Chapter 8

Licking her lips, she ignored the little rush of nervousness as she gave him back the glass. His fingers curled around the glass, brushing hers. He walked into her kitchen and set the glass in her sink and then turned around to look at her, leaning back on the counter, elbows propped on the edge.

"So, you still up for Sargent?" he asked.

Felicity picked up the bag of ice from the floor and stood. "Yeah, I think so. Looking at art will make my headache go away."

One of his brows lifted, doubt shadowing his lips in a faint frown.

"I promise. I'm fine."

He pushed away from the counter and walked over to her. "Okay, princess. Art it is." He took the ice bag from her and then tossed it in the sink.

"Thanks for everything." She meant it. The man had taken care of her. She'd always taken care of herself and sometimes, to a small extent, her parents. They'd all had to work hard, and she knew she couldn't ask her parents to support her when they had it rough.

"You seem surprised." Jared's deep baritone was smooth.

She loved his voice. If she closed her eyes, it would pour over her like rich red wine. Sink into her skin, seduce her heart, her mind, her body. Like honey and silk, almost hypnotic. She'd be tempted to do anything he asked with that voice.

"I'm used to taking care of myself. It's just nice, what you did, I mean."

He took two long strides to the couch and sat beside her, caging her against the other side. Cupping her cheeks in his hands, he just stared down at her, eyes as dark as cocoa and heavy with concern.

"No one takes care of you?" The words were a low growl, and anger sparked like summer lightning in his eyes.

She managed a quick shake of her head, relieved he wasn't angry at her.

For a long second, neither of them moved or spoke. He just held her face in his hands and gazed at her. Time seemed to slide away in a silken stream, untouchable, unstoppable, save for his hands on her skin, his eyes holding hers. She'd never wanted anyone to touch her, not like this. Dating and men hadn't been part of the plan. But Jared­ Like a spring rain washing away the dust from winter, she felt free, blessedly free to just be herself.

He broke the spell at last and moved away from her. He bent over the couch and retrieved his coat and slid it on, then held hers out. She stood, legs trembling slightly, as she let him help her into her coat. Such a gentleman. It shouldn't have surprised her. A smile played upon her lips as her heart gave a funny flip in her chest.

After they were both decked out in scarves and gloves, they left the apartment and caught a cab. When the driver pulled up in front of the Art Institute, Felicity handed Jared the cab money from this morning. He quirked a brow again, lips twitching as he shook his head at her in silent reproach and then paid the fare. She slid out of the seat, and he followed, his body bumping into hers from behind when she didn't move fast enough. His hands settled on her shoulders with a slight amount of pressure as he caught his balance.

"Sorry," he murmured in her ear, and then released her.

She couldn't move right away. Her feet were rooted to the ground. Something about him behind her, whispering in her ear­a quiver of longing and hunger rippled through her. With a little shake she started up the steps after him, dodging the flocks of tourists who posed for pictures. Two bronze lions stood as stalwart guardians of the masterpieces inside. She'd always liked the lions. Something about their noble yet ferocious appearance made her feel safe. Protectors of art, of artists. Like her.

She and Jared were halfway up the stairs when Jared's gloved hand reached for hers. She paused for a second, shocked and delighted, before she hastily masked her joy. He acted casual, as though he hadn't just reached for her hand.

Why? She wanted to know why he was doing this, holding her hand, spending time with her, but she was also terrified of what his answer might be. Pity? He'd seen her tiny apartment, the neighborhood she lived in. God, she hoped it wasn't pity, but why else would he be taking care of her?

He paid for their tickets, only shaking his head when she attempted to pay for herself. It was a silent but physical way to show a mixture of displeasure and amusement at her paying her own way.

Her lips parted on a protest, but he only snorted. "No, princess. Don't even start. You've already wounded my male pride." Flattening a palm on his chest over his heart, he closed his eyes for a second as though he'd been stabbed.

The main galleries were familiar to Felicity as they studied the map of the institute. Each painting hanging on the white walls was like an old friend. She came as often as she could, whenever she felt like she had to escape. The worlds painted on the canvases were a comfort, a promise, like the sounds of birds chattering in the wake of a storm. Seeing the paintings was her birdsong. The reassurance that life could survive even when times were tough.

"Do you want to go straight to Sargent?" Jared asked. His voice pulled her back to him, and like a dewdrop on a finely-spun web, she trickled back to him like he was gravity itself.

"Yes, let's do it first." She let him lead her in the direction of the tall banners of a distant gallery that showed the familiar figure of one of Sargent's portraits. There were skylights above that afforded the galleries a wash of gold that softened into warm yellows as it slid down the white walls.

The exhibit was a collection of his more famous portraits of women in high society. He'd created over nine hundred oil paintings, but this particular exhibit had about sixty. Excitement had her tugging Jared's hand as she collected an exhibit booklet for each of them and approached the first piece. A lady in a white gown, half-turned as though someone had called her name. The part of the painting that caught everyone's attention was the long black satin sash that trailed down her back. It cut through the white gown and drew attention to the woman's willowy figure.

"She's beautiful." Jared's voice was slightly soft and low as though speaking in a church. Reverent.

"She is. Sargent had the ability to make any woman beautiful, mysterious. He paints a story, even though it's supposed to be a simple portrait. See how it looks like she's turning around?" Felicity gestured to the lady's movement, then looked at Jared.

His analytical eyes moved over the canvas, taking in every detail. "I'd say it looks like she's twirling, almost preparing to dance, the way her hand holds the train of her gown. She might not lift it up if she was merely turning." He glanced at her and grinned.

She focused on the painting again and then realized he could be right. How had she missed it?

"What of the next one?" Jared's long legs ate up the floor as he led her to the next painting.

The portrait of Lady Helen Vincent. A lovely young woman in a black silk dress was posed before a balcony. Crimson curtains fell behind her, setting off the alabaster of her skin. The gown hung low, well below her breasts, which were cupped by a filmy white chemise.

"Rather risqu¨¦," Jared noted. "Her dress is hanging really low." He waggled eyebrows at Felicity, and she stifled a giggle. Why on earth was he making her act like a silly girl? She was not a giggler.

All too soon, though, she forgot self-consciousness and lost herself in seeing the way the long strand of pearls hung on the painted lady's fingertips and over the dark gown. What had it been like for Sargent to gaze upon such beauty and try to capture it on a canvas? How incredible that must have been, to hear the whisper of silks, the soft click-click of pearls colliding as slender white fingers played with them in muted firelight.

"He was incredibly talented. I think I like his style more than that modern art people always rave over," Jared said as they proceeded down the line to the next work. Their hands were still linked. Like a lifeline, she clung to him and the feeling of safety that his touch gave her.

Why did she have to meet him? Why now when she couldn't afford to fall head over heels for someone? It would be so easy. He made it easy. Damn him.

Afternoon sunlight sparked and smoldered in the gold flecks that splintered through his eyes. Eyes that saw too much, saw right through her.

She swallowed hard and avoided his gaze.

I don't want to fall in love. I can't.