Ivy Secrets, page 44
Maggie felt her temperature rise a notch. She had little doubt his women patients had no complaints—as long as he smiled at them the way he was smiling at her.
“No complaints about my inhibitions either,” he added. “They’re wide open, lady psychologist.”
She swallowed hard. “Then have a go at the word list.”
He handed her back the marking pen. “Oh, no—I’m having much more fun observing.” His eyes raked over her, raising her body temperature another notch.
Why did she think she was losing the battle with this man? Did his women ever win? “Fine,” she said, deciding retreat was the better part of valor—at least at that moment. She added, however, one last parting shot. “Maybe the afternoon exercise will be more to your liking.”
She turned and paraded back to the head of the classroom then, leaving him with a frown between his bold, dark brows.
She knew she shouldn’t get discouraged. Male doctors were the most resistant, not to mention stubborn, particularly the good-looking, I-believe-I-am-omnipotent type. But the harder she resisted, the harder they fell.
And there was something she would look forward to—Joel’s tumble.
The rest of the students began to drift back to their seats. She knew she should concentrate on the day’s agenda rather than on the rugged silver-eyed man who was there in her classroom.
She could feel his gaze on her still, but she denied that was the source of the shivery thrill permeating her.
“Well now,” she said, struggling to keep her voice even. “Are we having fun yet?”
A rousing round of cheers, mingled with a few wolf whistles, reverberated through the room.
She smiled.
At least the exercise had been deemed a success by most of the class.
“Who would like to be first to read one of the lists?”
Writing the words was one thing; reading them aloud to the group was another. She glanced around for volunteers and found a few, though those few were avid.
Joel was not among them. He leaned back in his seat, looking as though he believed her course was just one step away from a charlatan’s act.
She skipped over him to a more willing student, and then another. The word lists were read off to a chorus of easy laughs and giggles. The class discussion was open and free, which was the effect she’d hoped for.
The only one she had left to reach was Joel.
Joel listened to all the gab, all the energy being wasted on chitchat. There was even some male posturing, more than one trumped-up tale of sexual prowess designed to impress the teacher.
He supposed he couldn’t blame a guy for wanting to impress pretty Maggie Springer. He’d do handstands on her doorstep himself just to see her break out that wide, sexy smile of hers.
“Dr. Benedict, perhaps you’d like to give us your opinion.” Maggie’s voice vibratingly low and sultry called him back. Her eyes held a slightly taunting glint.
She wouldn’t be happy until she’d drawn him, kicking and bucking like a mule, into her class discussion.
“My opinion?”
She swept him with her gaze, making his pulses pound. Her lips looked full and pouty, as if they were just begging to be kissed.
He shifted in his seat, trying to recall what the hell the group had been talking about. He hadn’t heard a thing since some drivel about men being more reluctant to talk about their sexuality than the female of the species.
Why talk about something that could be worked out in the bedroom? It got down to the nitty-gritty fast—and it was a whole lot more enjoyable.
But that was before the macho Sam had tried to wow Maggie with his “positive sexual experiences.” More drivel. The man thought he had bragging rights.
But where had the discussion gone since then?
“Dr. Benedict, would you please stay for a moment after class? I think we need to talk.”
“Talk?”
But Maggie had moved on to another attendee, leaving him to ponder just what the hell he’d done to get her riled.
And she was riled.
He could tell by the slight flare of her nostrils, the small, faint crease that had appeared between her velvety eyebrows, the squaring of her shoulders.
When class was finally over for the morning, he waited until most of the students had straggled out of the room, each pausing for a special word with Maggie as they filed past her desk.
It was clear she was a big success in her students’ eyes. They all had a smile or a word of praise. So did Maggie for each of them.
She made everyone feel special.
He leaned back in his seat and lazily watched the golden lights that brightened in her brown eyes, the way she tilted her head as she listened, the animation in her face and body language as she spoke.
It seemed an eon before the last one had drifted out the door and Maggie glanced up to lock those wide eyes on him.
Why did he feel like a delinquent high school kid asked to report to the principal? He had a little remorse now for the times he’d ordered his daughter to stay in on a school night. Kimberly was sixteen, just entering the dating scene—and that had him plenty worried these days. It wasn’t easy for a parent, especially a single parent.
He slid his tall frame out of the small chair. His white doctor-coat felt glued to his backside, and he was sure he had permanent kinks in his knees.
Maybe he’d take the afternoon off for a sail. He’d miss out on three hours of observing the sultry Maggie sashay back and forth across the front of her classroom, but on the other hand, he could supplant that with a few very male fantasies of her as he soaked up the rare autumn sunshine on the deck of the Sail Away.
He was a little surprised at how far his feelings had gone in so short a time. It worried him—more than a little bit.
“Thank you for staying, Doctor. I thought we should talk.”
He sauntered toward the front of the room and met her gaze. “Don’t you think you can call me Joel after a whole morning of … intimate discussion?”
She arched one eyebrow eloquently at him. “What discussion? I didn’t hear you add a single word.”
“Yeah, well, I was listening.”
She let out a sigh. “That’s not true, Doctor.”
“Joel,” he reminded her. She was right. He’d been so absorbed in her that the words hadn’t registered.
“Joel.”
Just then his beeper sounded, a loud blip-blip-blip in the quiet room. “I, uh, have to get that. Maybe we can talk another time?”
Maggie wasn’t about to let him off that easily. She should just chalk him up as a man who couldn’t be reached, one stubborn male doctor, but she still had a lot more fight left in her—and she wasn’t ready to give up on him.
Not yet.
“Another time would be fine,” she said. “How about over dinner tonight?” A discussion away from the classroom setting might be more effective, she reasoned to herself. She wasn’t sure just how she would handle her attraction to him, but she’d think of something. “Do you have a problem with that?”
“No, of course not. Tonight. Dinner.”
Just then his beeper sang out again.
Read on for an excerpt from Adrienne Staff’s Spellbound
ONE
Slowly the clouds moved across the bright face of the full moon. Mysterious shadows cloaked the building where Jamie Payton tried to paint. For an instant it was as though the stage was purposely being dimmed; the scene was being set. Jamie felt a chill walk across her skin. She had the strangest feeling that something was about to happen, something unexplainable, something unforeseen. Something …
The lights went out. One minute Jamie was staring at her half-finished painting, brush in hand, and the next … total darkness.
“Damn!” She felt her way over to the wall near the door and flicked the light switch once, twice. Nothing. What was going on? Moving cautiously, she walked around the wall to the windows, covered with heavy oilcloth to keep out the distractions of the city while she painted. She slid a fingernail under the rim of a thumbtack, the cloth sprang up, and light poured in.
The street lamps were on outside and there were lights in the row of storefronts across the way. Jamie frowned. She opened the window, leaned out, and saw that lights were shining from the windows in her own building as well. Damn! Wouldn’t you know? Just when she thought she was finally getting somewhere with her painting, something bad had to happen. It was probably the wiring in her loft or a blown fuse. But why now? Why her?
Tugging her fingers through her uncombed hair, she turned back to the darkness of her own room. For a moment she stood there immobilized by a childhood sense of dread, feeling the old ghosts closing in. But she shook them off and moved quickly through the loft, pulling open one drawer after another in search of candles. Her elbow hit the corner of a box, the vase on top teetered, and an entire still life crashed to the floor.
Jamie screamed. She didn’t mean to; it just happened before she could control herself. Biting her lip, she bent and began picking glass shards off the worn wood floor. She was just reaching for another when there was a knock at the door.
“Now what?” she groaned. She was tempted to ignore it, but whoever was out there was very persistent. Setting the broken glass down in a neat pile, she walked over, checked the chain lock, and opened the door a few inches.
“Yes?” she said, peering out into the corridor. The guy standing there looked familiar, a neighbor most likely.
“Hi. I’m Kent. From next door,” he added, confirming her guess. “I didn’t mean to bother you, but I heard a crash, and a scream….” He shrugged. “I just wanted to check that everything’s okay.”
Jamie gave him a thin smile. “I’m fine. Thanks. That was nice of you, but I’m okay.”
He stood there.
“Really,” she insisted. “My lights went out and I bumped into some things I’d left lying around. I’m a painter and—”
“I know,” he interrupted. “Abstracts. You told me a year ago when we first met. And I’m the actor from next door, the one who used to play his music too loud.”
“Oh yes, of course I remember,” she lied, feeling really embarrassed now. He was trying to be neighborly. “Well, perhaps sometime you could come over and we could talk about our work.”
He smiled. “You said that also. But you didn’t show up at my New Year’s Eve party. Or my St. Patrick’s Day bash … green beer and all. I was hurt.”
Jamie stiffened. “I must have been busy. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” He smiled. “I just thought we could be friends.”
“Yes. That’s nice. And thanks again for being the good Samaritan.”
“No problem. Hey—just call if you need any help.”
“Yes, I will. Thanks. Good night.”
She shut the door and leaned back against it, feeling oddly shaken. The truth was, she could have used a little help right now. But it was just as true that she couldn’t ask. Ever. Before she could stop herself, she was always saying, “No, thank you, I’m fine; I don’t need anything.” It was just the way she was.
Pain squeezed her heart. She wanted to be different. She longed to be different, to be open, warm, and responsive, to be the kind of person who was surrounded by friends. It would be wonderful to be the center of smiles and laughter, the giver and recipient of hugs.
Jamie’s throat tightened around forbidden tears. She pushed away from the door, away from her thoughts. “Now where the hell did I put those candles?”
Finally she had two lit and placed strategically in the dimness. Tomorrow she’d complain to her landlord. She’d have it out with him once and for all. He could either fix things so that she could paint without interruption or he could find himself another tenant. She’d move. She’d find another loft in Georgetown, or somewhere else in D.C. The classifieds probably had dozens of listings.
Reaching for an old newspaper, she knocked a week’s worth of mail onto the floor. When everything finally fluttered to a stop, there on top was a bill from the electric company, FINAL NOTICE typed across the envelope in bold print.
The electric company! Her hand flew to her mouth. The telephone company! Her rent! She’d forgotten to pay all her bills. She’d been so determined to finish this latest painting that she’d forgotten everything else. And for what? She still couldn’t get it right. She couldn’t achieve the power she wanted, the dynamic tension of form and shadow. She couldn’t capture the light, that perfect but elusive light she saw in her imagination. But she was damned if she was going to give up. Hurrying to the easel, she picked up her brush, dipped it in paint….
At that instant a gust of wind blew in through the open windows and snuffed out her candles.
It was too much; she couldn’t stand it anymore. Problems were piling on top of problems: the poor sales at her first one-woman show, then this painting, and now the lights—
She was going to cry. She knew it, hating herself for it, fighting against it. And even as the tears gathered she heard her father’s cold voice with its chill disapproval, its utter disdain: “Look at you. Out of control. Are you crying? Are those tears? What are you, a baby? A failure? A loser?”
His ghost chased her from the loft.
Jamie took the stairs two at a time, grabbing at the banister for balance. She ran out the front door and into the loud, impersonal noise of the street with its car radios, college students, and flood of tourists. Above her head, the sky was filled with strange, leaden clouds that seemed to catch the noise and bounce it back down like an echo chamber. But even this was better than that voice.
Jamie stuffed her hands into the pockets of her jeans and walked on, head down. It started to drizzle. Every store light, every car light, every traffic light flashing green/yellow/red was reflected on the wet canvas of the sidewalks. The lights streaked and spread. They flowed in elongated, mystical shapes. They arched into rainbows at the edges of curbs where oil and grease had been laid like wax crayon on gray paper. Colors and light, light and color—Why couldn’t she paint like this, with such random beauty, such freedom?
Drawing a shaky breath, Jamie tilted her face up to the rain. It made it easier to hide the tears.
She wandered along, turning right or left without thought. Night fell over the city and the stores closed. As the rain picked up, the streets emptied. But Jamie was reluctant to go home, home to the darkness, the silence, her own thoughts … and that awful voice.
Pulling up the hood of her sweatshirt, she took a sharp left down a narrow, dark street she’d never seen before. Suddenly everything looked unfamiliar. Yet she almost felt, in her confusion and despair, as if her feet had led her surely to this place. But why?
One light shone up ahead, spilling a welcoming pool of yellow warmth out onto the sidewalk. The sign on the window was old and faded, the paint worn away: MYST R UM. The window was full of the strangest things: antique toys, rhinestone earrings, a feather boa and a silk top hat, cut-glass vases, a shawl with red silk thread and ten-inch fringes. They were odd, mismatched items but beautiful to an artist’s eye. Already Jamie was picturing how she could stand a vase on one end of the shawl, its fringe hanging down off the table’s edge as sunlight splintered through the glass. She could use layer upon layer of paint to create a jeweled, almost enameled effect.
Abandoning herself to her imagination, Jamie entered the store’s dim interior. Chaos reigned. Things were stacked everywhere in a topsy-turvy jumble. This store is as out of control as my loft, she thought, and almost smiled. She drew her fingers along the dusty countertops, traced the facets on a tiny vase, peered into the ancient, beveled-glass cases, gathered into her hands dry, threadbare fabrics that rustled under her touch.
“Welcome.”
Jamie spun in surprise. She searched the recesses of the store for the source of the man’s voice, but jumped nonetheless as he stepped out of the shadows. He was a tiny old man with a mane of white hair and a knowing smile. “Good evening. I’m so glad you’ve come.”
She nodded. “I bet you don’t have many customers on a night like tonight.”
“It only takes one. The right one,” the man replied, a glint in his eye.
Taken aback, Jamie quickly shook her head. “Oh, I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed. I don’t want anything.”
“Don’t you?” He held her eyes. “Oh, I think neither of us is going to be disappointed this evening. Come over here. Look what I have for you.”
She hesitated, frowning. Living in Georgetown, she was used to meeting the occasional odd character, but she had the strangest feeling about this man—
Squaring her shoulders, she strode across the store. “What is it you’d like to show me? I really don’t need any jewelry, and I don’t collect antiques.”
“Nevertheless, these are for you.” Reaching down into the dusty case, the man drew out an old, handpainted box. The hinge squeaked as he lifted the lid. Inside were two neat, perfect rows of paints, twelve tubes all tightly capped, all waiting to be used.
Without thinking, Jamie ran a fingertip along the top row, slowly, sensually, in wonder and delight. The tubes felt warm, alive, as if transmitting some strange energy. Biting her lip, she was already imagining how it would feel to squeeze the paint onto her palette, dip in the curved sable of her brush, draw that first magical stroke across a white and empty canvas.
Suddenly she yanked her hand back. “What makes you think I’d be interested in these?”
“Aren’t you?” The old man gave a Cheshire-cat smile.
“I don’t know. Maybe, maybe not. But you didn’t answer my question.”
He shrugged, lowered his eyes, and busied himself with a tray of glass beads. “Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps instead you’d like to browse—”
“No, I’ll take the paints,” she answered, shutting the box top with trembling fingers. “Yes, I’ll take them. How much are they?”
