The Colors of Love (24 page)

* * *

She thought she might die, right there, sprawled bonelessly over Alex's naked body. Wasn't this what they said happened with death, body disconnected from mind, floating away?

A long time later, she felt the need to turn her head and watch his eyes slowly open. Now, in the aftermath of their loving, all the sharp edges of his face seemed softer, more relaxed. As his eyes found hers, she felt him harden inside her. Joined, she thought, forever. His body mated with hers, her legs still intimately wrapped around his, his arm resting across her hips while her breasts brushed the fine growth of hair across his chest. Sensation welled up, in her body and her mind, and she knew.

"I love you," she said, and saw his eyes darken.

"Don't say that," he said soberly. "I don't want to hear that."

Still coupled intimately with him, she felt his words in her ears and her body, and the two seemed to tangle with each other, destroying meaning.

"You don't believe I love you?" She touched his face, felt the way muscle formed with bone to create the lines that had so quickly become beloved to her. "What would make you believe?"

His hands took her shoulders and he held her away from him, even while she felt him harden inside her.

"You feel something, I believe that. Don't call it love."

"Why? Because of her? Diana?"

He pulled her down until their mouths met. At first his kiss seemed angry, more to silence her than to possess. Then, abruptly, it changed and she eagerly gave herself to his mouth again.

Later, much later, he lifted himself over her and stared down at her. Outside, the sky had turned black.

The lamp on her bedside table created a halo around his head and left his dark eyes a mystery.

"Do you want more?" she asked, her voice husky and her body drained of all life, yet somehow—crazily—willing to love again.

"I'd probably die if I tried." He tangled one hand in her hair and buried his mouth in hers, a slow kiss that left her feeling marked as his, in some indefinable way that had nothing to do with sex.

"There's food," she said. She loved the thought of feeding him, here in her bed. Alex, naked and tousled, eating food she'd cooked for him. The image was so domestic, so—so much as if he might stay.

"Food is good." He collapsed, carrying her with him as he rolled to his side. "It smelled good, whatever's on the stove. What do we have to do?"

"I'll do it." She scrambled onto her knees, filled with sudden energy. "Stay here and I'll look after everything."

She picked up his shirt from the floor as she rose from the bed, slipping into it as she walked toward the kitchen. At the bedroom door she stopped, turned back, and found him propped up on one arm, watching her.

"I won't be long," she promised.

In the kitchen she turned on the light and the flame under the water for the noodles. Miraculously, the sauce was still liquid, simmering softly. She added wine and stirred it, tasted and decided the spices were still perfect. She filled two glasses.

At her feet, Squiggles meowed.

"No," she said firmly. "You can't have a treat. Remember the chicken. You've had your treats for the next week."

"What chicken?" asked Alex from behind her.

She spun around, found him wearing his slacks and nothing else. She'd never seen a man who looked so good in bare feet. So many men had hairy feet, but his were strong and long boned, smooth and tanned.

"We were going to have chicken for dinner," she said breathlessly. Would she ever become used to him here in her house? "Squiggles stole the chicken and dumped the bowl it was marinating in."

"That's how you got the sliver?" He stepped close and bent his head to press his lips against her cheek.

She turned her head to invite his kiss on her lips, welcomed his mouth with a murmur that couldn't express how heavenly it felt to kiss him. She would paint him like this, here in her kitchen, half-dressed.

"Would you like to sit on the balcony while we wait for the noodles?" she asked. "The harbor's lovely in the dark."

He took the wine and glasses from her hands and she led him to the balcony. Squiggles came with them, meowing as Jamie stepped outside the kitchen.

"He's spoiled," she said. "I give him tuna as a treat, sometimes salmon. He always wants more and he thinks if he works on me hard enough, he'll get it."

"And will he?"

"He got the chicken." She accepted her glass and lifted it to him, a shaft of joy streaking through her as he raised his glass.

* * *

He couldn't believe that he could need her again so soon, or that she could respond so eagerly, but before they'd cleared away the litter from a dinner of surprisingly delicious pasta, he'd pulled her into his arms again and felt her mouth open for his eagerly.

He'd never before even imagined the depth of what happened when he felt Jamila go wild in his arms. Eventually, he knew he must reach the point of satiation, but it wouldn't happen tonight... or tomorrow.

Afterward, he felt unbearable tenderness as he stared down at the lights in her green eyes. When she reached up and touched his face, her arm seemed weak and exhausted. He lifted her easily and carried her to the bathroom, where they showered together. He'd always thought the idea of showering with a woman was juvenile, until he held Jamila in his arms and experienced the sensory pleasure of lathering her firm, sensual curves.

Afterward, they tumbled into bed and he told himself that soon he would stir himself, force himself to leave her, dress and drive home.

His own bed would be cold, empty.

He turned and drew her closer, telling himself he'd leave soon, very soon.

* * *

He woke in darkness, a weight on his shoulder and another on his hip. He lay motionless, breathing in her scent, feeling her hair across his arm and shoulder, her lips against his chest. Slowly, darkness resolved into shadows, the smooth curve of her cheek, her arm nestled against his chest below her face.

The weight on his hip resolved into a distinctly feline silhouette.

Jamila awoke when he stirred.

"I have to go," he said.

"I'll make you something to eat."

"No." He covered her parted lips with his mouth. Already, the sky outside was lightening and he could see her face. "I have to get to the hospital."

He saw her glance at the clock beside the bed. She didn't comment that six was early for any doctor's rounds, and he was damned if he was going to explain that Diana was phoning at seven, that he had to get away now or, insane though it was, he'd try to make love to her again.

She slipped a soft, long gown on and followed him to the door. When he turned, she stepped into his arms and he allowed himself to take her mouth in a greedy kiss.

"Tonight?" she asked. "Here?"

"I've got a meeting. I won't be finished until after nine."

"I'll be here."

He wanted to look back as he walked away, told himself not to build habits that would be difficult to break later, like needing a woman to watch him leave, wanting her waiting when he returned.

He slid into his car and drove home. In his own bathroom, he showered again although he knew her scent was imbedded in his brain and he couldn't wash it away with mere soap.

The phone rang just before seven.

"Diana," he said, determined not to lie to her today.

"Everything looks great, Alex. I've been through your presentation with a fine-tooth comb. I don't see anything Grandfather can take issue with. I'd email it to him, but I'd like him to have the originals."

"I can courier them to him today."

"Good. I'll talk to him later this morning, so he'll be expecting them. Are you ready for the board meeting Wednesday afternoon?"

"As ready as I'll ever be."

"Afterward, why don't you fly here for the weekend, to celebrate?"

"You're certain the board's answer will be yes?"

"I'm positive," she said, laughing. "Grandfather would do anything for me—not if it wasn't a worthy project, of course, and the paperwork weren't done properly. But he'll do this."

"For you?" She couldn't mean what he thought. He gripped the receiver more tightly and said, "He'll do this
for you?"

"Alex—" Her laugh seemed nervous, or perhaps the satellite was giving weird sound effects again. "Your children are a worthy project. I'm just saying that because Grandfather knows how much I care about this, you've got an extra little edge."

He felt a chill down his back. "Diana, I wouldn't want to think I got the endowment on anything but my project's merit."

"What's got into you today, Alex? You're so prickly."

"I'm—" He would not lie to her again, could not leave the implied lie he'd already allowed to stand. "I'm uncomfortable about this conversation."

"Alex, for heaven's sake, I know you're ethical. You're so ethical you're almost stodgy." He heard affection in her laugh.

The silence lasted too long to be blamed on satellite delay, then he said, "Diana, I'm seeing another woman."

"Oh... You... I'm happy for you."

"No, I—You've got it wrong, Diana. It's not serious."

Her laughter sounded almost natural. "It sounds serious to me. Did you see her on Sunday? I thought something was different. Look, Alex, I have to go. I've got a thousand things to do today. I'll talk to Grandfather in a couple of hours. Send the papers round to him by messenger."

"Diana, I'm sorry."

"Why on earth would you be sorry? I asked you to stay over one night; it wasn't a declaration of eternal love, just an impulse. Good luck on Wednesday."

Damn it!

He felt like a heel.

He liked Diana Thurston. She was a good, decent, hardworking woman with every characteristic he'd ever told himself he wanted in a woman. But she had never stirred him to a fraction of the emotion he felt just
thinking
of Jamie, and he knew now that anything less would never be enough.

Jamie—

Safer, he'd known, to hold the image of her as Jamila in his mind, to remind himself with every breath that she was exotic, artistic, dangerous. A man might dare to make plans with a woman named Jamie, but Jamila...

He sent the package off by courier to Thurston, and felt sick knowing he could lose the treatment center his kids needed so badly, that there was nothing he could do now but attend the meeting Wednesday and answer their questions. If the center was dependent on the possibility of a relationship with Diana—

He hoped that wasn't true, because the kids couldn't afford for him to mess it up—and it was too late now. It had been too late the moment he met Jamila Ferguson.

After his hospital rounds, Alex found Emma Garret fixing herself a bowl of yogurt and fruit in the physicians' lounge of the clinic.

"Looks revolting," he commented.

"Thanks." She spooned a piece of yogurt-coated cantaloupe into her mouth. "You look different today. What's up?"

"Different?" He poured coffee from the pot on the counter. "Different how?"

She laughed and spooned another hunk of fruit into her mouth. "Ever the noncommittal Alex. Different as in—I don't know. You wouldn't be in love, would you?"

He sputtered on a mouthful of coffee. "No," he said firmly, "I wouldn't be. How's Teddy?"

"They'll be fitting his prosthesis next week. He's showing some anger."

"So would I, in his place." Alex frowned as he watched Emma eat a mouthful of pure, creamy yogurt. Something was different about her. Something...

"Emma?"

She looked up. Her eyes looked different, and her face too, an almost imperceptible fullness.

"You're pregnant."

Her mouth parted, then she laughed. "For heaven's sake, Alex, don't shout. I wasn't going to tell Gray until the weekend. He's leaving this evening for New York, and if I tell him now, we won't have time to celebrate. But if you go shouting the news, sure as hell someone else will leak it, and he'll know before I ever tell him."

He crossed the little lounge and hugged her. "You look rapturous."

"You should try it, Alex. Love, conception, all that good stuff. There's nothing like it." She brushed her lips over his cheek and was gone.

I love you.
Jamila's voice, soft and husky, her eyes glowing sincere green as they stared down at him. He'd be insane to believe her.

He checked his appointment book, then left the clinic to talk to Jason's counselor. Afterward, he realized he had half an hour before his first appointment, so he decided to pick up the painting he'd arranged to purchase. At the gallery, the smoothly sophisticated Liz greeted him with no trace of a smile.

"Your painting's ready," she said, turning smoothly on low heels to lead him into her office.

He sat across from her and pulled out his checkbook. The transaction was completed in near silence. It wasn't until she handed him the wrapped, framed canvas that she spoke. "Dr. Kent?"

"Yes?" Whatever it was, she'd been itching to say it from the moment he entered the gallery.

"I hope you'll be very careful not to hurt Jamie." She spoke so soberly, her blue eyes so accusing, that he was astounded.

"Why would you assume I intend to hurt her?"

"No, I don't imagine that you
intend
any harm, but what seems a casual affair to you could easily hurt Jamie. She's a very vulnerable young woman."

He shifted the painting and tried not to feel like a child called on the carpet. "I would hardly call Jamila fragile."

She smiled, although he sensed no warmth. "Fragile and vulnerable are not at all the same thing, Dr. Kent."

He was damned if he'd explain his affair with Jamila to this woman... to anyone. "I think your concern is misplaced."

"The first time I met Jamie, she was twelve years old, a very sad little girl who had lost her mother. We became friends. Jamie loved coming to stare at the paintings, and I was lonely, too."

He could see Jamie, a thin child whose hair stood out wildly from her pale face, haunting the gallery because her own home was a dismal, lonely place without her mother.

"She was lucky to have you."