Stand straight, Jillian.Shoulders back.Chin level.
Look at the person you’re talking with, Jillian.Let him think he’s the most interesting one in the world.
Don’t touch your hair.Don’t touch your clothes.And whatever you do, Jillian, don’t touch your face.
Smile gently, Jillian.We didn’t spend thousands on orthodontia work to see you grimace.
Mother would have been proud if she’d been there.Iwas proud.As the invited guests—mostly people from the gallery’s A-list, plus those who’d bought my pieces before—began to arrive, I moved around the room with Bill Fletcher, who knew them all.He introduced me to small groups at a time.Smiling my gentlest smile, I nodded my way around the faces, shook hands where hands were offered, answered questions about my work and about living in Maine.My life-style seemed to fascinate New Yorkers and was as good a conversational gambit as any.When wine was passed, I accepteda glass from Bill and managed to hold it remarkably steady.From time to time I sipped, but I wasn’t any more eager to imbibe than I was to sample the hors d’oeuvres that were making the rounds.
The gallery meandered through three rooms, each at slightly different levels.Bill guided me along, passing me at one point to his partner, Celia Dunn, who took up the circulating where he’d left off.Though I would have liked to have stayed in the front room to monitor the new arrivals, that wasn’t always possible.I was alert, though.Between gentle smiles and small talk, sometimes under the guise of considering a question that had been posed, I unobtusively scanned the heads in sight.Though my pulse raced in anticipation each time, there were never even any close calls.I knew what Peter looked like.No other man, regardless of how closely his height and coloring resembled Peter’s, held himself quite the same way.
He arrived at seven-thirty.Incredibly, I felt his presence before I saw him, though whether it was wishful thinking that made my heart beat faster or extrasensory perception, I’ll never know.We were in the innermost of the three rooms at the time.I had just finished telling a middle-aged couple from Westchester what it was like to work overlooking the ocean when I looked toward the door to the second room, and there he was.
His eyes met mine.I will never forget that firstmoment of visual contact for as long as I live.My heart caught and held.The faces that separated us seemed to fade out, along with the sound and everything else about the room.We were alone with each other, and the fire in his eyes told of his desire.
“… artistry is intricately entwined with the tides, don’t you think?”the female half of the couple was asking.
The sound of her voice shattered the walls of our private tunnel.I tore my eyes from Peter’s and returned them to her, sucking in a surreptitious breath to put my lungs back to work.Since I couldn’t begin to speak yet, I nodded and prayed she’d continue talking, which she did.That bought me a minute’s recovery time.
It took far more than a minute.One didn’t drop from heart-stopping heaven back down to earth with a snap of the fingers, or, in this case, a shift of the eyes.Peter’s appearance had burned its way into me, raising my pulse, my heat, my awareness of myself as a woman.Since I couldn’t make any of that go away now that he was in the room, I could only hope to control it until I was free to give it its head.
“… he worked in stone.Quite interesting work.Have you seen his things?”
“Uh, no.I’m hoping to, though,” I said a bit breathlessly and darted a glance at Peter, who was winding his way around clusters of guests, coming closer, ever closer.
Celia, bless her soul, must have sensed mydistraction, because she graciously took up the slack.“Mrs.Moncrieff works exclusively in clay.The approach is quite different from what it would be if she were working with stone, as is the practicality of the finished pieces.Her work has a unique feel to it.”
“I can see that,” the woman said and turned, with her husband and Celia, to the display stand on her right.
Peter approached on her left, but he wasn’t any more interested in my pottery than I was.His eyes were riveted to mine.After pausing for a second on the outskirts of our group, he closed the small distance between us, slid an arm around my waist and brought me into a close hug.
Unable to help myself, I gave a tiny moan of relief.I was right back up there in heaven, sent there by the feel of his large, hard body against mine, the pressure of the arm that held me to him, the clean scent of soap and man, and the heat, oh, the heat.It was as sexual as heat got and radiated from him the way I supposed it was radiating from me.But what sent me to an even higher plane was the knowledge that he’d come.
He bent his dark head and pressed a warm kiss on my cheek, then eased me back and said in a low, rough rumble, “Good to see you, Jill.”
In the eyes of the world, we were simply old friends, good friends.Though his hand lingered on my waist a bit longer than was necessary, itdropped to his side when Celia returned to us.He stayed close enough, though, so that by dropping my own hand, I could link my fingers with his in the shadow of my skirt.
I introduced him to Celia.She immediately recognized his name and was genuinely delighted that he’d stopped by, but before she could say much, Bill approached with a new group for a new round of introductions.With an effort I maintained my outward composure, smiling sweetly, talking rationally.All the while my stomach fluttered in response to the large man by my side.
Not about to let him run off with a stupid “See ya,” I held tightly to his hand, but even in spite of that, he showed no sign of wanting to leave.He stood close, his shoulder backing mine, and he remained very much in the wings as though to profess that this was my night.
I began to wish that it wasn’t.What I wanted to do was to go somewhere private with Peter, but the reception was slated to last until nine, and being the guest of honor, I couldn’t very well disappear.At one point, under the guise of using the ladies’ room, I excused myself and led Peter into Bill’s office.The door had barely clicked behind us, blotting out the noise of the gallery, when he pressed me against it and captured my mouth.
There was nothing gentle about his kiss.It contained a fierce hunger that wasn’t about to be contained.While his lips ground into mine,twisting and turning them to his will, his tongue ravished the inside of my mouth with deep, rhythmic thrusts.
Neither the kiss, nor its fierce hunger was onesided.The fever in me had been building, craving just this outlet.Anchoring my hands in his hair to hold him close, I fought for my own satisfaction.My mouth was never still.At times it worked in counterpoint to his, at times in direct opposition, and though there was near violence in what we did, neither of us was close to being sated when a discreet knock came at the door.
“Oh Lord,” Peter whispered.Pressing his forehead to mine, he dragged in a harsh breath.
My own breath was coming in short, sharp gasps that had as much to do with my arousal as with my frustration at having been interrupted.I didn’t let go of his hair.
The knock came again.
Peter let out another, “Oh Lord.”Pressing a light, moist kiss on my lips, he dragged my hands from the back of his head down his shoulders and over his shirt.He flattened them on his middle.“Later,” he whispered, and his luminescent green eyes held the fire that promised more, far more of what we’d just shared.
I was thankful to be leaning against the door, because that look did nothing to still my quivering thighs.If anything, the fire inside burned hotter than it had before that kiss.My own look must have told Peter as much, because he swore softly, squeezed his eyes shut and bowed hishead.After several seconds of utter silence, he straightened, bodily removed me from the door and opened it.
“Is Jill all right?”Moni asked.“I saw her head this way.”
