Sullivan's Woman (3 page)

“Good bones,” Gail commented in a dismissing tone. “But the coloring's rather dull, don't you think?”

Cassidy spoke with annoyed directness. “We can't all be redheads.”

“True enough,” Colin said and, lifting a brow at Cassidy, turned to Gail. “What was it you needed? I want to get back to work.”

There is a certain aura around people who have been intimate, Cassidy thought. It shows in a look, a gesture, a tone of voice. In the moment Gail's eyes left Cassidy to meet Colin's, she knew they were, or had been, lovers. Cassidy felt a vague sense of disappointment. Uncomfortable, she tried vainly to pull her hands from Colin's. She received an absentminded frown.

“It's Higgin's
Portrait of a Girl.
We've been offered five thousand, but Higgin won't accept unless you approve. I'd like to have it firmed up today.”

“Who made the offer?”

“Charles Dupres.”

“Tell Higgin to take it. Dupres won't haggle and he's fair. Anything else?” There was a simple dismissal in the words. Cassidy watched Gail's eyes flare.

“Nothing that can't wait. I'll go give Higgin a call.”

“Fine.” Colin turned back to Cassidy before Gail was halfway across the room. He was frowning at her hair as he pushed it back from her face. Over his shoulder, Cassidy watched Gail's glance dart back when she reached the door. Gail shut it firmly behind her. Colin stepped away and scanned Cassidy from head to toe.

“It won't do,” he announced and scowled. “It won't do at all.”

Confused by his statement, shaken by what she had recognized in Gail's eyes, Cassidy stared at him, then ran her fingers through her hair. “What won't?”

“That business you have on.” He made a gesture with his hand, a quick flick of the wrist, which encompassed her blouse and jeans and sandals.

Cassidy looked down and ran her palms over her hips. “You didn't specify how I should dress, and in any case I hadn't decided to sit for you.” She shrugged her shoulders, annoyed with herself for feeling compelled to justify her attire. “You might have given me some details instead of scrawling down the address and bounding off.”

“I want something smooth and flowing; no waist, no interruptions.” He ignored Cassidy's comments. “Ivory, not white. Something long and sleek.” He took her waist in his hands, which threw her into speechless shock. “You haven't any hips to speak of, and the waist of a child. I want a high neck so we won't worry about the lack of cleavage.”

Blushing furiously, Cassidy slipped down from the stool and pushed him away. “It's my body, you know. I don't care for your observations on it or your—your hands on it, either. My cleavage or the lack of it has nothing to do with you.”

“Don't be a child,” he said briskly and set her back on the stool. “At the moment, your body only interests me artistically. If that changes, you'll know quickly enough.”

“Now just a minute, Sullivan.” Cassidy slipped off the stool again, tossing back her head as she prepared to put him neatly in his place.

“Spectacular.” He grabbed a handful of her hair to keep her face lifted to his. “Temper becomes you, Cass, but it's not the mood I'm looking for. Another time, perhaps.” The corners of his mouth lifted as his fingers moved to massage her neck. His smile settled lazily over his face, and though Cassidy suspected the calculation, it was no less effective. She was conscious of his fingers on her skin. The essential physicality of the sensation was novel and intrigued her into silence. This was something new to be explored. His voice lowered into a caress no less potent than the hand on her skin. The faint lilt of Ireland intensified. “It's an illusion I'm looking for, and a reality. A wish. Can you be a wish for me, Cass?”

In that moment, with her face inches from his, their bodies just touching, the warmth of his fingers on her skin, Cassidy, felt she could be anything he asked. Nothing was impossible. This was where his power over women lay, she realized: in the quick charm, the piratical features, the light hint of an old country in his speech. Added to this was an undiluted sexuality he turned on at will and an impatience in the set of his shoulders. She knew he was aware of his power and used it shamelessly. Even this was somehow attractive. She felt herself submitting to it, drawn toward it while her emotions overshadowed her intellect. She wondered what his mouth would feel like on hers, and if the kiss would be as exciting as she imagined. Would she lose or find herself? Would she simply experience? As a defense against her own thoughts, she placed her hands on his chest and pushed herself to safety.

“You're not an easy man, are you, Colin?” Cassidy took a deep breath to steady her limbs.

“Not a bit.” There was careless agreement in his answer. She defined what flicked over his face as something between annoyance and curiosity. “How old are you, Cassidy?”

“Twenty-three,” she answered, meeting his eyes levelly. “Why?”

He shrugged, stuck his hands in his pockets, then paced the room. “I'll need to know all there is to know about you before I'm done. What you are will creep into the portrait, and I'll have to work with it. I've got to find the blasted dress quickly; I want to start. The time's right.” There was an urgency in his movements that contrasted sharply with the man who had seduced her with his voice only moments before. Who was Colin Sullivan? Cassidy wondered. Though she knew finding out would be dangerous, she felt compelled to learn.

“I think I know one that might do,” she hazarded while his mood swirled around the room. “It's more oyster than ivory, actually, but it's simple and straight with a high neck. It's also horribly expensive. It's silk, you see—”

“Where is it?” Colin demanded and stopped his pacing directly in front of her. “Never mind,” he continued even as she opened her mouth to tell him. “Let's go have a look.”

He had her by the hand and had passed through the back door before she could say another word. Cassidy took care to go along peacefully down the stairs, not wishing to risk a broken neck. “Which way?” he demanded as he marched her to the front of the building.

“It's just a few blocks that way,” she said and pointed to the left. “But Colin—” Before she could finish her thought, she was being piloted at full speed down the sidewalk. “Colin, I think you should know . . . Good grief, I should've worn my track shoes. Would you slow down?”

“You've got long legs,” he told her and continued without slackening his pace. Making a brief sound of disgust, Cassidy trotted to keep up. “I think you should know the dress is in the shop I was fired from yesterday.”

“A dress shop?” This appeared to interest him enough to slow him down while he glanced at her. With a gesture of absent familiarity, he tucked her hair behind her ear. “What were you doing working in a dress shop?”

Cassidy sent him a withering stare. “I was earning a living, Sullivan. Some of us are required to do so in order to eat.”

“Don't be nasty, Cass,” he advised mildly. “You're not a professional dress clerk.”

“Which is precisely why I was fired.” Amused by her own ineptitude, she grinned. “I'm also not a professional waitress, which is why I was fired from Jim's Bar and Grill. I objected to having certain parts of my anatomy pinched, and dumped a bowl of coleslaw on a paying customer. I won't go into my brief career as a switchboard operator. It's a sad, pitiful story, and it's such a lovely day.” She tossed back her head to smile at Colin and found him watching her.

“If you're not a professional clerk or waitress or switchboard operator, what are you, Cass?”

“A struggling writer who seems singularly inept at holding a proper job since college.”

“A writer.” He nodded as he looked down at her. “What do you write?”

“Unpublished novels,” she told him and smiled again. “And an occasional article on the effects of perfume on the modern man. I have to keep my hand in.”

“And are you any good?” Colin skirted another pedestrian without taking his eyes from Cassidy.

“I'm positively brimming with fresh, undiscovered talent.” She tossed her hair behind her shoulders, then pointed. “There we are, The Best Boutique. I wonder what Julia will have to say about this. She'll probably think you're keeping me.” She bit her lip to suppress a giggle, then slid her glance back to his. “Have you any smoldering looks up your sleeve, Colin?” Mischief danced in her eyes as she paused outside the front door of the shop. “You could send me a few and give Julia something to talk about for weeks.” She swung through the door, her lovely face flushed with laughter.

True to form, Julia greeted Colin with scrupulous politeness and only the faintest glimmer of curiosity. There was a speculative glance for her former clerk, then recognition of Colin widened her eyes. She lifted a brow at Cassidy's request for the oyster silk dress, then proceeded to wait on them personally.

In the changing room Cassidy stripped off her jeans and marveled at the irony of life. Little more than twenty-four hours before, she had been standing outside that very room with discarded dresses heaped over her arms . . . without a thought of Colin Sullivan in her head. Now he seemed to dominate both her thoughts and her actions. The thin, cool silk was slipping over her head because he wished it. Her heart beat just a fraction quicker because he waited to see the results. Cassidy fastened the zipper, held her breath and turned. Her reflection stared back at her with undisguised awe.

The dress fell from a severely high neck in a straight line, softened by the fragility of the material. Her arms and shoulders gleamed under the thin transparency of its full sleeves. Her hair glowed with life against the delicacy of color. Cassidy let out her breath slowly. It was a wish of a dress, as romantic as the material, as practical as its line. In it she not only looked both elegant and vulnerable but felt it. With taut nerves she moistened her lips and stepped from the changing room.

Colin was charming Julia into blushes. The incongruity of flirtatious color in the cool, composed face turned Cassidy's nerves into amusement. There was the devil of a smile in Colin's eyes as he lifted Julia's hand and brushed his lips over her knuckles. Cassidy schooled her features to sobriety. A hint of a smile lurked on her lips.

“Colin.”

He turned as she called his name. The smile that lit his face and brightened his eyes faded, then died. Releasing Julia's hand, he took a few steps closer but kept half the room between them. Cassidy, who had been about to grin and spin a circle for inspection, stood still, hypnotized by his eyes.

Very slowly, his eyes left her face to travel down the length of her, then back again. Cassidy's cheeks grew warm with the flurry of her emotions. How could he make her feel so vitalized and then so enervated with just a look? She wanted to speak, to break her own trance, but the words were jumbled and uncooperative. She found she could only repeat his name.

“Colin?” There was the faintest hint of invitation in the word, a question even she did not understand.

Something flashed in his eyes and was gone. The intense concentration was inexplicably replaced by irritation. When he spoke it was brisk and dismissive.

“That will do very well. Have it packed up and bring it with you tomorrow. We'll start then.”

Cassidy's mind raced with a hundred questions and a hundred demands. His tone stiffened her pride, however, and hers was cool when she spoke. “Is that all?”

“That's all.” Temper hovered in his voice. “Nine o'clock tomorrow. Don't be late.”

Cassidy took a deep breath and let it out carefully. In that moment she was certain she despised him. They watched each other for another minute while the air crackled with tension and something more volatile. Then she turned her back on him and glided into the changing room.

Chapter 3

Cassidy spent most of the night lecturing herself. By morning she felt she had herself firmly in hand. There had been absolutely no reason for her to be annoyed with Colin. His brisk, impersonal attitude over the dress was only to be expected. As she rode the trolley across town, she shifted the dress box into her other arm and determined to preserve a cool, professional distance from him.

He's simply my employer. He's an artist, obviously a temperamental one. She added the modifier with a sniff. Deftly she jumped from the cable car to finish the trip on foot. He's a man who sees something in my face he wants to paint. He has no personal feelings for me, nor I for him. How could I? I barely know Colin Sullivan. What I felt yesterday was simply the overflow of his personality. It's very strong, very magnetic. I only imagined that there was an immediate affinity between us. Things don't happen that way, not that fast. All there is between us is the bond between artist and subject. I was writing scenes again.

Cassidy paused at the base of the stairs that led to Colin's studio. Still, he might have thanked me for finding the dress he was looking for, she thought. Never mind. She made an involuntary gesture with her hand as she climbed the steps. He's so self-absorbed he probably forgot I suggested the shop in the first place. With a quick toss of her head, Cassidy knocked, prepared to be brisk and professional in her new employ. Her resolve wavered a bit when Gail Kingsley opened the door.

“Hello,” she said and smiled despite the cool assessment in Gail's eyes. For an answer Gail made a sweeping arm gesture into the room that would have seemed overdone on anyone else. Flamboyance suited her.

Gail was just as striking today in a shocking-pink jumpsuit no other redhead would have had the courage to wear. Colin was nowhere in sight. Cassidy was torn between admiration for the redhead's style and disappointment that Colin hadn't answered the door. She felt juvenile and ragged in jeans and a pullover.

“Am I too early?”

Gail placed her hands on her narrow hips and walked around Cassidy slowly. “No, Colin's tied up. He'll be along. Is that curl in your hair natural or have you a perm?”

“It's natural,” Cassidy replied evenly.

“And the color?”

“Mine, too.” Gail's bold perfume dominated the scents of paint. When she came back to stand in front of her, Cassidy met her eyes levelly. “Why?”

“Just curious, dear heart. Just curious.” Gail flashed a quick, dazzling smile that snapped on and off like a light. It was momentarily blinding, then all trace of it vanished. “Colin's quite taken with your face. He seems to be drifting into a romantic period. I've always avoided that sort of technique.” She narrowed her eyes until she seemed to be examining the pores of Cassidy's skin.

“Want to count my teeth?” Cassidy invited.

“Don't be snide.” Gail touched a scarlet-tipped finger to her lips. “Colin and I often share models. I want to see if I can use you for anything.”

“I'm not a box lunch, Miss Kingsley,” retorted Cassidy with feeling. “I don't care to be shared.”

“A good model should be flexible,” Gail reproved, stretching her slender arms to the ceiling in one long, luxurious movement. “I hope you don't make a fool of yourself the way the last one did.”

“The last one?” Cassidy responded, then immediately wanted to bite off her tongue.

“She fell desperately in love with Colin.” Gail gave her quick light-switch smile again. Her sharp, rapid gestures skittered down Cassidy's nerves. She was a cat looking for something to stalk. “Worse, she imagined Colin was in love with her. It was really quite pathetic. A lovely little thing—milky skin, dark gypsy eyes. Naturally Colin was beastly to her in the end. He tends to be when someone tries to pin him down. There's nothing worse than having someone mooning and sighing over you, is there?”

“I wouldn't know,” Cassidy returned in mild tones. “But you needn't worry that I'll be mooning and sighing over Colin. He needs my face, I need a job.” She paused a moment. Perhaps, she thought, it's best to be clear from the start. “You won't have any trouble from me, Gail. I'm too busy to orchestrate a romance with Colin.”

Gail stopped her pacing long enough to fix her with a speculative frown. The frown vanished, and she moved swiftly to the door. “That simplifies matters, doesn't it? You can change through there.” She flung out an arm to her left and was gone.

Cassidy took time to inhale deeply. She shook her head. Artists, she decided, were all as mad as hatters. Shrugging off Gail's behavior, she moved to the door indicated and found a small dressing room. Closeting herself inside, Cassidy began to change. As before, the gown made her feel different. Perhaps, she thought as she pulled a brush through her hair, it's the sensation of real silk against my skin, or the elegant simplicity of the line and color. Or is it because it's the image of what Colin wants me to be?

Whatever the reason, Cassidy couldn't deny that she felt heightened when she wore the gown—more alive, more aware, more a woman. After giving herself one last quick glance in the mirror, she opened the door and stepped into the studio.

“Oh, you're here,” she said foolishly when she saw Colin scowling at a blank canvas. She had only a side view of him, and he didn't turn at her entrance. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, and his weight was distributed evenly on both legs. There was an impression of sharp vitality held in check—waiting, straining a bit for release. He was dressed casually, as she was now accustomed to seeing him, and the clothes seemed to suit his rangy, loose-limbed build. His face was in a black study: brows lowered, eyes narrowed, mouth unsmiling. The thought crossed Cassidy's mind that he was unscrupulously attractive and would be a terrifying man to care for. She remained where she was, certain he had not even heard her speak.

“I'm going to start on canvas straightaway,” he said. Still he did not turn to acknowledge her. “There're violets on the table.” With one shoulder he made a vague gesture. “They match your eyes.”

Cassidy looked over and saw the small nosegay tossed amid the artistic rubble. Her face lit with instant pleasure. “Oh, they're lovely!” Moving to the table, she took them, then buried her face in their delicate petals. The fragrance was subtle and sweet. Touched and charmed, Cassidy lifted her smile to thank him.

“I want a spot of color against the dress,” Colin murmured. His preoccupation was obvious and complete. He did not glance at her or change expression.

Pleasure shattered, Cassidy stared down at the tiny flowers and sighed. It's my fault, she thought ruefully. He bought them for the painting, not for me. It was ridiculous to think otherwise. Why in the world should he buy me flowers? With a shake of her head and a wry smile, she moved over to join him. “Do you see me there already?” she asked. “On the empty canvas?”

He turned then and looked at her, but the frown of his concentration remained. He lifted the hand that held the flowers. “Yes, they'll do. Stand over here, I want the light from this window.”

As he propelled her across the room, Cassidy twisted her head to look up at him. “Good morning, Colin,” she said in the bright, cheerful voice of a kindergarten instructor.

He lifted a brow as he stopped by the window. “Manners are the least of my concerns when I'm working.”

“I'm awfully glad you cleared that up,” Cassidy replied, smiling broadly.

“I've also been known to devour young, smart-tongued wenches for breakfast.”

“Wenches!” Cassidy's smile became a delighted grin. “How wonderfully anachronistic. It sounds lovely when you say it, too. I do wish you'd said lusty young wenches, though. I've always loved that phrase.”

“The description doesn't fit you.” Colin lifted her chin with one finger and brushed her hair over her shoulder with his other hand.

“Oh.” Cassidy felt vaguely insulted.

“Once I've set the pose, don't fidget. I just might throw an easel at you if you do.” While he spoke, he moved her face and body with his hands. His touch was as impersonal as a physician's. I might as well be a still-life arrangement, Cassidy thought. By his eyes, she saw that his mind had gone beyond her and into his art. She recognized his expression of absolute concentration from her own work. She, too, had a tendency to block out her surroundings and step into her own mind.

At length he stood back and studied her in silence. It was a natural pose and simple. She stood straight, with the nosegay cupped in both hands and held just below her right hip. Her arms were relaxed, barely bent at the elbows. He had left her hair tumbled free, without design, over both shoulders. “Lift your chin a fraction higher.” He held up a hand to stop the movement. “There. Be still and don't talk until I tell you.”

Cassidy obeyed, moving only her eyes to watch him as he strode behind the easel again. He lifted a piece of charcoal. Minutes passed in utter silence as she watched the movements of his arms and shoulders and felt the probing power of his eyes. They returned again and again to her face. She knew he could look into her eyes and see directly into her soul, learning more perhaps than she knew herself. The sensation made her not nervous so much as curious. What would he see? How would he express it?

“All right,” Colin said abruptly. “You can talk for the moment, but don't move the pose. Tell me about those unpublished novels of yours.”

He continued to work with such obsessed concentration that Cassidy assumed he had invited her to talk only to keep her relaxed. She doubted seriously if her words made more than a surface impression. If he heard them at all, he would forget them moments later.

“There's only one actually, or one and a half. I'm working on a second novel while the first bounces from rejection slip to rejection slip.” She started to shrug but caught herself in time. “It's about a woman's coming of age, the choices she makes, the mistakes. It's rather sentimental, I suppose. I like to think she makes the right choices in the end. Do you know it's very difficult to talk without your hands? I had no idea mine were so necessary to my vocabulary.”

“It's your Gaelic blood.” Colin frowned deeply at the canvas, then lifted his eyes to hers. By the movement of his shoulders she knew he continued to work. “Will you let me read your manuscript?”

Surprised, Cassidy stared a moment before gathering her wits. “Well, yes, if you'd like. I—”

“Good,” he interrupted and slashed another line on the canvas. “Bring it with you tomorrow. Be quiet now,” he commanded before Cassidy could speak again. “I'm going to work the face.”

Silence reigned until he put down the charcoal and shook his head. “It's not right.” He scowled at Cassidy, then paced. Unsure, she held the pose and her tongue. “You're not giving me the right mood. Do you know what I want?” he demanded. There was impatience and a hint of temper in his voice. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, seeing the question had been rhetorical. “I want more than an illusion. I want passion. You've passion in you, Cassidy, more, by heaven, than I need for this painting.” He turned to face her again, and she felt the room vibrate with his tension. Her heart began to quicken in response. “I want a promise. I want a woman who invites a lover. I want expectation and the freshness that springs from innocence. Untouched but not untouchable. It's that you have to give me. That's the essence of it.” In his frustration, the cadence of his native land became more obvious. The fire of his talent flickered in his eyes. Fascinated, Cassidy watched him, not speaking even when he stopped directly in front of her. “There would be a softness in your eyes and just a trace of heat. There would be a giving in the set of your mouth that comes from having just been kissed, from waiting to be kissed again. Like this.”

His mouth took hers quickly, stunningly. He framed her face with his hands, thumbs brushing her cheeks while he took the kiss into trembling intimacy with terrifying speed. His lips were warm and soft and experienced. His tongue plundered without warning. Somewhere deep within her came an answer. Passion, long overlooked, smoldered, then kindled, then licked tentatively into flame. She tasted the flavor of power. As quickly as his mouth had taken, it liberated.

Though she was unaware of it, her expression was exactly what he'd demanded of her—expectant, inviting, innocent. Fleetingly he dropped his gaze to her mouth; then, taking his time, he removed his hands from her face. Impatience flickered in his eyes before he turned and strode to his easel.

Cassidy tried to steady her spinning brain. Reason told her the kiss had meant nothing, a means to an end, but her heart thudded in contradiction. In a few brief seconds he had stirred up a hunger she hadn't been aware of having, had stirred up desires she hadn't been aware she had. It was more a revelation, she thought bemusedly, than a kiss. Forcing her breathing to slow, she tried to keep the quick encounter in perspective.

She was a grown woman. Kisses were more common than handshakes. It was her treacherous imagination that had turned it into something else.
Only my imagination
, she decided as she calmed, and his utter effrontery. He'd taken her totally by surprise. He'd kissed her when he'd had no right to do so, and in a way that had been both proprietary and intimate. No man had ever been permitted either of the privileges, and his seizure of them had left her shaken. Cassidy could justify her reaction to Colin by intellectually dissecting the scene, its cause and results. She turned her emotions over to her mind and plotted the scene. She examined motivations. Still, something lingered inside her that could not quite be rationalized or explained away. Disturbed, she tried to ignore it.

“We'll stop now,” Colin stated abruptly and put aside the charcoal. He glanced up as he cleaned his hands on a paint rag. She thought perhaps he saw Cassidy St. John again for the first time since he had set the pose. “Relax.”