Country Roads(24)

She sensed a tension in Paul’s mood, so she shifted away from the subject of Claire and Tim’s love story. “So I guess you don’t have a whisper horse?”

He shook his head emphatically.

“Do you know how to ride?”

“I can walk, trot, and canter, but I prefer mechanical horsepower.” He patted the car’s dashboard. “Sorry we all overreacted when you mentioned you couldn’t ride.”

“It’s not a big deal.” That was true, as long as she knew they liked her paintings. She figured they would overlook her other shortcomings, especially if she didn’t tell them about the biggest one. “I started drawing horses because I couldn’t ride them, as sort of a compensation for disappointing Papi. He’s a great horseman.”

“I’d say you’d overcompensated,” Paul said.

She didn’t understand why, but his appreciation of her work meant even more to her than Claire’s. Maybe it was because he claimed not to like art, yet his desire to own one of her Night Mares had been genuine. She felt like her pictures had changed him in a small way. “You know, I was about to stop painting.”

“What!” The car jolted onto the shoulder before he pulled it back onto the asphalt.

“I didn’t want to.” That was an understatement since art was the only thing she knew how to do. “But I couldn’t go back to my old style, and my uncle was telling me not to go forward. So I was stuck.”

She felt again the cold, damp suck of the abyss she had stared down into when she thought she would have to give up her work. It was worse than any seizure she’d had.

“Don’t ever let another person stop you from doing what you love!” Paul said. “Ever!”

“Okay.” Julia didn’t know what else to say in the face of such vehemence. “I won’t. Ever.”

“Sorry for the outburst,” Paul said.

“Don’t apologize. It’s good advice,” she said, as she tried to read his face. The country road had no streetlights, and the dashboard’s glow was too muted to illuminate his features. Still she got the sense his reaction came from his own experience, not in response to hers. Who had stopped him from doing what he loved?



Julia was drifting in a hazily pleasant dream when a deep male voice came from just beside her ear. “Julia, we’re here. Wake up.” She didn’t quite recognize it, but she liked the sound.

“I don’t want to wake up. This is too nice a dream.”

Something warm and with an intriguing texture of smooth over hard brushed her cheek as the voice came again. “Julia, we’re at the inn.”

The inn? Surprise made her open her eyes to see the square white columns of the Traveller Inn. Memory flooded back, and she turned her head to find Paul leaning across the gearshift, his hand poised in the air. He must have run the back of it over her cheek.

The porch light spilled down across the lawn, throwing shadows into all the hollows of his face. She couldn’t take her eyes off his lips. They were so close and so perfectly masculine. She wanted to shift her head far enough to touch them with her own mouth, but nerves froze her in her seat.

She forced herself to lift her gaze to his and nearly gasped. His eyes were locked on her lips and his intent was crystal clear.

She waited, hoping he would close the distance between them.

He touched her hair, threading his fingers into the strands over her ear, as he leaned closer. She let her eyelids close.

She heard a strangled sound before her hair was released. Stunned, she opened her eyes to watch him leap out of the car and walk around the long hood.

He sidestepped as she shoved the door open. “I guess you’re awake now,” he said as she got out on her own. “I was going to give you an arm to lean on.”

She’d blown it again. If she’d sat still, she’d have his arm wrapped around her, and maybe that would have led to other things. She thought fast. “I’ll take the arm anyway. I’m not used to drinking that much wine.” She wobbled slightly as she stood.

His arm came around her waist like a warm band of steel. She savored the scent of starch and citrus and man as they climbed the steps to the front porch in slow unison.

He used his free hand to swing the screen door wide and walk her through into the lobby. When she saw a woman sitting behind the reception desk, she reluctantly straightened and stepped out of Paul’s encircling arm. She didn’t want to start any gossip. A lot of people thought artists had shaky morals.

The clerk, a middle-aged woman with permed brown hair, looked up. “Evening, Ms. Castillo. Paul, good to see you. I hope you had a nice time out.”