CLAIRE buckled her belt at her waist and adjusted the hang of her houndstooth skirt in the mirror, all the while aware of Ryan watching from the bed behind her. She’d intentionally chosen an outfit that, though stylish and contemporary, wasn’t particularly sexy. With all the days she’d missed from work recently, she knew it was going to be another busy day. The last thing she needed—as much as she might enjoy it—was to be hours late courtesy of Ryan liking the way something split at her knee.
Only, feeling the hot lick of his gaze trailing over the backs of her thighs, she wasn’t sure the skirt had done the job. And she hadn’t even risked the boots yet, intending to carry the stacked-heel footwear to the front door before slipping them on and making a dash for the nearest cab. So much for that.
“I need to get to work,” she warned, shooting a chiding glance over her shoulder. “I can get away with a half day, probably. Maybe leaving by three?”
It would hurt, but the man had shown up, as if she’d conjured him out of thin air. The least she could do was manage a few extra hours for him.
Leaning back against the headrest, he crossed his arms over his chest and grinned. “How about I come with you. I’ll set up in your office. Believe me when I tell you I’ve got plenty to do.”
She fumbled her necklace, a clunky brass chain adorned with crocheted cherries and rhinestone-encrusted leaves. “The whole day?”
“Sure.” He hopped off the bed, coming up behind to catch the clasp, waiting as he used to for her to lift her hair clear. “If you don’t think it would be too much distraction.”
A hot open mouthed kiss at her nape sent a shiver coursing through her and her senses reeling.
“I’ll promise to be good.”
God, he was always good. The man could be good in the backseat of a Volkswagen Bug. Good wasn’t the problem. Nor the distraction.
It was him.
Inside her gallery. Penetrating her last refuge.
She wanted to hold out. Protect it. Only deep down, she knew he’d infiltrated that sanctuary weeks ago. His touch haunting her memories, the question of when she’d see him next dominating her thoughts.
Strong hands closed over her shoulders as he turned her to face him. Playing with the red bobble at the base of her throat, he smiled wolfishly. “Cherries. My favorite.”
Her gaze shot the length of him. Open white oxford and dark-rinse jeans. No shoes.
Her favorite, too.
Catching her hand where it had drifted to the hard plane of his belly, Ryan rubbed a thumb across the rise of each knuckle. “So, what do you say? Work date?”
“Yes.” Resisting Ryan just wasn’t part of her makeup.
Claire was in her element. Now he understood. The gallery was something she’d built to be a part of her, rather than simply a place where she worked. Something she did.
They’d walked through the doors that morning and it was as if the space breathed her in, drawing her away from him in a way he hadn’t expected. Couldn’t compete with.
Not that he wanted to. Not really.
He just hadn’t been prepared for her move away from him so abruptly. Both physically and mentally.
He should have though. At least in the physical regard. The relationship hadn’t been publicized. They’d been selective in their outings and quiet about the affair in general. New York had been a risk, but one Ryan ultimately had been willing to take.
And if he were totally honest with himself, he’d been curious about her life here. He’d wanted to see the home she’d made without him. Wanted to touch the part of her that hadn’t existed when they’d been together. But of course that meant touching her in public was out of the question.
At the gallery, Claire garnered the same “look all you want, but hands off” treatment as the works of art adorning her walls. So they’d stood three feet apart. And he’d tamped down that recurring impulse to lay a proprietary arm across her shoulders or hand over the curve at her waist.
There had been a few questioning stares from both patrons and staff alike, but Sally, Claire’s competent assistant, had stepped in, deftly diverting the attention as they’d made their way back to Claire’s office. And if he’d thought to get her on top of her desk or against the door in there, he’d been sorely mistaken. Claire was a workhorse with an open-door policy. One that she wasn’t modifying for him.
They worked across the desk from one another through most of the morning. Claire stepping out from time to time and then settling back to look through another prospective artist’s work or answer calls from her clients.
Ryan wasn’t accustomed to sharing an office, but it had worked out and by early afternoon he was ready for a break.
Claire was just wrapping a call when he rounded her desk and, miraculously finding a square of open space, rested one hip atop the surface. It wasn’t provocative or overly presumptuous, but Claire’s gaze invariably shot to the door as she rolled her chair back a few inches. Only, Ryan had been good all day, and he didn’t want her getting away from him quite so quickly. Reaching out easily enough, he grabbed her seat back, holding her trapped momentarily captive.
“Think you’ve accomplished enough to justify breaking for lunch?”
Her gaze roved over the desktop as she openly considered. Then, blinking up at him, “Something quick?”
“No roach-coach, if that’s what you mean.” He valued her life too much to risk it on lunch off the back of a truck.
When she continued to hesitate, he briefly caught her chin before pulling back his hold. If he wasn’t careful, he’d be stroking his thumb across her lips and slipping his hand around the back of her neck. And it would only get better from there.
So he was being careful. Damn it.
“Even if someone spots us together at a restaurant. So what? I could be a client.”
She leaned back into her chair. “Or you could be my husband. If my name weren’t Brady it would be different. But all it would take is one person putting Brady and Brady together, getting curious and— Honestly, I don’t know exactly how I feel about what we’re doing, myself. I’m just not ready to answer questions for anyone else.”
“Claire!” The enthusiastic squeal sounded from the doorway, followed immediately by a small body, smelling distinctly of chorine, barreling into the office. “I told you she’d be here!”
“Corbin, you need to knock first… Sorry, Claire” came the patiently chiding voice of a woman a few paces back.
Ryan stepped clear of the desk and out of the fray just as Corbin crashed into Claire’s chair.
“Hi, Jane. How’s it going, little man?” she asked, laughing even as she waved off the mother’s apologetic frown.
“Good.” The boy grabbed his belt, hitching his jeans to rib height as he readied his response. “We watched Clone Wars this morning and I had swimming and you said my painting was gonna be ready on Saturday, so I told Mom we needed to come.”
Ryan watched as Claire’s brows incrementally rose with each fact bulleted off, emphasizing to the little tyke that she was following his every word. And was duly impressed as well. Her entire posture relaxed around this family and Ryan wondered who they were to her. And if she intended to simply pretend he wasn’t there rather than acknowledge to her friends who he was.
Apparently that was exactly what she intended, as evidenced when she rose from her chair and began ushering the lot of them toward the door. “What do you say we head back to the studio and check it out?”
Studio? Was this some child prodigy? The boy didn’t have the gloomy gaunt intensity he would have figured to go along with that kind of youthful creative genius, but maybe he’d just watched too much TV. There was no law that said well-fed, happy kids couldn’t paint.
Jane shot him a nervous glance and began shaking her head in protest. “I don’t want to interrupt your meeting…”
Claire, obviously seeing no way around it, set her shoulders and faced Ryan with a strained smile. “No, this is nothing. Nothing to interrupt. Totally nothing.”
He wanted to laugh.
Way to sell it, Claire. She couldn’t lie to save her life. Never could.
“I’m Ryan,” he said, offering his hand for a quick shake. Then, unable to resist a poke at Claire, added, “Nothing, Ryan.”
Jane giggled and Corbin twisted up his face with pained urgency. “Come on.”
Claire, all too happy to accommodate, led the way down a back hall to a room he hadn’t been shown on the introductory tour. A brightly lit studio stocked with children’s-size easels, clotheslines strung with pictures and bin upon bin of colorful supplies stacked low against the walls.
Corbin, who didn’t seem to walk anywhere, skidded across the open floor to a drying rack where he retrieved his latest masterpiece, gently displaying it for their approval.
Claire crouched in front of him, talking quietly about his use of color and negative space. The kid couldn’t be seven, but he nodded along with everything she said, making sure his mother fully appreciated the technique. Then, noting an audience member fallen out of the fold, Corbin hiked up his belt again and strode over to Ryan, thrusting the painting up at him.
“It’s the blue park behind my house.”
“I like it.” There was plenty of blue. And surprisingly enough detail to back up the park claim. Though this kid’s work definitely wasn’t the next exhibit in the gallery’s West Hall.
“Do you see the sandbox?”
Obviously a cursory examination wasn’t going to do it. And the boy was so proud, really—what would a few minutes’ praise cost him?
Crouching as he’d seen Claire do, he looked more closely. Picked out as many recognizable details as he could. Asked questions and warmed to the critique as their exchange continued.
And then he was laughing with this little boy whose antics were peculiar and irresistible all at once. Charmed by his exuberance and glee.
It was funny. Ryan had always liked kids—thought he’d have a big brood of them himself one day. But it hadn’t worked out that way, and after Claire left he’d found it easier to steer clear of domesticity as it happened around him than to deal with it. It hadn’t been difficult. For the most part, his interactions tended toward the professional. He worked. A lot. And the people he played with worked a lot, too. It was their common interest, so to speak. As an only child himself, there weren’t any nieces or nephews to be tossing around either. So he’d effectively distanced himself from moments like this one.
But, as devastated and broken as she’d been by their loss, somehow Claire had not. It made him happy to learn that she’d made room for children in this life she’d constructed for herself, even if they weren’t her own.
Their own.
He swallowed, taking another look at the boy who huddled against him. Saw the dark mop of straight hair, the bright blue eyes, and olive skin, and wondered if this was what Andrew might have looked like. If their child would have been bursting with so much energy that his little feet couldn’t stop moving even when he’d been trying so hard to stand still. If he’d like to paint pictures for his mother, who had wanted him so badly, and tell his daddy about the bus ride to school and the bug that got into the library.
And then he felt it. That tiny weight in his hand that was the end of everything he’d loved, all the plans they’d made. His baby so small, so young, that he’d never had a chance.
For a moment the sense of loss was so fresh, so sharp, it cut through him like a knife. Reminding him why he’d worked so hard not to think about those old dreams at all. He needed to get out of there. Needed to breathe—something. But as he straightened, he caught sight of Claire. Stricken. Staring at him.
At them.