Putting my head down, I rushed to the back door, passing behind her. I could feel her as I went by in long strides, moving as fast as my feet would go. Her scent hung in the air around her, as soft and delicate as her sweet face. I felt her gaze shift from the painting to me and I walked faster, hoping Jonathon didn’t come from his office and call my name for any reason. I wouldn’t stop, even if he did; my panic was too great.
I groaned as I grasped the door and wrenched it open, almost running to the SUV, in my haste to get away from there. My hands shook as I struggled with the seat belt, finally hearing the click as the buckle connected. My tires tore on the pavement as I backed out of the lot and headed toward the house.
I struggled to control my breathing as I drove away; my mind was a chaotic symphony of thoughts. One was more prevalent than the others.
I wanted her. I wanted her in ways I hadn’t wanted a woman in years.
A complete stranger.
My mind saw us together; limbs entwined as I buried my face in her thick hair and felt her soft curves under me. Her subtle perfume lingered, and I yearned to be close enough again to breathe it in, to hold her scent deep in my lungs. My fingers ached to caress her pale skin, trace that trembling full lip with mine and taste it. I needed to know if it was as sweet as I thought it would be—or even sweeter.
I wanted to see her reaction to other pieces of my work. Watch the wonder on her beautiful face as she studied the canvases.
I could see her in my studio, her brilliant hair lit by the sun. I wanted to capture her image on canvas.
I wanted so much more than that with her.
Slamming my hand on the steering wheel in anger, I cursed. I could never have her.
I could never have any woman.
She would never want me.
I needed to stay away from her and keep her away from me.
If she got close to me, I wasn’t sure I could resist her.4MeganFrom: Jared Cameron
To: Megan Greene
Subject: Running from the truth Megan?
Did you think hiding was the answer here? Stop ignoring me. Why don’t you do the right thing—everyone makes mistakes. Recant your statement and let it go, and I will drop it. Don’t you think it’s enough I have to suffer not only finding out my assistant/girlfriend used me, but also tried to claim my work as hers? I’ve been hurt enough, Megan, and still, I forgive you. I have to in order to move on. I loved you once and your betrayal has cut me to the bone. Stop the pain for both of us.
JaredDamn it, he was good. Another pleading email, which would, no doubt, somehow be leaked to the press. It showed not only his pleading with me to stop hurting him, but his forgiving nature. All designed to make me look like the bad person; just the way he intended. There were also texts and a voice mail from him, all spewing the same lies, keeping up the front that he was the injured party. I was so tired of this mess. The fact of the matter was that I was almost ready to walk away, no matter how much Karen told me to keep fighting. He had done a good job. He managed to destroy my credibility, ruined my career, killed my hopes of becoming a published writer, and made me feel worthless all at the same time. How could I overcome all of that?
I sat back with a groan, rubbing my forehead. This was not helping the building headache.
Outside, the skies were low and overcast; a storm was slowly approaching. Staring out the window, my eyes drifted to the end of the beach and the house on the bluff. I hadn’t heard from Jonathon since I’d been at the gallery two days prior. The urge to walk across the sand and knock on Zachary’s door, begging him to allow me to buy his painting, had been one I’d been resisting since I came home. Instead, I had gone for many walks on the beach, spent hours sitting in front of the computer screen. I tried and failed to find inspiration to write again, always ending up on the same site run by the gallery, looking at Zachary’s paintings.
I had no idea what his full name was—they were all listed as painted by Z D A—but even his initials fascinated me. I stared at the images of the paintings for hours. Even the simplest, softest ones of the beach and sand held so much emotion; I could feel it even through the screen. It was as though he captured emotions on all his canvases. On some, like Tempest, he brought out hidden ones, the kind a person kept to themselves.