One Season Collection

‘That’s a shame. I wanted you there.’ He paused while Hope gaped at him, floored by the unexpected words. He wanted her at his big night? As a model—or to support him? ‘Look. I wanted to let you know that I’ve decided not to show it, your painting.’

Time seemed to stand still, the blood rushing to her ears as she tried to take in his words. ‘But, you need it. The centrepiece. It’s less than three weeks away.’

‘I have nineteen pictures I am proud of. Nobody else knows I planned a larger twentieth. I’m not sure that I’ll ever paint a better picture than the one I did of you but I don’t need to show it. I’d rather not, knowing it makes you so uncomfortable.’

He was willing not to show the picture? After everything he had done to persuade her to pose? Even though he thought it was the best he had done? Hope had no idea how to respond, what to say. This graciousness and understanding was more than she had ever expected from anyone. She slid off the stool and walked to the door, pausing for a second as she took in the easel with the large canvas balanced perfectly on it dominating the empty space and then, with a fortifying breath, she went over to take a second look.

It wasn’t such a shock this time. Her skin was as white, her body as nude, she still wished she’d done daily sit-ups so that her stomach was concave rather than curved but, she conceded, her breasts looked rather nice. Biting her lip until she tasted blood, Hope forced herself to step in and examine her scars, remembering the pain and the secrecy and the self-hatred that went into every one of the silvery lines.

She pulled her gaze away from her torso and looked into her own eyes. Sad, wary, lonely. That was who she was; there was no getting away from it, no hiding. She shouldn’t blame Gael for painting what he saw. She could only blame herself. Well, no more.

‘Show it,’ she said. ‘I want you to. It’s real. Maybe one day you can paint me again and I’ll be a different person, a happier one.’

‘You can count on it.’ He was leaning against the door, watching her, hunger in his eyes. She recognised the hunger because she felt it too. Had felt it all day, this yearning to touch him, for him to touch her. For the world to fall away, to know nothing but him and the way he could make her feel; sexy, adored, powerful. Wanted.

She was leaving in less than a week. What harm could it do, one last time?

‘On Saturday we’re the best man and the bridesmaid once more. We have busy, sensible roles to play.’

The hunger in his eyes didn’t lessen; if anything it intensified. ‘I know.’

‘Sunday I’m helping Faith get ready to go off on her travels and then I need to spend a couple of days preparing for mine.’

Gael pushed away from the door frame and stalked a couple of steps closer. ‘Hope, what are you saying?’

Deep breath. She could do this. ‘I’m saying that this is the last time we can be ourselves, Hope and Gael. Painter and model. Carousel riders. Storytellers.’ She moistened her lips nervously. ‘Lovers.’

‘Last time?’

She nodded.

He smiled then, the wolfish smile that sent jolts of heat into every atom in her body, the smile that made her toes curl, her knees tremble and her whole body become one yearning mass. ‘Then we better make the most of it, hadn’t we?’

The morning sun streamed in through the huge windows, bathing the bed in a warm, rosy glow. Gael had barely slept and now he rolled over to watch Hope slumber, the dawn light tinging her skin a light pink, picking out auburn lights in her dark hair.

He felt complete, that all was right in his world. Probably, he decided sleepily, because Hope and he had tidied up their brief relationship, ending it in a mutually agreeable and agreed manner. No more messy arguments or avoiding each other, no more hurt emotions or dramas. Instead a civilised discussion and one last night together before they went their separate ways. Neat, tidy and emotionless. Just how he liked it.

It was a shame she wouldn’t be there for the opening night though; he would have liked to have seen her reaction when all the pictures were displayed together for the first time with her at the very heart of the show.

He trailed his finger over her shoulder, enjoying the silky feeling of her skin. She was right. Tomorrow they had their roles to play and those roles didn’t involve making out on the dance floor. Probably for the best that they had agreed last night was to be the final time.

But right now, in dawn’s early light, was in between times, neither last night nor today. They were out of time, which meant there were no rules if they didn’t want there to be. And that meant he could press his lips here, and here, and here...

‘Mmm...’ Hope rolled over, smiling the sleepy yet sated smile he had come to know and enjoy. ‘What time is it?’

‘Early, very early, so there’s no need to think about getting up yet,’ he assured her, dropping a brief kiss onto her full mouth, shifting so his weight was over her. ‘Can you think of any way to spend the time as we’re awake?’

Her eyes, languorous and sleepy, twinkled up at him, full of suggestion, but she put her hands onto his chest and firmly, if gently, pushed him off. ‘Plenty, but none suitable for people who are just friends.’

‘Ah.’ That wasn’t disappointment stabbing through his chest. He could walk away at any time, after all. ‘We’ve reached the cut-off point, then.’

‘I think it might be wise.’ She sat up, the sheet modestly wound around her. The message was clear—I’m no longer yours to look at or touch or kiss. ‘Besides, I could do with an early start. Your stepmother—ex-stepmother—has asked me to go to Long Harbor this evening and stay so that I’m there for the morning when the caterers and everyone arrives. I know this party is all her work but I think she’d appreciate some backup. You’ll be with us Saturday before three p.m., won’t you? That’s when my family arrives, with the blessing ceremony due to start at four.’

They were back in wedding-planning mode, it seemed. Gael slumped back onto the pillows, curiously deflated. ‘I’ll be there.’

‘Great. I’ll see you then.’ Hope slid off the bed, still wrapped in a sheet, and headed towards the stairs. She turned, curiously dignified despite her mussed-up hair, her bare feet, the sheet held up modestly, just her shoulders peeking out above its white folds. ‘Thank you, Gael. For waking me up, for challenging me, for making me challenge myself. I’m not saying I’m exactly relaxed about giving up my job—even with a sabbatical as a safety net—and if I think too hard about travelling by myself I get palpitations here.’ She pressed her hand to her stomach. ‘But I know it’s all really positive—and I don’t think I would have got here on my own. So thank you.’

‘You’d have got there,’ he said softly. ‘You just needed a push, that was all. You were ready to fly.’ He wanted to say more but what could he say? He didn’t have the words, didn’t have the feelings—didn’t allow himself to have the feelings—so he just lay there as she turned with one last smile and watched her walk down the stairs. And five minutes later, when he heard the elevator ping and knew that this time she really had walked out of his studio for the last time, he still hadn’t moved. All he knew was that the complete feeling seemed to have disappeared, leaving him hollow.

Hollow, empty and with the sense that he might have just made the biggest mistake of his entire life.

Five hours later the feelings had intensified. Nothing pulled him out of his stupor, not working on the painting—that just made the feelings worse—not going over his speech for the next day, not proofing the catalogue for his show. The only thing that helped was keeping busy—but he couldn’t keep his mind on anything. Finally, exasperated with the situation, with himself, Gael flung himself out of the apartment, deciding if he couldn’t work off this strange mood he would have to run it off instead. He stuck his headphones on, selected the loudest, most guitar-filled music he could find and set off with no route in mind.

Almost inevitably his run took him through Central Park, past the carousel and down towards the lake. Every step, every thud of his heart, every beat an insistent reminder that last time he was here, the time before that and the time before that he wasn’t alone.

Funny, he had never minded being alone before. Preferred it. Today was the first day for a long time that he felt incomplete.

It didn’t help that everywhere he looked the park was full of couples; holding hands, kissing, really kissing in a way that was pretty inappropriate in public, jogging, sunbathing—was that a proposal? Judging by the squeal and the cheering it was. Were there no other single people in the whole of Central Park? With a grunt of annoyance Gael took a path out of the park, preferring to pound the pavements than be a bystander to someone else’s love affair.

He. Preferred. Being. Alone. He repeated the words over and over as his feet took him away from the park and into the residential streets of the Upper East Side. The midday sun was burning down and the humidity levels high but he welcomed the discomfort. If you were okay on your own then no one could ever hurt you. If he hadn’t loved his mother so much then her absence wouldn’t have poisoned every day of his childhood. If he hadn’t relied on his father so much then it wouldn’t have been such a body blow when his father left him behind with Misty. If he hadn’t fallen so hard for Tamara then her betrayal wouldn’t have been so soul-guttingly humiliating.

You could only rely on yourself. He knew that all too well.

And yet he couldn’t shake Hope’s words. You’re lucky to have Misty, to have someone who cares. Hunter had wanted—no, needed—him by his side yesterday. Misty hadn’t just paid his school and college fees, she had given him a home, shielded him from his father’s impulsive and destructive post-divorce lifestyle. In those tricky few days after his authorship of Expose became public knowledge she had stood by him. She insisted he came to her every Thanksgiving and Christmas even now.

Hope had seen that when he couldn’t—or wouldn’t. But then she knew all about being a mother figure, didn’t she?

And now it was her time to shine. He wished he could see her as she finally visited the places she had always wanted to visit, could capture the look on her face as she finally reached Machu Picchu, in photographs, in pencil sketches, in oils. He could draw her for ever and never run out of things to say about the line of her mouth, the curve of her ear, that delicious hollow in her throat.

His steps slowed as he gulped for air, his discomfort nothing to do with the heat or his punishing pace. Somehow, when he hadn’t even noticed it, Hope McKenzie had slid under his guard and he could walk away—leave her to walk away—and it would make no difference. She’d still be there. He’d still be alone but the difference would be now he’d feel it. He’d not just be alone—he’d be lonely.

He bent over, trying to get his breath back and reorder his thoughts, and as he straightened he saw a familiar sign, the shop they had visited so recently, the shop where Faith’s wedding dress still hung, the last alterations completed, ready to be steamed and conveyed to Long Island in the morning. The shop where Hope had tried on a dress that, for one moment, had made him wish that he were a different man, that they had a different future. A dress that belonged to her.

Was this a sign or just a coincidence? It almost didn’t matter. What mattered was what he chose to do next.

CHAPTER TWELVE

‘YOU LOOK BEAUTIFUL.’

Hope smoothed down her dress and smiled at Gael, her heart giving a little twist as she did so. By tacit consent they had kept their distance from each other all day except when posing for photographs, but now the evening had drawn in and the event moved from celebration to party the rules they had set themselves didn’t seem quite so rigid. They were aiming for friends, after all.

‘It’s all the dress. Lucky I had some expert help choosing it.’ All the bridesmaids wore the same design, a halter-necked knee-length dress with a silk corsage at the neck, but while the other four bridesmaids’ dresses were all a deep rose pink Hope, as maid of honour, wore a cream and pink flowered silk. ‘If your show is a flop you could always turn your hand to wedding styling. You have quite the knack.’

‘All I did was nod in the right places. I think you knew exactly what you were looking for.’

‘Maybe. So that was a good speech you did back then.’ She’d heard lots of people talking about it—and him. It was hard to keep a bland smile on her face when she kept overhearing beautiful, gazelle-like girls in dresses that cost more than her entire wardrobe discussing just how sexy they thought he was and speculating whether his net worth was high enough for a permanent relationship or whether he was just fling material.

They weren’t lying about how sexy Gael looked today. Some men looked stilted or stuffy in a suit; Gael wore his with a casual elegance and a nonchalance that made a girl sit up and take notice. Even this girl. Especially this girl.

His tie was the same dark pink as the flowers on her dress. They looked as if they belonged together.

Funny how deceiving looks could be.

‘Thank you. Hunter deserved something heartfelt and not too cruel. He’s a good kid. Although now he’s a married man I suppose I shouldn’t call him a kid.’

‘I suppose not.’ Hope looked over at the dance floor where her sister swayed in her new husband’s arms, the two of them oblivious to the two hundred or so guests Misty had invited. It was a beautiful party. Lanterns and fairy lights were entwined in the trees all around and in the several marquees that circled the dance floor, one acting as a bar, one a food tent, one a seating area and one a family-friendly place with games and a cinema screen for the younger guests.

The swing band that had accompanied the meal had been replaced by a jazz band crooning out soulful ballads as the evening fell. A sought-after wedding singer was due to come onto the purpose-built stage at nine to get the dancing really started and then a celebrated DJ would entertain the crowd into the early hours. The blessing had been beautifully staged and even though Hope had seen her sister make similar vows just two days before she had still needed to borrow a hanky from her aunt when she welled up for the second time.

‘Would you like to dance?’

The question took her by surprise. ‘I don’t know if that’s wise. Maybe later when the music is less...’

‘Less what?’

‘Less sway-like. I hear the wedding singer does an excellent Beyoncé. I’ll dance with you to that.’

‘It’s a deal.’

So they had made small talk and it wasn’t too hard, made civilised plans for later. No one looking over at them would think that they were anything but the best man and the maid of honour relaxing after a long day of duties. Good job on both sides. It was probably time to drift away to opposite sides of the dance floor so Hope could resume sneaking peeks at him while pretending even to herself, especially to herself, that she wasn’t.

The night after the wedding had been her gift to herself. A chance to be bold and brave. A way of ensuring that something sweet and special didn’t turn sour, that her memories of Gael and her time with him were something to savour. A time for her to take control and show them both just what she could do, who she could be. And then she had walked away with her head held high. Chosen when, chosen how.

So why did her victory feel so hollow? She had a sinking feeling it was because things weren’t finished between them, much as she tried to fool herself that they were. There had been a tenderness that night she hadn’t felt before. A closeness that she wasn’t sure she believed was real and not just a figment of her overheated imagination. Truth was, Gael knew her better than anyone else in the entire world. How did she walk away from that?

But she didn’t know what the alternative was or if she was brave enough to explore it. Hope turned away from the dance floor. Ahead of her, through the small scrub-like trees, was a private path that led directly to the beach. She’d been meaning to take a look at the ocean but hadn’t had a chance to. ‘I’m going to take a walk,’ she said, kicking her shoes off, taking a couple of steps away. She didn’t know if it was devilry or the moonlight that made her swivel back around and aim a smile in Gael’s direction. ‘Coming?’

He didn’t answer but his movement was full of intent and she didn’t demur as he took her hand, leading her through the trees with sure steps. The path through the trees was lit with tiny storm lanterns swaying in the slight breeze like an enchanted way.

All Hope knew was the salt on her lips, the sea breeze gentling ruffling her elaborately styled hair, the coolness of the sand between her toes and the firmness of Gael’s grip. ‘What was it like living here?’

He didn’t answer until they cleared the trees and reached the top of the dunes. The beach spread out before them, dim in the pearl glow of the moon, behind them Hope could hear music and laughter, ahead the swish of the waves rippling onto shore.

‘I didn’t feel like I belonged,’ he said finally. ‘I was a scrubby kid who biked around Long Harbor getting into trouble, the kind of kid begging for a chance to go out on a boat, trying to find ways of earning a few dollars through running errands. Home was chaotic, living with my grandparents, I always fell asleep listening to the music in the bar downstairs. And then I came here. A driver to take me where I needed to go, money, more than I could spend, a boat that belonged to the family I could take out whenever I wanted complete with a crew. And when I fell asleep at night it was to total silence. I had a room, a study and a bath all to myself.’

‘How did it feel?’

‘Like I didn’t know who I was.’ His hand strengthened in hers. ‘I still don’t. Except...’

She wasn’t sure she dared ask but did anyway. ‘Except what?’

‘These last couple of weeks I’ve had an inkling of who I could be, the kind of man I’d like to be.’

‘Me too. Not the man part but the seeing a new way. It’s not easy though, is it?’

Letting go of his hand, Hope sank down into the soft sand, not worrying about stains on her dress or if anyone was looking for her or if there were things she should be doing. All those things were undoubtedly true but she didn’t have to take ownership of them. Gael folded himself down beside her with that innate grace she admired so much and Hope leaned into him, enjoying his solid strength, the scent of him. The illusion that he was hers.

‘You’ve made a good start though. Travelling, carefree, no plans.’

‘Hmm. On the surface maybe,’ she conceded. ‘I want to go, don’t get me wrong, but there’s still the little voice in my head telling me I don’t deserve it. And another little voice shrieking at me to plan it all down to the final detail, account for every second because if it’s planned it can’t go wrong.’

‘Sounds like it’s getting crowded in your head.’

‘Just a little. Planning makes me feel safe so trying to learn to be more spur of the moment is, well, it’s a challenge. My real worry is...’ She hesitated.

‘Go on.’

‘Being lonely,’ she admitted. ‘Even lonelier than I have been because I have always had Faith and a job, a routine. I’m not good at talking to people, Gael. I suck at making friends. A whole year of just me for company looms ahead and it terrifies me.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. It sounds pretty good to me.’

Surprise hit her oomph in the chest. In her heart. Not just the words but the way he said them. Low, serious and full of an emotion she couldn’t identify. Her pulse began to hammer, the blood rushing in her ears, drowning out the sound of the sea. She’d always wanted to matter to someone, be worthy of someone, but at some point in the last two weeks her goalposts had shifted.

She wanted to matter to Gael.

Proud, cynical Gael. A man who gave no quarter and expected none. A man who knew what he wanted and pushed for it. A man who had made her confront all her secrets and sins and forgive herself.

A man who made her feel safe. Worth something.

‘You could travel,’ she said, looking down at her feet, at the way her toes squished into the sand. ‘Do the whole Gauguin thing.’

‘Been reading up on your history of art?’

‘I remember some things from my whistle-stop tour.’

‘I could. I could travel, stay here, move to Paris or Florence or Tahiti. I’m not sure it would make much difference though. I’d still be hiding.’

‘What from?’

‘Myself. From emotion. From living. Do you know why that painting of you is the best thing I have ever done?’

She still couldn’t look at him, shaking her head instead.

‘Because I felt something when I painted it. Felt something for you. Complicated, messy, unwanted human emotions. Lust, of course. Exasperation because I could see you hiding all that you are, all that you could be. Frustration that you didn’t see it. Annoyance because you kept pushing me, asking awkward questions and puncturing the bubble I had built around myself.’

Exasperation, annoyance. Frustration. At least she had made him feel something.

‘And I liked you. A lot. I didn’t want to. The last thing I needed was a dark-eyed nymph with a wary expression and a to-do list turning my carefully ordered world upside down.’

‘Is that what I did?’ She raised her head and looked directly at him, floored by the unexpected tenderness in his smile.

‘I think you know you did. I have something to show you. Will you come?’

She nodded mutely.

Gael pulled Hope to her feet and led her back along the path to the house, skirting the party and the merry-making guests, neither of them ready or able to make small talk with Hunter’s Uncle Maurice or Misty’s drunken college room-mate. He took a circuitous route round the Italian garden and in through a side door that only he and Hunter had ever used as it led straight into a boot room perfect for dropping sandy surfboards and towels and swim trunks with a shower room leading right off it. It was empty today, no towels folded on the shelves, no boards hanging on the wall, no crabbing nets leaning in the corner. For the first time Gael felt a shiver of fond nostalgia for those carefree, summer days. He might not have ever admitted it but this huge nineteen-twenties mansion had at some point become his home—just as its mercurial, warm-hearted, extravagant owner had become his mother.

The boot room led into a back hallway, which ran behind the reception and living areas, avoiding the famous two-storey main hallway with its sweeping, curved staircase and ornate plasterwork. Instead Gael led the way up a narrow back stairway, once used solely by the army of servants who had waited on Misty’s great-grandparents, the original owners of the mansion.

‘I feel like I’m a teenager again, sneaking girls up to my room through the back stairs.’

‘Was there a lot of that?’

‘No, sadly not. I was too grand for the girls I grew up with and not grand enough for the girls Misty introduced me to. Besides, there wouldn’t have been any sneaking. Misty would have offered us wine and condoms and sent us on our way. She was embarrassingly open-minded. Nothing more guaranteed to make a teen boy teetotal and celibate—even if he wasn’t a social pariah!’

‘I bet there were hundreds of girls just waiting for you to look in their direction,’ Hope said. ‘I would have been.’

‘Maybe,’ he conceded. He had been so filled with his own angst he would never have noticed.

A discreet door led onto the main landing. Closed again, it blended into the wooden panelling. The house was riddled with hidden doors and passageways and he knew every single one of them.