Grace was still staring at the work of art. “I told you,” she said. “His personal life…” She finally looked back at Rafael and shrugged. “There’s a reason I don’t know what to do with him. The way he saw these women in real life bleeds into his art. He also painted Dora Maar as his weeping woman, turning her into nothing more than an image of the suffering that he had caused. But she was a great artist and photographer herself.”
“You always have a way of making this stuff very interesting.”
She gave him a sad smile. “I don’t have to make it interesting. I mean, the man was so volatile, there’s no way it could be boring. Even if it’s also hard to swallow.”
“Yes,” Rafael said, “but the art. I couldn’t even pretend to care about it, but with you explaining, it seems to organize itself into some kind of sense. You see so much when you look at a painting, so much I’ve never even bothered to notice. I can see why your students adore you.”
“Huh.” Grace let out a breath. “Who said they adore me?”
“Alma.”
“Alma just says that becausesheadores me, but it’s really only her.”
“It’s not only her.” The words were out before he could stop them, and he didn’t know whether to wish he could take them back. She was facing the painting, only her profile in view, so he couldn’t make out her expression. Slowly, she turned, and somehow, she looked more beautiful in that moment, surprise and confusion and maybe a little pleasure written across her face, as she stood in front of that strange, colorful portrait. He could see her chest moving up and down with each breath. Suddenly, he found himself closer to her, like his body had carried him a few centimeters forward without bothering to mention it to his brain.
The art handler glanced at both of them before carrying Dora Marr’s portrait to an art rack to conduct a thorough inspection.
Grace slipped away into the nearby alcove, her lips parted as she watched him, alert and wary, and eager, too, if he wasn’t imagining it. “Raf,” she breathed.
“Mmm,” he hummed, trying to stop himself, even though he couldn’t help moving with her, matching her step for step. There was still a rush of activity throughout the cave, but in this spot they were out of view, as if no one else existed.
“We agreed…”
“We did.” He refused to move any closer. Clearly, he wanted her. If she reciprocated, then she would just have to make a move. She was the one who’d called it off, and she would have to call it back on. He would just stand there hoping to God that she would.
She lunged for him, then, and her mouth was on his before he knew what was happening, but he caught up quickly, wrapping his arms around her, pressing them closer together, his fingers in her hair, then a hand on her hip. She moaned into his mouth again, just as she had a few nights earlier. It was a sound he’d been hearing in his dreams, a sound that made him hard in an instant. He backed her into the wall of the big alcove, to ensure they wouldn’t be seen unless someone walked right over to them. He felt the rough texture of the cave wall against the smoothness of her skin, and he traced his hand against her cheek, cradling her head so it wouldn’t hit the wall.
She pulled away almost as quickly as she’d kissed him, but her hair was mussed, and her lips were pink and swollen, proof that it had really happened.
Rafael forced himself to take a step backward, giving her space so she would know she was the one in control of the situation.
“Sorry.” She tried to cover her face with her hands, but he pulled them back down to see her expression. “That was unintentional.”
“You’re completely forgiven,” he said, swallowing hard, burying the tiny hope that had bloomed inside him. “Don’t worry.”
Grace exhaled in frustration and shook her head. “What are we doing?”
She was always asking him questions he wasn’t prepared for. Normally, he liked every angle mapped out, every talking point ready to go to make a sale, to impress a client, to win over a vendor. But with her, he was always at a loss, always trying to catch up and find the right thing to say.
“I don’t know.” It wasn’t very elegant, but it was honest. It was all he had at the moment.
“Me neither,” she said. She put her hands to her cheeks again and sighed. “I think, maybe, until we have a handle on what this is, we probably shouldn’t…” She trailed off, absently touching a fingertip to her lips.
Rafael didn’t know if he would ever have a handle on what this was when it was so unlike any situation he’d been in before. He supposed that meant it was never going to happen, because he would never be able to puzzle it out. He wanted to sleep with her, certainly, but he was starting to worry there was more to it than that. Even in the past few days when she’d been distant, he’d thought about her too often, missed her too much. Her laugh, hearing about her students, watching her wrinkle her nose as she studied a book, planning her next class. But what did that mean? Did he want to have a relationship with Grace Cameron? It seemed impossible to even think such a thing, but here he was, imagining what it might be like. He could picture it so easily—lazy Sundays in bed, cocktails before dinner, holding hands in the park. Suddenly his fantasies had morphed from fevered kisses to long, intimate conversations with her, which only made him more concerned he was losing his mind.
“Sure,” Rafael said, making every effort not to sound like his brain was spinning in circles.
Grace’s face was tinged pink. “Okay. Sorry, again. I know that was my fault.”
Rafael trained his face into an easy smile despite the feeling that something was ripping open inside of him. “Nothing to worry about.”
CHAPTERFIFTEEN
Grace wasgrateful for a distraction the next day, after she’d spent hours replaying that moment in the cave, reliving every second when Rafael’s lips had been on hers, every smile and lingering glance. As desperate as she was for things to go back to normal between them—for Alma’s sake, for her own—she hadn’t been able to resist him when they were in such close proximity, talking of lovers and art. She needed to get it out of her head. Thankfully, she’d invited all her students for a little field trip to an artsy café in the city center where she’d be able to concentrate on something else for a few hours. It wasn’t a mandatory event, and except for Marco and his mother, she was unsure how many would show up, but when she arrived on Thursday evening, she was surprised to find that eleven other students had come, which she considered a miraculous turnout. The café walls were covered in pieces from local artists with no consistent theme or style. There were landscapes and portraits and fantastical images of angels and demons. It was a lot to take in, but her students seemed excited to wander around and view all of it while they chatted.
“I honestly never cared that much about art,” her student, Elyse, said as Grace joined the class at a counter-height table. “But now I’m intrigued. I know there’s still so much I don’t know, but I like to look at it, at least.”
Grace smiled. “That’s really the only qualification you need. An appreciation for the work.”
