“I hadn’t.”
The memory of that day was as vivid as if it had happened yesterday. As an art major and ardent fan of works by Georgia O’Keeffe, she had come to Santa Fe during spring break to view the O’Keeffe paintings on display at a local museum. She had also planned to make a side trip to O’Keeffe’s former home and studio about an hour northwest of Santa Fe.
Late one sunny morning as she walked along a street, she had spotted a half-dozen paintings propped against the side of an adobe wall, with more standing in a plastic crate. Idly curious, she had stopped to look. Mixed in with some still-life works that showed good technique but trite subject matter were a series of New Mexican landscapes and Santa Fe streetscapes that completely captivated her.
There had been, however, no sign of the artist. Each painting had a price tag attached to it, with none selling for above fifty dollars.
A hand-lettered sign with a directional arrow had instructed buyers to deposit their money in a metal cash box with a slit in its lid that was chained and padlocked to a lamppost. To her utter astonishment, Kitty had realized that this fool of an artist was selling his paintings on the honor system.
At that moment, a middle-aged couple had strolled by, paused to look at the paintings, assumed Kitty was the artist, and begun asking her questions. To this day she still couldn’t say why she hadn’t disabused them from that notion, but she hadn’t.
Before they left, she had managed to sell them one of the Santa Fe street scenes. Buoyed by that success, Kitty had lingered. By late afternoon, she had sold a total of eight paintings, including one of the dull still lifes to a woman who bought it because the colors in it matched her living room.
Concerned that the cash box contained over four hundred dollars and curious about the artist who had signed the paintings as S. Cole, Kitty had waited, certain that S. Cole would show up sooner or later.
But she certainly hadn’t expected him to be the tall, blond hunk of a man who had ultimately shown up. By then she had already fallen in love with his paintings. It had been an easy step from there to fall in love with him.
“Why?”
Lost in her memory of that day, Kitty didn’t follow his question. “Why what?”
“Why did you want to know my reasons for not wanting you to marry Mr. Chocolate?”
“Just curious.” She shrugged, finding it hard to return to the present. “I thought it might be something personal. I should have known it would be business.”
“Would it have made any difference?”
“What?”
“If my reason were personal.”
“Of course not. I’ll do what I want to do regardless,” Kitty asserted.
“You always do.”
Something in his tone made her bristle. “And what’s wrong with that?”
Sebastian took a step back in mock retreat, an eyebrow shooting up. “My, we are testy. I thought you might have cooled down a little.”
“I have,” Kitty snapped, then caught herself. “Almost, anyway.” A kind of despair swept over her again. “How do I make such a mess of things?”
“You simply have a natural talent for it, I guess.” His smile took any sting from his words. “I have an idea.”
“What?” Kitty was leery of any idea coming from him.
“Since I don’t have any champagne to offer you, how about some hot cocoa?”
Kitty smiled in bemusement. “Hot chocolate, the ultimate comfort drink. Why not?”
She trailed along behind him as Sebastian headed for the small galley kitchen tucked in a corner of the studio. “Which kind do you want?” Sebastian asked over his shoulder. “The instant kind that comes in a packet or the real McCoy?”
“I should ask for the real thing, but I’ll settle for the instant,” she replied, not really caring.
“That’s not like you.” He opened a cupboard door and took a tin of cocoa off the shelf.
“What isn’t?” She wandered over to the French doors that opened off the kitchen onto the rear courtyard.
“Settling for second best. Your motto has always been ‘first class or forget it.’ ”
“I suppose.” Beyond the door’s glass panes, Kitty could see her spacious adobe home, its earth-colored walls subtly lit by strategically placed landscape lights around the courtyard. “I really should go home, just in case Marcel calls.” She released a heavy and troubled sigh. “But what would I say to him?”
“I suppose it would be too much to hope that you might say ‘Get lost, Mr. Chocolate,’ ” he said amid the rattle of the utensil drawer opening and the clank of a metal pan on the stove top.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Kitty grumbled.
“More than you know,” Sebastian replied. “Would you get me the jug of milk from the fridge? I need to keep stirring this.”
As she stepped to the refrigerator, she noticed him standing at the stove, stirring something in a pan with a wooden spoon. “What are you doing?” She frowned curiously.
“Making cocoa—from scratch.”
She stood there with the refrigerator door open, staring at him in amazement. “I didn’t know you knew how.”
“It can’t be that hard. The directions are right on the can.” He nodded to it, then glanced her way. “The milk,” he said in a prompting voice.
Reminded of her task, Kitty took the plastic container of milk from the refrigerator and carried it to the small counter space next to the stove. “Bachelorhood has clearly made you domestic.”
“Think so, hmm?” he murmured idly.
“I’ve certainly never known you to cook before.”
“Making hot chocolate doesn’t count as cooking. Which reminds me, did you know that chocolate was strictly a drink when it was first introduced?”
“Quite honestly, I didn’t. I’m not sure I even care.” Kitty watched as he stirred the bubbling syruplike mixture in the pan.
“As a connoisseur of chocolate, you should,” Sebastian informed her. “Columbus was actually the first to bring it back from the New World. Nobody liked his version of it, though.”
“Really,” she murmured, intrigued that he should know that.
“Yes, really. It seems the Aztec were the first to grind cocoa beans and use the powder to make a drink. They mixed it with chilies, cinnamon, and cloves, and cornmeal—the four Cs, I call it.”
“It doesn’t sound very appetizing.”
“I don’t think it was. The word ‘chocolate’ is derived from the Aztec word
‘xocolatl,’
which literally translates to ‘bitter water.’ ”
“It sounds worse than bitter.” The mere thought of the combination was enough for Kitty to make a face.
“It was drunk by the Aztec, supposedly out of golden goblets, and only by men. They considered it to be an aphrodisiac.” He poured out some milk and added it to the dark syrupy mixture. “Naturally cocoa beans became highly prized and were eventually used as currency. In fact, ten beans could buy the company of a lady for the evening.” Sebastian wagged his eyebrows in mock lechery.
“How do you know all this?” Kitty marveled.
“I’ve been boning up.”
“Why?”
“To impress you, of course. You’re the chocolate maven.”
“Hardly.” Kitty scoffed at the notion. “I simply like it.”
“A lot,” he added, while continuing to stir the mixture, waiting for it to heat. “For your information, Cortez was the one who added sugar and vanilla to the brew, finally making it palatable. But it was years, not until the mid-eighteen hundreds, that a solid form of chocolate was marketed—by the Cadbury company, if I’m not mistaken.”
“You are an absolute mine of knowledge,” Kitty teased half seriously.
“Impressed?”
“Very.”
“Wait until you taste my hot cocoa.” Using a wooden spoon, Sebastian let a few drops fall on the inside of his wrist, then gasped. “Ouch, that’s hot.”
“I think it might be ready,” Kitty suggested dryly, then shouldered him out of the way. “You’d better let me pour before you accidentally burn your fingers and can’t paint.”
“See what I mean?” he said. “Who else would worry about me like that?”
“I’m sure you’ll find someone.” After transferring the two mugs to the sink, Kitty filled them with steaming chocolate from the pan. She passed one to Sebastian, then took a tentative sip from the other.
Sebastian watched her. “What do you think?”
“It’s delicious, but much too hot to drink.”
“While it’s cooling, do you want to take a look at my latest? I finished it about an hour ago.”
Kitty was quick to take him up on his offer. “I’d love to.”
Sebastian was notorious for not allowing anyone to see a painting while it was in progress. It had nearly driven her crazy while they were married. Over the years, she had learned never to venture into his work space without a specific invitation, or risk his wrath. In that way, and that way only, he fit the description of a temperamental artist, complete with tantrums.
Moving into the heart of the studio, Sebastian crossed directly to an easel and turned it to show her the painting propped on it. She breathed in sharply at this first glimpse of a streetscape. At the same time she inhaled the familiar smells of oil paints and thinner.
The painting was an intriguing depiction of all that was Santa Fe: A stretch of adobe wall with its strange blend of pink and ochre tones set the scene. Placed slightly off center was an old wooden door painted a Southwestern teal green. A niche by the door was done in Spanish-influenced tiles. Next to the front stoop was a geranium in full flower growing out of a large pot, decorated with Pueblo Indian designs. Propped against the stoop was an old skull from a cow. Most striking of all was the dappled shade on the wall.
“It’s stunning,” she murmured. “The sense of depth you managed to convey is amazing, simply by showing a few paloverde leaves in the upper corner and letting the intricate shadow pattern on the adobe show the rest of the tree. It’s almost eerie, the three-dimensional effect you’ve achieved. How on earth did you do it?”
“It wasn’t that difficult. I simply kept the leaves in the foreground in sharp focus and fuzzed the edges of everything else to create the illusion of depth.”
“However you achieved it, it worked,” Kitty declared. “But the painting itself addresses so completely the blending of cultures in Santa Fe. You have the influence of Spain in the tiles, the Mexican adobe, and the Pueblo pottery. And the cow skull is a personification of the Old West. As for the geranium, you couldn’t have chosen a better flower to denote all things American—and even Old World. And I don’t think there’s a color more closely associated with the new South-west than that sun-faded shade of teal green. But I like best your reference to the desert with the depiction of the paloverde tree. It’s so much more original than the usual prickly pear or saguaro cactus.”
“Most people won’t recognize it. It’ll be just another leafy tree to them.” Sebastian’s voice held a faint trace of irritation.
“That’s their loss. There will be plenty of others who will appreciate it.” If necessary, it would be a detail she would point out to them. “Have you titled it yet?”
“I’ve been mulling over a couple different ones—either ‘A Place in the Shade’, or ‘In the Shade of Santa Fe.’ What do you think?”
Kitty considered the choices. “Both would work, but I like the last one best, because everything in the painting shows shades of Santa Fe.”
“I don’t know. It almost sounds too commercial to me,” Sebastian replied.
Kitty shook her head. “I don’t think so. After all, it is Santa Fe you’ve painted. And wonderfully, too.”
“I guess that means you like it.” His sideways glance was warmly teasing.
“Like it?” The verb choice was much too tame for her. “I absolutely love it.”
It was completely natural to slide an arm around his waist, a gesture that fell somewhere between a congratulatory hug and a shared joy in his accomplishment. His own reaction seemed equally natural when he hooked an arm around her to rest his hand on her waist.
“Thanks.” He dipped his head toward hers.
A split second later, his mouth moved onto hers with tunneling warmth. Kitty was surprised by how right it felt and how easy it was to kiss him back.
The kiss itself lasted a little longer than the span of a heartbeat before he lifted his head an inch, his moist breath mingling with hers.
“You taste of chocolate,” he murmured.
“So do you,” she whispered back, her pulse unexpectedly racing a little.
She wanted to blame it on her delight with the new painting. But something told her the cause was something a bit more intimate, rooted somewhere in the physical attraction that still existed between them.
Chapter Four
“I have an idea.” His half-lidded gaze traveled over her face in a visual caress.
“What’s that?” Kitty knew she should pull away, create some space between them, but she was strangely reluctant to end this moment.
“Let’s go sit on the sofa and see how the painting looks from there.”
It was an old routine they had once shared that Kitty found as easy to slip into as an old shoe, one that offered comfort and a perfect fit.
“All right.”
With arms linking each other at the waist, they moved together toward the sofa. Then Sebastian pulled away with an ambiguous, “Go ahead. I’ll be right there.”
“Where are you going?” She frowned curiously when he circled around the sofa and headed toward the front door.
“To set the mood. There are too many lights on.” He flipped off all the switches in the main area except one to a directional lamp aimed directly at the completed canvas.
“Perfect,” Kitty announced in approval, then lowered herself onto the sofa’s plush cushions, careful not to spill her cocoa.
“It is, isn’t it?”
Before joining her, Sebastian crossed to the kiva and added another chunk of wood to the dying fire. With the poker, he stirred it to life until the golden glow from the new flames reached the sofa.
He retrieved his mug of cocoa from the side table, took a quick drink from it, then made his way to the sofa and folded his long frame to sit down next to her, draping one arm along the sofa back behind her head.
“Better drink your cocoa,” he advised. “It’s just the right temperature now.”
Obediently, Kitty took a sip. “Mmm, it does taste good.”
“Not bad at all, even if I do say so myself,” he agreed after sipping his own.
“You know, if anything, the painting actually looks better from a distance,” she remarked after studying it for a minute. “It seems to increase the illusion of depth.”
“It does, doesn’t it?”
Some wayward impulse prompted Kitty to lift her cup in a toasting fashion. “To another stunning work by S. Cole.” She clunked her mug against his and drank down a full swallow. “Good job.”
“Thank you.”
She settled deeper against the cushions, conscious of the brush of his thigh against hers, but oddly comfortable with the contact. “I’m glad you didn’t have any champagne. Hot chocolate is much better.” She idly swirled the last half inch of it in her cup. “The taste is somehow soothing.”
“That’s due to a chemical called theobromine that occurs naturally in cocoa. It’s an antidepressant that lifts the spirits.”
“More research,” Kitty guessed.
“Yup. And, in addition to theobromine, chocolate also contains potassium, magnesium, and vitamin A.”
“Stop,” she protested with amusement. “I don’t need an analysis. It’s enough that I feel more content.”
“Content” was the word that perfectly described her mood at the moment. And the quiet setting promoted the feeling with the lights turned down, a fire softly crackling in the corner fireplace, and a beautiful piece of art bathed in light. Background music was the only thing lacking.
“Just a minute.” Sebastian leaned forward and set his empty mug on the mission-style coffee table.
“Where are you going?” For an instant, Kitty thought he had read her mind and intended to put on some music.
“Nowhere.” Sebastian sat back and instructed, “Tilt your head forward a sec.”
“Why?” she asked, but did as he said. She felt his fingers on her hair and the sudden loosening of its smooth French twist as he removed a securing pin.
“What are you doing?” She reached back to stop him.
“Taking your hair down. It can’t be comfortable leaning against the knot it’s in.”
“It isn’t a knot. It’s a twist.” Try as she might, Kitty couldn’t repair the damage as quickly as he could pluck out another pin.
“Look at it this way,” Sebastian reasoned. “You’ll be taking your hair down before the night’s over anyway. Now you won’t have to.”
He didn’t stop until her hair tumbled about her shoulders. “But I didn’t want it down yet.” It made her feel oddly vulnerable to have it falling loose.
“Too bad,” he replied, and ran his fingers through her hair, combing it into a semblance of order. “You have beautiful hair.” He lifted a few strands and let them slide off his fingers. “Sleek and soft, like satin against the skin.”
“Thank you.” But the words came out as stiff and self-conscious as she felt.
“You hardly ever wear your hair down. How come?”
“I prefer it up. It’s much easier to manage that way.” Kitty refused to pull away from his toying fingers. It seemed too much of an admission that she was somehow affected by his touch.
“And you like being in control.”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” Kitty admitted easily. “I couldn’t successfully run my own business otherwise.”
“You know what?”
“What?” She darted him a wary glance as he bent closer to her.
“Your hair smells like strawberries.”
“It’s the shampoo I use.”
“Strawberries and chocolate, now there’s a delicious combination.”
Only inches separated them. Without warning, he closed the distance and claimed her lips in a drugging kiss. The potency of it scrambled her wits and her pulse. She couldn’t think, only feel the persuasive power of it.
Her own response came much too naturally and much too eagerly. Frightened by it, she pressed a hand to his chest, intending to push him away. But the instant she felt the hard muscled wall and the hypnotic beat of his heart beneath her hand, any sense of urgency to break off the kiss faded.
He rolled his mouth around her lips, teasing them apart, then murmured against them, “A kiss like that can become addictive.”
Kitty managed to pull together enough of her scattered wits to turn her face away. “That’s enough, Sebastian.” But her voice was all breathy and shaky, without conviction.
“Why?” Deprived of her lips, he simply began nuzzling her highly sensitive ear, igniting a storm of exquisite shudders.
“Because.” She knew there was a reason; she simply couldn’t think of it, not with Sebastian nibbling at her earlobe like that. It had always been her weakest point, and the surest way to turn her on.
“That’s no reason,” Sebastian replied, and licked at the shell of her ear with the tip of his tongue.
Swallowing back a moan of pure desire, Kitty hunched a shoulder against her neck, trying to block his sensuous invasion. “I’ll . . . I’ll spill my cocoa.”
“That’s easily handled.” Seemingly all in one motion, he planted a firm kiss on her lips, took the cup from her hand, and set it on the low table.
Kitty barely had time to draw a breath before he was back, once more giving her his undivided attention. Too much of it and too thoroughly. Worse, she was enjoying it.
Gathering together the scattered threads of resistance, Kitty managed to push him back and twist her head to the side, creating a small space between them.
“Will you stop trying to seduce me?” she said in quick protest.
“And here I thought I was being so subtle.” He automatically switched his attention to the curve of her throat.
Kitty slid her fingers into his hair, then forgot why. “Sebastian, I’m engaged to Marcel.” She managed to remember that much.
“Maybe you are and maybe you aren’t. It sounded to me like it was all up in the air.”
“I haven’t decided that,” she insisted a bit breathlessly.
“I think you have.” His mouth moved around the edges of her lips, tantalizing them with the promise of his kiss.
“Well, I haven’t.” As if of their own volition, her lips sought contact with his.
As his mouth locked onto them, Kitty recognized the contradiction between her words and action, but she couldn’t seem to do anything about it. It was difficult to care when the heat of his kiss satisfied so many of her building needs.
“Funny you should say that,” he murmured, lifting his head fractionally. “That’s not the message I’m getting.”
“I know, but . . .”
“Sh.” A second after he made the soothing sound, he began a tactile exploration along the bare ridge of her shoulder, nibbling and licking her there.
It was a full second before it hit Kitty that her shoulder shouldn’t be bare. The lace dress should be covering it. Simultaneously with that thought, she felt the looseness of the material along her back and the tight constriction of the sleeves binding her arms against her sides.
“You unfastened my dress,” she accused in shock.
“You didn’t plan on sleeping in it, did you?” When he raised his head to look at her, the firelight’s dim glow kept most of his face in shadow. But there was sufficient light for her to see that his eyes were three-quarter lidded and dark with desire.
It was a sight that took her breath away because Kitty knew her own reflected the same thing.
“Of course I wasn’t going to sleep in it.”
“Then I’m saving you some time.” His fingers inched the sleeves lower on her arms, making it impossible for Kitty to lift her hands high enough to push it back in place.
While she could still muster both the strength and the will, Kitty ducked away from him and scrambled off the sofa. Dangerously weak-kneed, she hurriedly tugged the lacy material higher with fingers that trembled.
“Kitty,” his voice coaxed while his hand slid onto the flat of her stomach, evoking new flutters of desire.
“Stop it, Sebastian. You’re not playing fair.” Kitty weakly pushed at his hand.
“When has love ever been fair?” He rolled to his feet directly beside her, his hands already moving to gather her back into his embrace.
She wedged her arms between them, needing to avoid contact with his hard male length for her own sake.
“This isn’t about love. It’s about sex,” she insisted, half in anger. “You’ve always known which buttons to push.”
“You pushed mine a long time ago,” Sebastian murmured as he nuzzled her neck, “and ruined me for any other woman.”
“Do you honestly expect me to believe that?” Kitty sputtered at the outrageous lie. “I’ve seen the parade of shapely bimbos that have filed past my house to this studio. What about that blonde who was draped all over you at the last showing?”
“Cecilia.” He nipped at her earlobe while the pressure of his hands arched her hips closer to him.
“Yes, sexy Cecilia, that’s one,” Kitty recalled even as her pulse skittered in reaction to his evocative nibblings. “What about her?”
“I never said I didn’t try to find someone.” He lazily dragged his mouth across her cheek to the corner of her lips. “But no one did to me what you do.”
“You’re just saying that,” she insisted, needing desperately to convince herself of that.
“Am I?” He tugged his shirt open and flattened her hand against his chest. She felt the furnacelike heat of his skin and the hard thudding of his heart somewhere beneath it, beating in the same rapid rhythm as her own. “What about the men I’ve watched go through your life? All those husbands of yours.”
“Two. There were only two.” Somehow or other, any thought of Marcel had slipped completely from her mind.
“Be honest. Did any of them make you ache like this?” His hands glided over her back and hips, their roaming caress creating more havoc with her senses.
It was becoming more and more difficult to hold on to any rational thought. “You . . . You were always good in bed,” Kitty said in defense of her own weakening resistance to him.
“Good sex requires two participants. What we shared was special. Unique.”
“But it’s over.” She needed to remind herself of that, but saying the words didn’t seem to help.
“Not for me. And not for you either, or you wouldn’t still be standing here.”
“No.” She tried to deny it, but she also knew it was true. “This is wrong, Sebastian.”
“Then why does it feel so right?”
She had no answer for that as he claimed her lips in a hard and all-too-quick kiss. “Do you remember the first time we made love?” He took another moist bite of them.
“Yes.” The word came out on a trembling breath.
“I’d brought you back to my apartment to look at more of my paintings.” His hands, like his mouth, were never still, always moving to provoke and evoke. “It was cold that spring night. I added another log to the fire to take some of the chill off. Remember?”
Unable to find her voice, Kitty simply nodded, her memory of that night and what came next as sharp as his own.
“As I walked back to you, I took off my shirt, wadded it up, and threw it in a corner.”
He stepped back from her long enough to peel off his shirt and give it a toss. But in those few seconds, when she was deprived of the warmth of his body heat and the stimulating touch of his hands, she felt horribly lost.
Then he was close again, his hand cupping the underside of her jaw, tilting her head up, his thumb stroking the high curve of her cheek.
“Do you remember what I said to you?” Sebastian asked.
The words were branded in her memory. Kitty whispered them, “I want to make love with you.”
“ ‘Yes,’ you said,” he recalled, “and the word trembled from you like the aspens in a breeze.” His voice was low and husky with desire, just as it had been that long-ago night. “I took you by the hand.” His fingers closed around hers, their grip warm and firm but without command. “And I led you over by the fire.”
He backed away from the sofa, drawing her with him as he skirted the coffee table and continued to the gray-and-black Navajo rug in front of the kiva. There he halted and kissed her with seductive languor.
When his mouth rolled off hers, his breathing was rough and uneven. “You wore a dress that night, too.”
He took her lips again, devouring them with tonguing insistency. At the same time, his hands went low on her hips and glided upward, pushing the lace of her dress ahead of them until the hem was nearly to her waist.