“It’s not your usual work,” Jon said. “But I was telling her it will be worth quite a lot some day because of that fact.”

“You’re too kind,” Graeme said, forcing a smile. “I’ve said my goodbyes to Bev.” He extended his hand. “Good night, Jon.”

“Leaving so soon?” He tsked. “You still have a full house.” He waved toward the crowd.

“I’m sure you can let me know the numbers tomorrow,” Graeme said.

“It doesn’t look good to disappear from your own opening early, Graeme.”

“I’m sure they’ll recover.” Graeme started toward the door, tugging her with him. Clearly he was done with all conversation with Jon Ramsey. He glanced her way. “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to bust out of here. You want to get a drink or something?”

“If I’m being polite, sure, I’d love one. But if I’m being honest, no, not really,” she said.

And she didn’t. All she could think about was getting naked with Graeme, running her mouth over that body of his and touching him.

“Good. Because neither do I.”

*
* * * *

Graeme drove at breakneck speed to his loft apartment. To her surprise, the apartment was within walking distance of the Bitter End Coffee House. Even at this late hour, the coffee house still had a crowd.

Doubt seized her
when only hours ago getting him between the sheets would be no problem. Now her confidence waned. She wished she had taken that third champagne to keep the buzz going.

Graeme, however, seemed cool and confident. He unlocked the door to his apartment and pushed it open, flipping on the light. He had black leather couches, glass tables, dark mahogany wood furniture. It was all very contemporary and sleek.

A corner fireplace dominated one side of the room. A staircase the other. The kitchen was bright with black and white tile on the floor and all stainless appliances.

“Wow,” she said. “I love your place.”

Glancing around, she noticed pictures of him in various destinations. One in New York, one on the slopes of a snowy mountain. Another with a mountain behind him.

“
You like to travel I see,” she said.

“When I can.”

He tossed his keys onto the kitchen counter. She could hear him in the kitchen rummaging around in a drawer and then the distinct
pop
of a cork.
Oh, good. More booze.
She needed it to relax. It would help calm her jittery nerves. He rounded the corner with two champagne flutes and handed her one.

Holding the glass with one hand, she
picked up the snowy picture and held it out for him to see. “Where’s this?”

“Taos. I went skiing there a few years ago with some buddies.”

Graeme wore an orange and black skiing jacket, goggles with orange lenses, a black toboggan, holding his poles. He grinned broadly into the camera. She’d always wanted to try skiing.

She replaced the picture and took a deep swig of the champagne, the bubbles tickling her nose. She watched
over the rim of her glass as he did the same. Her heart throbbed a wild beat, her pulse matching the staccato. His gaze slid dropped down to her neck and then back up again as he took another sip. Did he see it? Did he know how nervous she was?

With slow steps he walked around behind her. H
is hand slid around her waist. She forced her breathing to remain normal. He leaned into her, his scent surrounding her in a faint cloud. She wanted him. She couldn’t deny that much longer.

He brushed aside her hair and his lips landed on her neck, tracing a faint line upward to her earlobe. Her body responded, sending a flood of warmth downward between her legs. His mouth felt like heaven against her and she never wanted him to stop.

“You want to see my private collection now?” His voice was soft as his words whispered across her skin.

“Are you talking about art?” She
cocked her head to look at him.

“
Follow me.” He gave her a sideways grin. He took her champagne glass from her hand and placed it on the nearby table. Then took her hand in his.

He led her to the staircase, still holding her hand as they ascended. The handrail was wrought iron, keeping with that contemporary feel. She had never seen any place like it before
. Upstairs, he flicked on the light to reveal his studio with stark white walls and warm wood floors. This was where all the magic happened. This was where he created something out of nothing.