One Man's Art

  stood behind her. Shading her eyes, she looked up at Grant. “Well,” she said lightly, “twice in one day.”

  “Small town.” He gestured toward her pad. “You finished out at the station?”

  “No, the light’s wrong this time of day for what I want there.”

  It was annoyance he was supposed to feel, not relief. Casually, he dropped to the grass beside her. “So now you’re going to immortalize Windy Point.”

  “In my own small way,” she said dryly, and started to sketch again. Was she glad he had come? Hadn’t she known, somehow, he would? “Still playing with stamps?”

  “No, I’ve taken up classical music.” He only smiled when she turned to study him. “You’d have been reared on that, I imagine. A little Brahms after dinner.”

  “I favored Chopin.” She tapped her pencil on her chin. “What did you do with your mail?”

  “I stowed it.”

  “I didn’t notice your truck.”

  “I brought the boat.” Taking the sketchbook, he flipped through to the front.

  “For someone who’s so keen on privacy,” she began heatedly, “you have little respect when it belongs to someone else.”

  “Yeah.” Unceremoniously, he shoved her hand away when she reached for the pad. While she simmered, Grant went through the book, pausing, then going on until he came to the sketch of himself. He studied it a moment, wordlessly, then surprised Gennie by grinning. “Not bad,” he decided.

  “I’m overwhelmed by your flattery.”

  He considered her a moment, then acted on impulse. “One deserves another.”

  Plucking the pencil out of her fingers, he turned the pages over until he came to a blank one. To her astonishment, he began to draw with the easy confidence of long practice. Mouth open, she stared at him while he whistled between his teeth and looped lines and curves onto the paper. His eyes narrowed a moment as he added some shading, then he tossed the book back into her lap. Gennie gave him a long, last stare before she looked down.

  It was definitely her—in clever, merciless caricature. Her eyes were slanted—exaggerated, almost predatory, her cheekbones an aristocratic slash, her chin a stubborn point. With her mouth just parted and her head tilted back, he’d given her the expression of royalty mildly displeased. Gennie studied it for a full ten seconds before she burst into delighted laughter.

  “You pig!” she said and laughed again. “I look like I’m about to have a minion beheaded.”

  He might have been saved if she’d gotten angry, been insulted. Then he could have written her off as vain and humorless and not worth his notice—at least he could have tried. Now with her laughter bouncing on the air and her eyes alive with it, Grant stepped off the cliff.

  “Gennie.” He murmured her name as his hand reached up to touch her face. Her laughter died.

  What she would have said if her throat hadn’t closed, she didn’t know. She thought the air went very still very suddenly. The only movement seemed to be the fingers that brushed the hair back from her face, the only sound her own uneven breath. When he lowered his face toward hers, she didn’t move but waited.

  He hesitated, though the pause was too short to measure, before he touched his mouth to hers. Gentle, questioning, it sent a line of fire down her spine. For him, too, she realized, as his fingers tightened, briefly, convulsively, on her neck before they relaxed again. He must be feeling, as she did, that sudden urgent thrust of power that was followed by a dazed kind of weakness.

  Floating … were people meant to float like this? Limitless, mindless. How could she have known one man’s lips could bring such an endless variety of sensations when touched to hers? Perhaps she’d never been kissed before and only thought she had. Perhaps she had only imagined another man casually brushing her mouth with his. Because this was real.

  She could taste—warm breath. She could feel—lips soft, yet firm and knowing. She could smell—that subtle scent on him that meant wind and sea. She could see—his face, blurred and close when her lashes drifted up to assure her. And when he moaned her name, she heard him.

  Her answer was to melt, slowly, luxuriously against him. With the melting came a pain, unexpected and sharp enough to make her tremble. How could there be pain, she wondered dazedly, when her body was so truly at peace? Yet it came again on a wave that rocked her. Some lucid part of her mind reminded her that love hurt.

  But no. She tried to shake off the pain, and the knowledge it brought her even as her lips clung to his. She wasn’t falling in love, not now, not with him. That wasn’t what she wanted….What did she want? Him.

  The answer came so clearly, so simply. It drove her into panic.

  “Grant, no.” She drew away, but the hand on her face slid to the back of her neck and held her still.

  “No, what?” His voice was very quiet, with rough edges.

  “I didn’t intend—we shouldn’t be—I didn’t … Oh!” She shut her eyes, frustrated that she could be reduced to stammering confusion.

  “Why don’t you run that by me again?”

  The trace of humor in his voice had her springing to her feet. She wasn’t light-headed, she told herself. She’d simply sat too long and rose too quickly. “Look, this is hardly the place for this kind of thing.”

  “What kind of thing?” he countered, rising, too, but with a lazy ease that moved muscle by muscle. “We were only kissing. That’s more popular than making friendly conversation. Kissing you’s become a habit.” He reached out for her hair, then let it drift through his spread fingers. “I don’t break them easily.”

  “In this case”—she paused to even her breathing—“I think you should make an exception.”

  He studied her, trying to make light of something that had struck him down to the bone. “You’re quite a mix, Genviève. The practiced seductress one minute, the confused virgin the next. You know how to fascinate a man.”

  Pride moved automatically to shield her. “Some men are more easily fascinated than others.”

  “True enough.” Grant wasn’t sure just what emotion was working through him, but he knew it wasn’t comfortable. “Damn if I won’t be glad to see the last of you,” he muttered.

  Listening to the sound of his retreating footsteps, Gennie bent to pick up her sketchbook. By some malicious coincidence, it had fallen open to Grant’s face. Gennie scowled at it. “And I’ll be glad to see the last of you.” She closed the book, made a business of brushing off her jeans, and started to leave the churchyard with quiet dignity.

  The hell with it!

  “Grant!” She raced down the steps to the sidewalk and tore after him. “Grant, wait!”

  With every sign of impatience, he turned and did so. “What?”

  A little breathless, she stopped in front of him and wondered what it was she wanted to say. No, she didn’t want to see the last of him. If she didn’t understand why yet, she felt she was at least entitled to a little time to find out.

  “Truce,” she decided and held out a hand. When he only stared at her, she gave a quick huff and swallowed another morsel of pride. “Please.”

  Trapped by the single word, he took the offered hand. “All right.” When she would have drawn her hand away, he tightened his grip. “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” Gennie told him with fresh impatience. “Just a wild urge to see if I can get along with an ogre.” At the ironic lift of his brow, she sighed. “All right, that was just a quick slip. I take it back.”

  Idly, he twisted the thin gold chain she wore around his finger. “So, what now?”

  What now indeed? Gennie thought as even the brush of his knuckles had her skin humming. She wasn’t going to give in to it—but she wasn’t going to jump like a scared rabbit either. “Listen, I owe you a meal,” she said impulsively. “I’ll pay you back, that way we’ll have a clean slate.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll cook you dinner.”

  “You’ve already cooked me breakfast.”

 
“That was your food,” Gennie pointed out. Already planning things out, she looked past him into town. “I’ll need to pick up a few things.”

  Grant studied her, considering. “You going to bring them to the lighthouse?”

  Oh, no, she thought immediately. She knew better than to trust herself with him there, that close to the sea and the power. “To my cottage. There’s a little brick barbecue out back if you like steaks.”

  What’s going on in her mind? he wondered as he watched secret thoughts flicker in her eyes. He knew he’d never be able to resist finding out. “I’ve been known to choke down a bite or two in my time.”

  “Okay.” She gave a decisive nod and took his hand. “Let’s go shopping.”

  “Wait a minute,” Grant began as she pulled him down the sidewalk.

  “Oh, don’t start complaining already. Where do I buy the steaks?”

  “Bayside,” Grant said dryly, and brought her up short.

  “Oh.”

  Grinning at her expression, he draped an arm around her shoulder. “Once in a while Leeman’s Market gets in a few good cuts of meat.”

  Gennie shot him a suspicious look. “From where?”

  Still grinning, Grant pushed open the market door. “I love a mystery.”

  Gennie wasn’t certain she was amused until she found there was indeed a steak—only one, but sizable enough for two people—and that it was from a nearby farm, authorized and licensed. Satisfied with this, and a bag of fresh salad greens, Gennie drew Grant outside again.

  “Okay, now where can I buy a bottle of wine?”

  “Fairfield’s,” he suggested. “He carries the only spirits in town. If you’re not too particular about the label.”

  As they started across the road, a boy biked by, shooting Grant a quick look before he ducked his chin on his chest and pedaled away.

  “One of your admirers?” Gennie asked dryly.

  “I chased him and three of his friends off the cliffs a few weeks back.”

  “You’re a real sport.”

  Grant only grinned, remembering his first reaction had been fury at having his peace interrupted, then fear that the four careless boys would break their necks on the rocks. “Ayah,” he said, recalling with pleasure the acid tongue-lashing he’d doled out.

  “Do you really kick sick dogs?” she asked as she caught the gleam in his eye.

  “Only on my own land.”

  Heaving a hefty sigh, Gennie pushed open the door of Fairfield’s store. Across the room, Will immediately dropped the large pot he’d been about to stock on a shelf. Red to the tips of his ears, he left it where it was. “Help you?” His voice cracked painfully on the last word.

  “I need a bag of charcoal,” Gennie told him as she crossed the room. “And a bottle of wine.”

  “Charcoal’s in the back,” he managed, then took a step in retreat as Gennie came closer. His elbow caught a stack of cans and sent them crashing. “What—what size?”

  Torn between laughter and sympathy, Gennie swallowed. “Five pounds’ll be fine.”

  “I’ll get it.” The boy disappeared, and Gennie caught Fairfield’s voice demanding what the devil ailed him before she was forced to press a hand to her mouth to hold back the laughter.

  Thinking of Macintosh’s reaction to Veronica, Grant felt a wave of empathy. “Poor kid’s going to be mooning like a puppy for a month. Did you have to smile at him?”

  “Really, Grant. He can’t be more than fifteen.”

  “Old enough to break out in a sweat,” he commented.

  “Hormones,” she murmured as she found Fairfield’s sparse selection of wine. “They just need time to balance.”

  Grant’s gaze drifted down and focused as she bent over. “It should only take thirty or forty years,” he muttered.

  Gennie found a domestic burgundy and plucked it from the bottom shelf. “Looks like we feast after all.”

  Will came back with a bag of charcoal and almost managed not to trip over his own feet. “Brought you some starter, too, in case …” He broke off as his tongue tied itself into knots.

  “Oh, thanks.” Gennie set the wine on the counter and reached for her wallet.

  “You gotta be of age to buy the wine,” Will began. Gennie’s smile widened and his blush deepened. “Guess you are, huh?”

  Unable to resist, Gennie gestured to Grant. “He is.”

  Enraptured, Will stared at Gennie until she gently asked what the total was. He came to long enough to punch out numbers on the little adding machine, send it into clanking convulsions, and begin again.

  “It be five-oh-seven, with”—a long sigh escaped—“tax.”

  Gennie resisted the urge to pat his cheek and counted out the change into his damp palm. “Thank you, Will.”

  Will’s fingers closed over the nickel and two pennies. “Yes, ma’am.”

  For the first time the boy’s eyes left Gennie’s. Grant was struck with a look of such awe and envy, he wasn’t sure whether to preen or apologize. In a rare gesture of casual affection, he reached over and squeezed Will’s shoulder. “Makes a man want to sit up and beg, doesn’t she?” he murmured when Gennie reached the door.

  Will sighed. “Ayah.” Before Grant could turn, Will plucked at his sleeve. “You gonna have dinner with her and everything?”

  Grant lifted a brow but managed to keep his composure. Everything, he reminded himself, meant different things to different people. At the moment it conjured up rather provocative images in his brain. “Things are presently unsettled,” he murmured, using one of Macintosh’s stock phrases. Catching himself, he grinned. “Yeah, we’re going to have dinner.” And something, he added as he strolled out after Gennie.

  “What was all that about?” she demanded.

  “Man talk.”

  “Oh, I beg your pardon.”

  The way she said it—very antebellum and disdainful—made him laugh and pull her into his arms to kiss her in full view of all of Windy Point. As the embrace lingered on, Grant caught the muffled crash from inside Fairfield’s. “Poor Will,” he murmured. “I know just how he feels.” Humor flashed into his eyes again. “I better start around in the boat if we’re going to have dinner … and everything.”

  Confused by his uncharacteristic lightheartedness, Gennie gave him a long stare. “All right,” she said after a moment. “I’ll meet you there.”

  Chapter 6

  It was foolish to feel like a girl getting ready for a date. Gennie told herself that as she unlocked the door to the cottage. She’d told herself the same thing as she’d driven away from town … and as she’d turned down the quiet lane.

  It was a spur-of-the-moment cookout—two adults, a steak, and a bottle of burgundy that may or may not have been worth the price. A person would have to look hard to find any romance in charcoal, lighter fluid and some freshly picked greens from a patch in the backyard. Not for the first time, Gennie thought it a pity her imagination was so expansive.

  It had undoubtedly been imagination that had brought on that rush of feeling in the churchyard. A little unexpected tenderness, a soft breeze and she heard bells. Silly.

  Gennie set the bags on the kitchen counter and wished she’d bought candles. Candlelight would make even that tidy, practical little kitchen seem romantic. And if she had a radio, there could be music …

  Catching herself, Gennie rolled her eyes to the ceiling. What was she thinking of? She’d never had any patience with such obvious, conventional trappings in the first place, and in the second place she didn’t want a romance with Grant. She’d go halfway toward making a friendship—a very careful friendship—with him, but that was it.

  She’d cook dinner for him because she owed him that much. They’d have conversation because she found him interesting despite the thorns. And she’d make very, very certain she didn’t end up in his arms again. Whatever part of her longed for a repeat of what had happened between them in the churchyard would have to be overruled by common sense. Grant Campbell w
as not only basically unpleasant, he was just too complicated. Gennie considered herself too complex a person to be involved with anyone who had so many layers to him.

  Gennie grabbed the bag of charcoal and the starter and went into the side yard to set the grill. It was so quiet, she mused, looking around as she ripped the bag open. She’d hear Grant coming long before she saw him.

  It was the perfect time for a ride on the water, with the late afternoon shadows lengthening and the heat draining from the day. The light was bland as milk now, and as soothing. She could hear the light lap-slap of water against the pier and the rustle of insects in the high grass on the bank. Then, barely, she heard the faint putt of a distant motor.

  Her nerves gathered together so quickly, Gennie nearly dropped the five pounds of briquettes on the ground. When she’d finished being exasperated with herself, she laughed and poured a neat pile of charcoal into the barbecue pit. So this was the coolly sophisticated Genviève Grandeau, she thought wryly; established member of the art world and genteel New Orleans society, about to drop five pounds of charcoal on her toes because a rude man was going to have dinner with her. How the mighty have fallen.

  With a grin, she rolled the bag up and dropped it on the ground. So what? she asked herself before she strolled down to the pier to wait for him.

  Grant took the turn into the inlet at a speed that sent water spraying high. Laughing, Gennie stretched on her toes and waved, wishing he were already there. She hadn’t realized, not until just that moment, how much she’d dreaded spending the evening alone. And yet, there was no one she wanted to spend it with but him. He’d infuriate her before it was over, she was certain. She was looking forward to it.

  He cut back the motor so that it was a grumble instead of a roar, then guided the boat alongside the pier. When the engine shut off completely, silence snapped back—water lapping and wind in high grass.

  “When are you going to take me for a ride?” Gennie demanded when he tossed her a line.

  Grant stepped lightly onto the pier and watched as she deftly secured the boat. “Was I going to?”

  “Maybe you weren’t, but you are now.” Straightening, she brushed her hands on the back of her jeans. “I was thinking about renting a little rowboat for the inlet, but I’d much rather go out to sea.”

  “A rowboat?” He grinned, trying to imagine her manning oars.

  “I grew up on a river,” she reminded him. “Sailing’s in my blood.”

  “Is that so?” Idly, Grant took her hand, turning it over to examine the palm. It was smooth and soft and strong. “This doesn’t look as if it’s hoisted too many mainsails.”

  “I’ve done my share.” For no reason other than she wanted to, Gennie locked her fingers with his. “There’ve always been seamen in my family. My great-great-grandfather was a … freelancer.”

  “A pirate.” Intrigued, Grant caught the tip of her hair in his hand then twirled a lock around his finger. “I get the feeling you think more of that than the counts and dukes scattered through your family tree.”

  “Naturally. Almost anyone can find an aristocrat somewhere if they look hard enough. And he was a very good pirate.”

  “Good-hearted?”

  “Successful,” she corrected with a wicked smile. “He was almost sixty when he retired in New Orleans. My grandmother lives in the house he built there.”

  “With money plucked from hapless merchants,” Grant finished, grinning again.

  “The sea’s a lawless place,” Gennie said with a shrug. “You take your chances. You might get what you want”—now she grinned as well—“or you could get your head lopped off.”

  “It might be smarter to keep you land-locked,” Grant murmured, then, tugging on the hair he held, brought her closer.

  Gennie put a hand to his chest for balance, but found her fingers straying up. His mouth was tempting, very tempting as it lowered toward hers. It would be smarter to resist, she knew, but she rose on her toes to meet it with her own.

  With barely any pressure, he kept his lips on hers, as if unsure of his moves, unsure just how deeply he dared plunge this time. He could have swept her against him; she could have drawn him closer with no more than a sigh. Yet both of them kept that slight, tangible distance between them, as a barrier—or a safety hatch. It was still early enough for them to fight the current that was drawing them closer and closer to the point of no return.

  They moved apart at the same moment and took a small, perceptible step back.

  “I’d better light the charcoal,” Gennie said after a moment.

  “I didn’t ask before,” Grant began as they started down the pier. “But do you know how to cook on one of those things?”

  “My dear Mr. Campbell,” Gennie said in a fluid drawl, “you appear to have several misconceptions about Southern women. I can cook on a hot rock.”