Absent in the Spring (The Shakespeare Sisters 3)

He ran his hand through her hair, feeling the silken strands curling around his fingers. The way she was staring up at him, eyes soft, lips open, made him want to push her against the railing and kiss her until neither of them could breathe. But they weren’t alone – they were surrounded by tourists, brushing past them, grumbling, sending them strange looks.

He leaned his head forward, until his brow was pressed against hers. When she blinked he felt her eyelashes touch his. Her chest hitched, her breath stuttered against his skin, and all he could think of was how much he needed her right then.

‘Let’s go back to our room,’ he whispered, his voice hoarse. He brushed his lips against hers again, feeling a flash of desire shooting through his veins.

‘One more stop,’ she said, her lips moving against his. ‘Let’s just see one more thing and then we’ll go back.’ She closed her eyes as he moved his mouth to her neck, softly kissing his way to her throat. ‘You can choose where we go.’

He breathed in her warm skin, smelling the fragrance of her perfume, mixed in with the floral notes of her shampoo. ‘Okay,’ he agreed, ‘we’ll see one more thing, and then for the next fourteen hours the only sight I want to look at is you.’

He knew exactly what he wanted to show her as soon as she’d said the words. And it wasn’t a huge in-your-face monument like the Eiffel Tower, or a tourist mecca like the Louvre. It was smaller, more intimate, and yet he still found himself hesitating for a moment, before leaning forward to tell the cab driver where to take them next. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to share this with her, more that he was afraid she wouldn’t see it the same way he did.

‘We’re going to another gallery?’ she asked, looking at him quizzically. ‘I didn’t think you liked the paintings at the Louvre that much.’

‘I liked some of them,’ he said, still feeling that strange edge. ‘But this place is different. It doesn’t have paintings.’

Within minutes they were pulling up outside a tall glass building, the light inside flooding out into the Paris streets. Lachlan leaned forward to pay the driver, then climbed out first, offering his hand to Lucy as she left the taxi.

‘Always the gentleman,’ she said, sliding her palm into his.

‘Almost always.’ If she could read his mind, she’d probably change hers. Every time he looked at her there was a need he was finding it harder to ignore. As though their weekend together was only bringing him to a boiling point.

Still holding her hand, he led her inside the gallery, nodding at the dark-haired lady standing behind the desk. There were only a few people inside, wandering around the exhibits, their vo

ices little more than low murmurs in the resounding silence. But it wasn’t the people inside he was looking at, it was her and her reaction. Would she see the beauty that he did, or would it simply be another sight for her to add to her collection? A photograph that would disappear among all the others on her desk.

He hated the thought of that, as much as he hated the thought of her leaving on Sunday.

‘What is this?’ Lucy asked, staring around the room. It was filled with ceramics – old ones, by the looks of them. From their designs and colours she recognised them as oriental – Japanese or Chinese, maybe. But it wasn’t their ethnicity that drew the eye. It was the jagged lines on each piece, filled with gold resin, making new patterns across the old glaze.

‘It’s called Kintsugi,’ Lachlan told her, as they walked into the centre of the room. His voice was strangely hesitant. ‘The Ancient Japanese art of ceramic repair.’ He pulled her towards a large plate. ‘This one is a few hundred years old. See the way each piece is glued together? That lacquer is mixed with powdered gold.’

She leaned forward, her eyes tracing the criss-cross pattern of glue. ‘But why?’ she asked. ‘Do they do it on purpose?’

He shook his head, smiling. ‘Not originally, though I’m sure some do now. It’s more than an art, it’s a philosophy. The belief that things can be more beautiful if they’re broken. That an object’s history only adds to its appeal. That we should enhance our imperfections, not hide them.’

His expression was intense as he stared at her, and she could feel her body responding to his gaze. He looked as excited as he had that day out by the loch, surrounded by nature’s beauty. As though he was springing to life. ‘How do you know so much about it?’ she asked.

‘I lived next door to a Japanese family when I grew up,’ he said, as they moved to the next piece. ‘They found me crying one day when I’d broken my mom’s vase. It was only a cheap thing from Walmart or somewhere, but I knew she was going to be crazy upset by it. The grandma showed me how to repair it and make it look more beautiful. She told me the gold lacquer was like a scar, that we should wear our scars with pride, because they proved to everybody we were survivors.’

Almost immediately her thought was drawn to her own scar. With her free hand – the one not holding on to Lachlan – she reached beneath her hair and touched it.

‘When I first saw that scar, I thought of Kintsugi,’ Lachlan murmured, watching her. ‘You hide it away as though it’s something to be ashamed of. But scars aren’t disfigurements, they’re medals. They show you survived.’

He’d done it again: said something that brought tears to her eyes. She rolled her lip between her teeth, biting on it to stem her emotions. Some things were too horrible to be proud of.

He stopped walking, and reached out to her, tracing the scar with his finger. She held her breath, the touch of his hand like fire against her skin. For a moment it felt as though they were the only people in the gallery, just the two of them, surrounded by ancient Japanese works of art. And the way he was looking at her, as though she was the most beautiful of all of them, was sending her soaring.

‘Why do you try to hide your scar?’ He traced it again, his touch as soft as cotton. ‘It’s part of you, and that makes it beautiful.’

A single tear escaped the barrier she’d tried to create, rolling down her cheek. She tried to swallow, but the congestion in her throat prevented her.

‘It’s an imperfection,’ she finally whispered, her skin on fire beneath his touch. ‘By its very nature, it makes me less than perfect.’

‘What the hell is perfect?’ he asked, sliding his hand until he was cupping the back of her neck. Gently, he kissed away the teardrop that was lingering by her mouth. ‘It’s pretty damned overrated if you ask me. All those women with Botoxed faces, not able to smile or frown? It’s horrible. And these ceramics – before they were broken and mended, they were nothing. Unremarkable. And now they’re exquisite, enough to be displayed in one of the most beautiful galleries in the world.’ His thumb rubbed circles into her neck.

She looked up at him. ‘Is that why you like them?’ she asked. ‘Because of their imperfections?’

‘I like them because they represent a second chance. A second life. They show that no matter how broken things get, they can be mended. And they can become even better than they were to start with.’ He leaned towards her, rubbing his nose against hers. His lips ghosted the corner of her mouth. ‘One man’s imperfection is another man’s work of art,’ he whispered, his breath tickling her skin. She held her own breath as he pressed his mouth to hers, kissing her hard enough to send shivers pulsing through her spine.