Read Online Every Time I Love You by Heather Graham - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Heather Graham
Ads: Link
magnificent. Wide-open space met her gaze. The living room stretched from one side of the house to the other, with soft cream carpeting subtly switching to cool tan Mexican tiles. There was a long stairway at the rear of the room.
“Mary!” Brent called out. There was no answer. He glanced at Gayle and shrugged. “She must be in the kitchen. Excuse me.”
He disappeared to the right of the room through a multipaned doorway. Gayle felt so nervous about being alone with Brent that she couldn't quite leave the entryway, raised about a foot over the even level of the floor.
He came back with a slip of paper in his hand and a rueful shrug. “Her grandson broke an arm playing football. She's in town with the little boy. Ralph must be with her.”
“Oh.” Gayle still couldn't leave the entryway. He smiled. She gazed at him, thinking that he was a very handsome man who looked like a gallant from the past.
“Well, come in,” he said a bit impatiently. “I won't bite you.”
She stepped into the room. He came to take her coat, not hanging it up but tossing it over the back of one of the leather chairs. “Can I get you anything? A glass of wine, a soda?”
She shook her head, sliding nervously into one of the leather couches. If he was aware of the panic streaking through her, he gave her no sign. He began to pull his tie from his neck, struggling slightly with the knot.
“I'll show you the studio and the dressing room.” He reached for her hand, found it, and pulled her to her feet. He led her up the stairs to the top landing.
The studio was located directly above the living room. Stacks and stacks of canvases lined the walls, some with pencil sketches, some with dabs of paint. A large table held tubes and bottles of paints and remover and brushes. His easel stood near the table. A massive skylight practically filled the ceiling and the room was surrounded by windows.
He left her standing in the middle of the room and selected a canvas and fit it upon the easel. “You needn't worry about the windows; we're surrounded by woods. Completely private.” He paused at last, looking at her. “You're all right?”
She nodded, even though she wasn't all right at all. She was very nervous, freezing one moment, hot the next. She wondered why she was there but, even then, as she watched him, she knew that she had come because she hadn't been able to let him leave without her. He had fascinated her, excited her—compelled her.
“Good, good,” he murmured to her. He brusquely led her to a small section of the room in the corner and pulled back a heavy curtain. “This is the dressing room. Select a robe. I'm going to change. I'll be right back.”
Then he was gone, and she was left standing there alone. She looked around the little corner; there were hangers and wall hooks. She saw a thick white terry robe and reached for it, but it slipped from her hand. She couldn't do it. She couldn't.
No! She had to—she was here. She would do it. It was no big deal. She thought of all the nudes she had sketched in art school. The model was just a body. The artist was completely detached. She could do it. Brent McCauley had, certainly, in his day, sketched hundreds of nude bodies.
She slipped off her shoes and wondered why she still didn't feel quite real. Maybe that was a bonus too. It wasn't really her here, it was the strange woman who had drunk too much champagne this evening and too impulsively volunteered.
Reluctantly, she took off her panty hose. She bit her lower lip and felt chills sweep through her. She couldn't do it. No, she had said that she would. She fumbled for the zipper at the back of her velvet dress and then hastily pulled the garment over her head. She hugged it to her, then slipped it onto one of the garment hooks. She quickly unfastened her bra, then hid it beneath the dress.
Then she realized that she was standing on a cold floor in an open room in nothing but peach string panties with see-through lace
“Mary!” Brent called out. There was no answer. He glanced at Gayle and shrugged. “She must be in the kitchen. Excuse me.”
He disappeared to the right of the room through a multipaned doorway. Gayle felt so nervous about being alone with Brent that she couldn't quite leave the entryway, raised about a foot over the even level of the floor.
He came back with a slip of paper in his hand and a rueful shrug. “Her grandson broke an arm playing football. She's in town with the little boy. Ralph must be with her.”
“Oh.” Gayle still couldn't leave the entryway. He smiled. She gazed at him, thinking that he was a very handsome man who looked like a gallant from the past.
“Well, come in,” he said a bit impatiently. “I won't bite you.”
She stepped into the room. He came to take her coat, not hanging it up but tossing it over the back of one of the leather chairs. “Can I get you anything? A glass of wine, a soda?”
She shook her head, sliding nervously into one of the leather couches. If he was aware of the panic streaking through her, he gave her no sign. He began to pull his tie from his neck, struggling slightly with the knot.
“I'll show you the studio and the dressing room.” He reached for her hand, found it, and pulled her to her feet. He led her up the stairs to the top landing.
The studio was located directly above the living room. Stacks and stacks of canvases lined the walls, some with pencil sketches, some with dabs of paint. A large table held tubes and bottles of paints and remover and brushes. His easel stood near the table. A massive skylight practically filled the ceiling and the room was surrounded by windows.
He left her standing in the middle of the room and selected a canvas and fit it upon the easel. “You needn't worry about the windows; we're surrounded by woods. Completely private.” He paused at last, looking at her. “You're all right?”
She nodded, even though she wasn't all right at all. She was very nervous, freezing one moment, hot the next. She wondered why she was there but, even then, as she watched him, she knew that she had come because she hadn't been able to let him leave without her. He had fascinated her, excited her—compelled her.
“Good, good,” he murmured to her. He brusquely led her to a small section of the room in the corner and pulled back a heavy curtain. “This is the dressing room. Select a robe. I'm going to change. I'll be right back.”
Then he was gone, and she was left standing there alone. She looked around the little corner; there were hangers and wall hooks. She saw a thick white terry robe and reached for it, but it slipped from her hand. She couldn't do it. She couldn't.
No! She had to—she was here. She would do it. It was no big deal. She thought of all the nudes she had sketched in art school. The model was just a body. The artist was completely detached. She could do it. Brent McCauley had, certainly, in his day, sketched hundreds of nude bodies.
She slipped off her shoes and wondered why she still didn't feel quite real. Maybe that was a bonus too. It wasn't really her here, it was the strange woman who had drunk too much champagne this evening and too impulsively volunteered.
Reluctantly, she took off her panty hose. She bit her lower lip and felt chills sweep through her. She couldn't do it. No, she had said that she would. She fumbled for the zipper at the back of her velvet dress and then hastily pulled the garment over her head. She hugged it to her, then slipped it onto one of the garment hooks. She quickly unfastened her bra, then hid it beneath the dress.
Then she realized that she was standing on a cold floor in an open room in nothing but peach string panties with see-through lace
Similar Books
