Secrets and Sins:Raphael(20)

"It's not finished yet," she murmured, her fingers plucking at the hem  of the shirt. She wouldn't meet his eyes; instead she studied the floor,  turned back to the easel. "I couldn't sleep, and since I was up pretty  early I decided to work. It's a lovely view … "

Her chatter finally penetrated the dumbfounded fog surrounding his  brain. She was nervous. The prattle, fidgeting-she was jumpy about his  reaction. To what? Catching her painting? Her being an artist? The art  itself? Or D, all of the above?

"It's beautiful." He moved forward until his bare toes lined up with the  edge of the tarp. Up close the vivid dreaminess was even more startling  and breathtaking. "It's fucking beautiful." He stretched an arm out,  his finger hovering just above the line where the trees met the sky.  "It's like dreaming with my eyes wide open."

Her smile was slow, hesitant, uncertain as if no one had ever told her  how talented she was. One half-finished piece and he immediately  recognized her gift. It exceeded being able to mix colors and render a  pretty picture. She made him feel.

Anger sneaked in under the awe, staining the shock. Why the hell was she  so surprised? She should know how good she was. Which led to his next  question. Which fuck-tard had neglected to encourage and support her?  Her parents? Her brother? Whatever new idea, hobby, or activity he and  his sisters had decided to undertake or join when they were kids, his  mother had always been fully on board. Even when it'd been obvious they  weren't going to be savants in that area. When she was ten, his older  sister had decided she wanted to be the next Mary Lou Retton. Jackie  couldn't tumble worth a damn-not even a somersault. But his mother had  religiously taken her to practices for a year before Jackie decided  gymnastics wasn't her calling, ballet was. During his sober and paroled  moments, even his father had supported Rafe in his karate phase. That's  what family did. So why the hell did Greer seem as if she wanted to  believe his praise but wasn't completely sold?                       
       
           



       

"I didn't know you were an artist." He tried to bury the anger, but his voice bore the cost of the effort.

She shrugged. Another round of the finger-plucking and refusal to look  at him. "I wouldn't call myself an artist. At least not yet. I'm trying  to get there."

"I look at that"-he flipped a hand in the direction of the canvas-"and  an artist painted it, not a wannabe. Just because no one is plunking  down money for it doesn't make you any less of one. Although," he said,  contemplating the canvas again, "when you are finished, I'd put down  money for it."

She stared at him. Snorted. "You don't have to take it that far. Now you're just being kind."

He gaped at her as if she'd sprouted wings and pointed ears to match the  mythical creatures in her painting. "Since when do you know me to be  kind?"

"You've been nicer to me than most." A wistfulness softened her tone, and she ducked her head.

"What do you mean by that? Who hasn't been nice to you?" almost burst  past his lips, but at the last moment, he swallowed the question.  Getting deeper into her business would be a colossal mistake. It led to  urges to pound something or someone simply because she appeared  uncertain about her talent. Or the need to reassure her. It led to  attachment. And attachment to the kind of woman she was inevitably  veered to pain, loss, and bitterness. He didn't want to hear the "whys"  or discover the "whats." Not. His. Business.

"Anyway, I'm applying to the Massachusetts College of Art and Design's  Illustration program. That's what this piece is for. My portfolio."

Damn.

Who the hell is Greer Addison?

The question ricocheted off the walls of his skull. A picture of the  first time they met waved in front of his eyes like a mirage. Sitting  next to Gavin, quiet, back straight, hair drawn back from her stunning  face in a neat bun, understated but lovely makeup, a fashion model in a  wine-colored dress that fit her to perfection. A trophy. A society  princess. Then he envisioned the woman from the bar. Newly un-engaged,  relaxed from a couple drinks, vulnerable but passionate and wild in his  arms. Flash-forward to yesterday. Thinner, weary, scared but strong and  determined. And today. Shy, uncertain, talented. An undercover artist.

Who was the real Greer? The one he originally met in his office? Was the  woman who rode him with such sweet abandon an aberration? Or was this  paint-spattered waif the true person?

"Illustration?" he repeated, mind whirling.

She nodded. "I want to be a children's book illustrator." Her fingers  went to the top of the smock and released the first button. "I know it  sounds silly."

"Not at all." He studied her, the careful movements as she slid off the  shirt, folded it, and set it on the table. Followed her as she squirted  dish detergent on a plate before picking up a brush and scrubbing it.  "Why do you do that?" he asked abruptly. Her head jerked up, eyebrows  arched in question. "Not that," he waved toward the brushes. "Why do you  qualify the things you say? You're not talented. A children's  illustrator is silly. If you're not an artist, then who the hell are  you, Greer?"

A lost, almost haunted shadow passed through her green eyes, reminding him of the mysterious forest on her easel.

"I don't know," she finally whispered.

The impact of the soft, sad admission reverberated in his ears like a  deafening shout. His fingers curled at his sides as he fought the need  to reach for her, drag her close, rejection of his touch be damned. He  wanted to press his lips to the lids of those troubled eyes, and then  lower to her vulnerable mouth and remove the loneliness that scraped  over his heart like a rusty, dull knife. He came from a family where  hugs and affectionate touching were as normal as Spaghetti Wednesdays.  Sometimes a tight embrace said more than "I'm proud of you" or "I love  you." Or "Don't worry, I won't let him hurt you."

He'd seen images of the senior Ethan Addison and his wife on television  right after Gavin Wells's death. If either of those two doled out hard  squeezes or teasing kisses, he'd hand over his left nut right now.  Noting the rigid set of Greer's shoulders and the tension in her slender  frame, he was confident his boys were safe.

"Don't do that," she snapped, startling him. "Don't look at me like you  pity me. I've had enough of that. More than enough. I may be twenty-six  years old and have no damn clue about who I am, what I'm doing, or even  what will happen tomorrow. But at least I'm finding out instead of being  satisfied with letting others tell me." Her voice wavered, but even as  her lips firmed into a grim line, it strengthened. "So just … don't do  that."                       
       
           



       

He held up his hands. "Got it. No pity. Just please, put the paintbrush down."

Her lips parted, and her eyes widened as she glanced down and realized  she gripped a brush between her fingers, jabbing it at him.

"Shit," she breathed, dropping the tool in the plate full of solution.

He snorted. The curse word sounded almost prudish coming from her lips.  Ruffled. He shook his head. Oh, yeah, she was definitely ruffled. And  probably didn't want him around to witness it. Give her some space and  time, his conscience nagged. Fine. Hell if both of them didn't need it.  His stomach took that moment to growl, reminding him of the sandwich  he'd come up out of the office to fix. With one last glance at Greer's  straight spine, he turned …

And halted.

Frowning, he edged around the easel and painting, nearing the window. He  scanned the drive, at first unsure what had snagged his attention. At  the end of the drive, the postman drew to a stop and shoved mail into  the black box. Nothing special there, yet he remained at the window. He  narrowed his gaze, not on the postal worker, but the rectangular white  package sitting on the ground next to the iron base of the mailbox.

A package the mailman hadn't delivered.

Before the thought finished, he was moving.

Out the room. Down the hall. Through the front door.

Down the driveway.

"Raphael," Greer called after him, the alarm and sharp note of fear like a dissonant chord to his ears.

"Stay inside," he barked over his shoulder as he rushed over the  asphalt, his feet slapping against the cold pavement. He shoved the  discomfort to the back of his mind, all his focus centered on the  package that hadn't been there when he glanced outside his office window  a couple of hours ago. Slowing a few feet from the mailbox, he studied  the innocuous-seeming box.