The knock came again, and I jumped. Carefully, I rose on my tiptoes to look through the peep hole, and my heart stopped working.
His back was turned as he seemed to scan the parking lot, but I easily recognized those broad shoulders. The canvass jacket I knew as well as the short, dark hair that I loved to slide my fingers through. He turned back, and the sight of his eyes was like warm honey poured through my veins.
Stuart Knight stood outside my door. He wasn’t overseas.
As much as I wanted to throw it open, I quickly assessed my wardrobe. My hair was up in a ponytail, and of course, I had flecks of blue paint in the tips. I seemed to remember touching my cheek with the brush at some point, so I knew there was a streak of green there. You’d think I was freaking Jackson Pollock the way I threw paint all over myself.
Another loud knock, and I let out a little shriek when I jumped.
“Mariska?” His low voice clutched my insides through the wooden barrier.
There was no hiding now. I’d have to see him looking like this. I didn’t have time to change or clean up.
Turning the lock, I slowly opened the door, wishing all this had come ten minutes from now. After I’d had that glass of wine. Our last telephone conversation wasn’t the most confidence inspiring.
Our eyes met, and his gleamed with something. I remembered the night I’d seen a break in his wall. The night he’d said he wanted me. Those few glorious days I’d been His Mariska.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call first.” His eyes flickered quickly over my body and the change I saw in them scorched my insides. I hadn’t worn a bra under his Henley, and other than that, I only wore black footless leggings.
“You came back.” My voice was breathless. God, how I still loved this man.
“I never left. Are you busy?”
“I-I was just painting.”
Again his expression changed. His obvious lust was replaced with something like cautious optimism. “I’ve wanted to see your art. Would you show it to me?”
Several obvious questions—What are you doing here? Why aren’t you in Saudi? What do you want from me?—were forgotten for the moment. I stepped back to let him in, and like a gentleman (a good Marine?) he slipped off his boots.
“It’s back here,” I said, pushing the door closed and turning the deadbolt behind him.
His canvass jacket slipped down his arms, and I took it, tossing it on the sofa. He followed me through the crammed living room, the sparse kitchen where I hadn’t cooked in weeks, back to the guest room I’d converted into a studio. It was always too small for a bedroom, and I never had overnight guests.
“Fire in the Desert” was leaning against the wall drying, and “Chasing the Dawn” was up on my easel. It looked better than I thought when I left it minutes ago.
“You do abstracts.” His voice was quiet as he squatted in front of the blaze of orange, yellow, and red on the floor. His eyes lifted to mine, and the mixture of approval and desire made my legs weak.
“I’ve never been much of a portrait artist.” My hands were fluttery, but I gestured to the unfinished work on the easel. “I got the idea for this one talking to your uncle about the colt.”
He straightened and stepped toward it, toward me. He scanned the canvass, and I scanned him, broad shoulders under a navy tee. His dark jeans hugged his ass in the most pleasing way, but they were loose down his legs. I swooned from his handsomeness like I had since that very first day.
“What did he say?” It was as if he needed my answer before he could go on.
“I asked him how long it took to break a horse, and he said it depended on the animal.” I tried to remember his exact words. “He said after all the work he’d done, brushing and gentling him, the colt would still get spooked when he saw him on his back. And he said if the colt threw him, that would spook him, too.”
Stuart’s body seemed to tense at my words. It was time to get back to those obvious questions.
Reaching out, I carefully touched his arm. “I thought you were in Saudi.”
“You’re wearing my shirt.”
“It smells like you.”
Before I could blink, he’d grabbed me. Emotion pulsed fiercely in my chest as he held me against the wall. His arms were under mine, and my head was in his hands. Our noses just touched, our lips a whisper apart as he spoke.
“I couldn’t get on the plane.” His breath came as fast as mine, and my lips throbbed for his kiss. “I thought my dream was in the desert, but it’s not. It’s here with you.”
I held his shirt, gripping the cloth. “Stuart…” It was all I could say.