He shrugged. “I am.”
Serena studied the small part of Kevin’s face she could see as lightning exploded all around them. “I don’t think so,” she said quietly.
“Yeah, well I’ve been on my best behavior the last few days. I get much worse.”
“I shudder to imagine.”
“Stick around awhile and you’ll see for yourself.”
* * *
Silence reigned for a few minutes, even as fierce bursts of thunder continued to shake the studio violently. Serena knew she should move away—she’d taken advantage of Kevin’s hospitality long enough—but she didn’t want to go.
He probably had other ideas, though. The heat was becoming unbearable in the studio, even with the furnace in the corner dying down. The bayou was not a comfortable place to be without air-conditioning most months, but August was especially hot and sticky.
Sweat slowly slid down Serena’s neck, pooled between her br**sts. She should pull away from Kevin, give both of them some much-needed breathing room. At least they’d both be a few degrees cooler.
As she shifted away from him, Kevin’s arms tightened around her. “Where you going, bebe?” he asked huskily.
“I figured you’d be sick of me by now. It’s really hot in here.”
“I’m used to the heat. But maybe you’re sick of me?” He pulled back slightly, as if trying to see her face in the darkness.
“I’m not.” She leaned forward, buried her face in the curve of his neck, inhaling the incredible, masculine scent of him. “I should be, but I’m not.”
“Then don’t worry about it.”
Striving for a bit of normalcy in this very abnormal situation, she asked, “So about the book. How do you see it?”
“As crap.”
Serena stiffened immediately, pulled just far enough away to glare at him even though she knew he couldn’t see her. “Excuse me?” Her voice dripped ice.
Kevin smiled. It seemed that cool and collected hadn’t totally deserted the field after all. “Not your part, Serena. The whole thing. Why do they need to do a book about me? My work’s the interesting stuff and I’m not even sure that it would make a good book.”
“I don’t know if it would make a good book or not, but my photo essay on you is going to make a fabulous one. I’ve already got some incredible shots.”
“How do you know if you haven’t developed any film yet?”
“Intuition.”
He sighed, raked his hand through his hair in a gesture that was becoming incredibly familiar. “What do you expect the book to say about me?”
“What do you want it to say?” she countered.
“I don’t know.” His fingers tightened into fists and she instinctively reached a hand out to soothe. “I don’t like people. I don’t like them in my studio and I sure as hell don’t like them in my head.”
Despite his vehemence, she felt his hands relax slightly beneath her own. “You let them in your head every day, Kevin. What do you think your art is doing if not letting people see inside you?”
“But only what I want them to see.”
“Do you really believe that?” she asked, lifting an eyebrow. “You really believe that art critics, connoisseurs, other artists, only see what you want them to see? Give me a break and the rest of them some credit. Watching you for two days, I know I’ve seen things you haven’t thought you were revealing.”
He stiffened and Serena immediately recognized her mistake. She waited for him to comment, to demand an explanation. He didn’t say a word, but she could feel his withdrawal in his slackening grip, in the physical and emotional distance that suddenly swelled between them.
When he finally spoke, of the very mundane, his voice was hoarse and the easy camaraderie between them gone. “Do you want something to eat? I’ve got some Twinkies out here. Or we can head back to the house and see what I’ve got there. Everything’s electric so I can’t cook, but I’m sure there’s sandwich stuff. And I’ve got candles.”
She missed his heat, the warm center of her brutally cold emotional storm. And she regretted, deeply, the distance her careless choice of words had put between them. She’d known from the first day that Kevin was a very private person. His deep-seated isolation was practically legendary in a field filled with the lonely and the odd.
“Twinkies? Do you know what’s in those things?” She deliberately kept her voice light and unthreatening.
“I don’t know and I don’t care. All that matters is they taste good.” Kevin’s voice was a little warmer, though he was several degrees from relaxed.
“Are you kidding me? Do you know that they don’t even bake them? The whole sponge cake thing is based on a chemical reaction.”
“A chemical reaction that makes them taste good.”
“Is that all that matters to you? How something tastes?”
His voice was low and seductive when he answered, filled with the rhythmic cadences of his Cajun upbringing. “Well, bebe, that pretty much depends on what we’re talking about eating, doesn’t it?”
Her cheeks flamed, a reaction she hadn’t had since she was in junior high, damn it. Where was her composure? “We were talking about Twinkies.” She kept her voice prim when she answered.
“Of course we were.” He leapt to his feet, crossed the room in a few giant steps. “So do you want one or not?”
She shrugged. “I guess.”
“Don’t sound so enthusiastic.” Opening the small refrigerator he asked, “Do you want another beer or would you prefer something else?”
“Water, if you’ve got it. I can’t imagine the gastronomical nightmare a combination of beer and Twinkies might bring on.” Though she kept her voice light, Serena felt his absence keenly. Without him against her, it was much harder to forget the enveloping blackness.
Kevin heard the note of restrained fear in her voice, cursed himself for not realizing that leaving her would make her terror more pronounced. But he’d needed the space, needed a chance to regroup. He didn’t put himself on display for anyone, had worked hard nearly his entire life to keep people at arm’s length. It was both disconcerting and demeaning to think that some woman—some photographer—could see past his defenses.
But Serena wasn’t just some woman or some photographer, he admitted to himself, which was the crux of the whole problem. She was the woman he wanted more than he’d wanted anything for more years than he could count. He felt vulnerable, exposed, and detested every second of it. After Deb, he’d sworn no woman would make him feel that way again.
After handing her the bottle of water and a Twinkie, he sat and pulled her into his lap once more. They sat in silence for a few moments before he commented, “I love your voice.” It was a peace offering, a weak apology meant to get them back on even footing.
“What did you say?” she asked, pulling away from him abruptly.
“Your voice. It’s really low and husky. Very sexy.”
“I hate it.”
He tried in vain to see her expression. “Why? It’s fabulous.”
She didn’t answer, simply turned her face away from him despite the darkness.
“Serena—”
“Leave it alone, Kevin.”
He sighed in frustration but didn’t say another word, just held her as the storm raged wildly around them.
How long they sat there clinging silently to each other, he didn’t know. Long enough for the storm to slowly pass over them and for the wind to finally die down. They eventually grew quiet, enjoying the early morning sounds of the bayou as the wildlife around them slowly returned to normal.
Kevin was tired, knew that Serena was exhausted. But he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t relax enough to even consider sleeping. Sometime during their quiet talk, between the Twinkies and the beer, renewed desire began to pound through him.
His senses thrummed at the torture of being this close to Serena. He could feel her heartbeat—a slow, steady rhythm pounding in unison with his own. Her breaths were as deep and relaxed as she was and each inhalation pressed her soft curves more firmly against him.
Trying to control himself, determined not to fall on her like an animal, he brushed her hair softly back from her face. She made no objection as his hands smoothed over her hair, as his lips softly grazed her forehead. He began to lower his mouth to hers, but as the early morning light illuminated her face, he realized that she was asleep.
Cursing himself and the overactive libido that had blinded him to her exhaustion, Kevin tamped down on the lust that rode him hard. Instead, he climbed gingerly to his feet and carried her out of the studio, across the yard and into the house where he walked slowly to her bedroom.
Her scent teased him with every step and as he laid her gently on the bed, he slid his fingers slowly down the curve of her cheek.
Her eyes blinked open, sleepy and confused. “Kevin?” she asked, her voice husky with sleep.
“I’m here,” he reassured her, clasping the hand that reached for his. “Sleep, bebe. The storm’s over and the lights should be on by the time you wake up.”
“Are you certain?”
“Absolutely.” His smile was cocky, reassuring. “I’ve been through this a lot.”
She smiled back as her eyes drifted shut. “Stay with me.” Her hand tightened around his.
His c**k twitched eagerly, but he ignored it. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she sighed, rolling onto her side. Then, clutching his hand against her chest, she wrapped herself around him and drifted back to sleep.
Kevin sat on the side of the bed, watching over her as daylight slowly crept into the bayou. Her gold hair gleamed against the dark sheets, making her look defenseless and nearly childlike. She would hate this in the morning, he knew. Would hate the vulnerability that had forced her to lean on him, would hate even more that he’d seen her asleep, without the mask she kept in place nearly all of her waking hours.
He couldn’t say how long he sat with her warm body curled around his hand, how long he watched her face as she slept. But the sun was high in the morning sky and the bayou alive with noise when he finally pulled his hand from hers and walked slowly down the hall to his own room.
As he crawled into his bed, the air-conditioning suddenly kicked in and his ceiling fan began its quiet turning. The electricity was back on. As he drifted to sleep, he wondered if the game between them was as well.
Chapter Three
He couldn’t sleep. Not that that was anything unusual. It had been so long since he’d had a full night’s sleep that he could barely remember what it felt like to live without this bone-weary exhaustion wearing him down. Why should today be any different?
Climbing out of bed with a sigh and a shrug, he padded into the bathroom to stare at his reflection in the dim light filtering through the edges of the blackout curtains. He could see himself, just barely, but he didn’t bother turning on the overhead light. It hurt his eyes and often brought on the killer migraines he’d do almost anything to escape. Besides, he liked the shadows. Liked the vague outline of his face in the mirror, the many shades of gray he’d chosen to live his life among.
He ignored the vast array of yellow medicine bottles lined up against the mirror. They couldn’t help him—it was already too late. He could feel a migraine starting, even without the added stimulation of light. Pain crushed through his head from all sides and his vision blurred. Nausea clenched his stomach in its slippery grip—once and then twice—and he barely made it to the toilet before becoming violently ill.
When it was over, he slid bonelessly to the floor; resting next to the toilet for a few minutes, he braced his head on the warm oak cabinet he had installed himself in better days. Part of him wanted desperately to climb back into bed, but he was too weak to get that far. The pain, and sickness, had zapped him of all energy. Besides, this was only the beginning. The sickness would get worse—much worse—before it abated.