Authors: Kate Perry
Do
not
think about those kisses right now.
With a groan, I rolled out of bed. I needed to get some work done today. My shift didn't start until six, but it was January, so I only had a few good hours of light to paint by.
I took a moment to pull on an old sweatshirt and leggings on my way to the fridge. Grabbing the scroll off the floor, I stood there, clutching it in my hand, for only a few seconds before returning it to its hiding spot. Then I hesitated only a few more before going out to my studio.
Frigid out. People had the misconception that California was all sun, palm trees, and blond people in swim-suits, but that was so wrong. Especially in San Francisco, where the winters could be cold and wet. And fog was the norm all year round.
Shivering, I sat on the stool and propped my bare feet on the rung to keep them off the cold floor. I studied the painting until my mind was clear and I was in my creative space. I dabbed some azure, white, and ochre on the palette, picked a brush, and leaned forward.
Right before my brush touched the canvas, something shifted and
tu ch’i
swelled. Before I could stop it, the earth opened to me, and it and I connected. That was only way to describe it: connecting. As if I extended down into the earth and it flowed into me, no beginning or end.
The same feeling I'd had the first time I'd touched Rhys.
For a split second, I felt free, like anything was possible. But then it morphed. Instead of an equal give and take,
tu ch’i
overpowered me, forcing me to bend to its whim. I tried to reel it in, but it shoved back with staggering intensity.
I didn't like it. Struggling against it, I mentally pushed away to keep from being mired. When I was finally free, I found myself sprawled on the floor, gasping for breath.
"What the hell was that?" I mumbled, shaking my head to clear it. I almost expected Wu to pop out and answer. He didn't, and I didn't know whether that was a relief or not.
It took a couple tries before I could stand. Woozy, I teetered on my heels, holding on to the stool so I wouldn't topple over.
"Food." Eating something would make me feel better. I stumbled into the kitchen and grabbed a bag of M&M's—my breakfast of choice—and returned to the studio. Opening the bag, I popped them one by one, setting the blue ones on the easel's tray. I hated blue M&M's. Totally unnatural.
After a third of the bag, I decided to get back on the horse. So to speak. I reached down to pick up my discarded brush and emptied my mind to get into the zone, but as soon as I mentally crossed into that space,
tu ch’i
began to rise again. I blinked to snap out of it right as I got that drowning-in-dirt sensation.
Because I'm stubborn, I tried two more times. It accomplished nothing except giving me the mother of all headaches and making me feel supremely pissy.
I picked up the bag of M&M's and chewed angrily. Being overwhelmed by the curse every time I tried to paint was bad. Very bad.
"That's not a healthy breakfast."
I turned around to face Wu and made a show of sticking another in my mouth.
His lips firmed with disapproval. "You won't train well without real food."
"Then it's a good thing I'm painting and not training this morning." God, I sounded bitchy. Maybe I was hanging out around Vivian too much.
"You're wasting your time with this painting." He glided over and waved dismissively at the canvas. "It's nothing more than dabs of color. Your true worth lies in being a Guardian."
Whatever. Turning back to my painting, I tried to picture what needed to happen next, but I couldn't see anything beyond the chaos of
tu ch’i
churning. Like it was waiting to pounce.
"Speaking of being a Guardian," he continued like this was a normal conversation, "you
must
begin to eat better. You can't train well if your brain is addled by sugar."
I slowly popped a red M&M.
His exasperation vibrated at me. If I'd turned around to look at him, he probably would have been glowing. "Ga-brielle, we need to begin training right away. I explained it last night. You have a decent foundation in fighting, but an essential part of protecting the scroll is to understand the power it imparts to you." His voice hardened. "You have to be able to wield the power accurately and without consequence."
Another accusation. My spine stiffened. Wu and Paul's faith in me was staggering. "Why don't you just say what you're thinking?"
"You don't know what's in my mind."
"It doesn't take a telepath. You think I'm a failure. You always have." My glare dared him to deny it.
He folded his arms and gave me his flat, omniscient gaze. "Do you think I see you as a failure, or is that how you see yourself?"
I blinked. What a sneaky attack. And I couldn't defend against it. So I jammed the last of my M&M's in my mouth and stood up. "I'm going to take a shower, and then I need to get some work done before going to the bar."
He shook his head slowly. "One day, everything you've been running from will catch up to you." Before I could tell him what he could do with his Jedi wisdom, he vanished.
"Seems to me like you're the one always leaving and unavailable," I yelled, swiping the spot where he'd been standing with my arm.
Fuming, I marched through the kitchen. As I passed the fridge, I ignored the impulse to check the scroll and hurried along to the bathroom. I slammed the door shut, turned the water on hot, and stripped.
I hadn't lied about needing to work—I absolutely needed to get cracking on my paintings. I just wasn't sure it was going to be possible. Especially here. I stepped under the spray and immersed myself.
If I went somewhere else, would
tu ch’i
be as much of a distraction? Maybe, maybe not. At least Wu wouldn't be hovering over my shoulder pestering me every five seconds. That was enough motivation for me, even if it was going to be a struggle carting my supplies elsewhere.
Unless I gave the scroll to Paul. Then he'd have to deal with Wu and his insanity. I was only hesitating because of a stupid broadsword-shaped blotch.
The birthmark stung, like someone poked a pin into me. I rubbed it with my loofah hard enough that my skin turned red.
By the time I finished my shower, shook my hair out, and applied some eyeliner and lip gloss—the extent of my cosmetic talents—I'd come to the conclusion that until I was ready to hand the scroll over to Paul, I needed to find an alternative place to work.
I pulled out my cell phone and called the only logical choice.
"Allo?"
"Madame, c'est moi, Gabrielle."
"C'est l'après-midi. Tu ne travailles pas maintenant?"
She sounded concerned.
"Ilfaut finir les peintures. Tu n'as que quatre semaines."
"Oui, je sais."
She didn't have to remind me of the deadline. "That's why I'm calling. I thought maybe I could do some work at your house."
Silence. Then she said,
"Qu'est-ce qui s'est passé?"
"Nothing's happened," I lied. "I just need a change of scenery. And this way you can crack the whip and make sure I stay on schedule."
"Why do I feel you are not truthful with me?" Before I could say anything, she said,
"Bien,
come paint here. I make room in the kitchen."
"Je le ferai, Madame.
I'll do it when I get there." I grimaced at the thought of her moving furniture. She was spry, but she wasn't as robust as she once was. "Okay? I'll be over there in the hour."
"Okay, Gabrielle." She chuckled. "You are worse than a mother,
non? à tout à l'heure."
"See you soon." I hung up, packed up some supplies and a couple canvases, and schlepped everything to the bus stop.
Madame La Rochelle met me at her front door. "Something is wrong, Gabrielle. I feel it here." She patted her chest.
"Nothing's wrong, Madame," I reassured her as I carted all my stuff into the kitchen. "I just needed a change of venue. For inspiration."
"Then I hope my kitchen is good inspiration, because you must finish the series,
n'est-ce pas?"
Tell me something I didn't know. I gritted my teeth. "I will, Madame."
"Bien."
She watched me arrange my easel and set out my painting supplies discreetly in the corner. When she was satisfied that I'd properly settled in, she clapped her hands together. "Now I make some coffee?"
"I'll do it. You sit."
"You spoil me, Gabrielle," she protested, but she sat nonetheless. I'd just poured the hot water into the press pot when she said, "All these years you say you can only paint at your home, in your little
atelier.
Why do you change now, Gabrielle?"
"I was having trouble focusing at home." I set the pot on the table, along with two china cups. Not a bad answer, really. Truthful without being
too
truthful. "I thought I'd try something new."
She didn't reply, but I could hear her thinking that my focus had better get better really soon. As I poured coffee into the two cups, she waved toward her refrigerator as she took a sip.
"Ilyaun peu de gâteau. Chocolat."
Chocolate cake was even better than the shortbread she usually offered. I hopped up to get it. "Is it from Delanghe?"
"Mais oui, bien sûr."
She huffed. "From where else would it be?"
I grinned. "Silly me."
As I was setting the leftover cake on the table, the gate buzzed. I looked longingly at the cake. Sigh. "I didn't know you were expecting anyone. I'll get out of your way."
"Nonsense," she said crisply as she started to stand. "You belong here more than anyone, and there is plenty of cake and coffee. However, I do not know who it could be."
"Asseyez-vous,
Madame." I motioned her back to the chair. "I'll get the door."
I buzzed the gate open, wondering who it might be. I knew Madame had a ton of friends, but their visits never corresponded with mine.
The weirdness of that struck me, but I shrugged. She was orderly—she probably liked to keep the parts of her life compartmentalized.
And, really, I wouldn't have anything in common with her friends anyway. It sounded like they were all jet-setters who hung out with people like the royal family and the Picassos. I hung out with two construction workers who drank Budweiser and a mechanic who stripped stolen cars on the side.
Tightening my ponytail, I swung open the door, but my polite welcoming smile melted into a frown when I saw who it was.
Rhys Llewellyn stood in front of me, looking delicious in designer jeans and cashmere sweater. I might have asked him to turn around so I could check out his butt if I hadn't been so blown away by him showing up on Madame's doorstep.
"Isn't this a surprise?" he said, not sounding shocked in the least.
I
gaped at him like an idiot for several stunned seconds before I recovered. Then I scowled. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"Visiting an old friend."
I narrowed my eyes. "What old friend?"
"Clothilde La Rochelle, of course. Or don't you know whose house you're in?"
Mocking bum.
He cocked his eyebrow like he could hear my thoughts. "Aren't you going to allow me in?"
He was asking for more than entrance into Madame's house—I could tell. And, God, was it tempting. His magnetism pulled me, and I caught myself leaning toward him. I held myself rigid despite the irrational desire to press myself to him and let him heat me up. But I couldn't get away from the spicy tang of him, clean and warm and exotic. Did he smell like that against his skin?
I looked up and his eyes ensnared me. I could paint those eyes. Part arrogance, part erotic knowing, that look could sell a million paintings. The whole package was devastating.
Package.
My eyes drifted down his body to rest on that part of his anatomy.
He stuck his hand in his pocket, drawing his pants tighter against his groin.
My gaze shot back up to his face. His scarred lips had the barest uplifting, but his eyes flashed with amusement.
I shrugged. "Not bad."
"I've never had complaints," he said as he brushed by me.
Suddenly too warm, I stepped back to put some distance between us. The corner of his mouth twitched, but I didn't care. Let him be amused. Self-preservation was more important than dignity, and I didn't trust myself not to combust if he came too close.
Closing the door, I skirted around him. "Madame La Rochelle is in the kitchen."
To my annoyance, he headed down the hall like he'd been there hundreds of times. Why hadn't Madame ever told me about him? And why did he show up not only here but at the Pour House after all these years?
Suspicious, I kept a scowling eye on him as I followed him back.
Madame gasped (happily) when he walked in behind me. "Rhys!
Vous visitez à San Francisco? Pourquoi vous ne m'avezpas téléphone?"
"Parce que vous adorez des surprises,"
he replied as he leaned to kiss her on both cheeks.
Scowling, I slouched onto a chair and tried not to be affected by his delicious accent, which got more delicious when he spoke French.
"Vous êtes aussi belle que toujours, Clothilde."
I rolled my eyes. Bullshit artist. Okay, Madame
was
really beautiful, but he was totally playing her. He must not know her well enough if he thought she wouldn't see through him. I waited for her to slam him, but she just giggled.
Giggled.
And was she blushing?
"Rhys"—she held his arm and gestured toward me—
"je vous présente Gabrielle. Gabrielle estpeintre."
"Yes, I know she's an artist." His icy-hot gaze swung back to me. "And we've already had the pleasure of meeting."
"The pleasure was all yours, I'm sure," I said with a sickeningly sweet smile as I pulled the cake closer to me.
"Gabrielle." Madame frowned distinctly at the plate and my coffee.
Sigh. It was one thing to wait on him in the bar—that was my job—but the idea of serving him here chafed. But since Madame expected it, I got up and pulled out a china cup and extra plate for him. To express myself, I dropped them in front of him with a loud clank.