LITMIR.BIZ

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      “A little. It’s been a rough week.” His voice sounded raspy and unexpectedly sexy. She pictured him still at his desk, pulling at his tie, loosening the precise knot. His light brown hair would be ruffled from running his fingers through it. He would be drinking scotch, neat.

      “I know. I was just reading in the paper about the drug ring you’re prosecuting. You look tired in the pictures.”

      “I am tired,” he conceded. “I’m sorry if I was short with you the other day when you called. It was nice of you to offer to send the things I left. Actually, I did remember a favorite golf towel that I misplaced.”

      “The black one? I found it in the garage.”

      “Uh, yeah, that’s the one.” He gave a little laugh. “It’s my lucky towel. Did you throw it out yet?”

      She leaned over and fished it from a cardboard box near her feet. “I suppose I could dig it out of the garbage.”

      “I would appreciate it.” He exhaled heavily. “I’m so sorry, Gemma.”

      His admission took her by surprise, and she wondered with a pang of anguish if he was on the verge of confessing adultery. “Sorry for what?”

      “I’m sorry for everything. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

      Her eyes grew moist as a host of emotions galloped through her chest—love, hate, regret, remorse, frustration. “Okay,” she said finally, surprised at how steady her voice sounded.

      “I could drive down in a few days to pick up that golf towel.”

      Her heart lifted unexpectedly. It was a flimsy excuse to come to see her. She fought to maintain a certain nonchalance. “That would be fine. I’ll hang on to it for you.”

      “Great,” he said, his voice warm and melancholy. “I’ll come down as soon as I get a break from this case. Take care.”

      She hung up the phone slowly, not sure what to make of Jason’s phone call. It seemed as if he was offering some kind of olive branch. Or was he reconsidering the abrupt end to their marriage? Maybe her mother had been right—that he’d gone through a bit of a midlife crisis, had wanted his freedom only to learn that it wasn’t what he’d expected. Maybe he was starting to realize that she had been more than just a political prop, and that success is empty without someone to share it with.

      The thought of getting back together with Jason made her mind spin in confusion. In the first few days after he’d left, she had fantasized that he would come back on his knees. But in the weeks that followed, her hurt had turned into anger. And when she’d received the final papers, she realized now that the anger had turned into resolve. Her thoughts were no longer dominated by Jason, her actions no longer dependent on him. Getting back together now seemed … retroactive. Things would have to be different, at least as far as she was concerned.

      Then she chided herself for worrying about it. Jason might have been simply feeling guilty about the way he’d ended things, wanting to ensure she wouldn’t have something bad to say about him in a subsequent election.

      Still, she had to admit that knowing he might be having second thoughts was salve to her wounded pride. And the knowledge that she wasn’t holding her breath after one tentative call from him buoyed her spirits. She felt better than she’d felt in weeks.

      Maybe in years.

      She was humming as she climbed to the second floor. She opened windows and turned on fans to alleviate the stuffiness. When she got to her bedroom window, the sight of the open round one across from hers warmed her midsection. And yet …

      The talk with her mother and the subsequent conversation with Jason made her pause. Not because she was afraid she would sabotage a chance at getting back together with Jason, but because, she suddenly realized, she liked the feeling of being unattached.

      She touched her mouth, remembering Chev’s kiss. It would be easy to become attached to him, and she couldn’t afford to do that now when she was just starting to get her legs underneath her again.

      Gemma caught sight of the folded sheets of her fantasy letter lying on her nightstand and was struck with the urge to keep reading. It was, after all, a harmless way to relive her fantasies. She moistened her lips and acknowledged a stirring deep in her sex at the mere prospect. Then she slid a glance toward the window and changed her mind. Reading more of the letter would likely only increase her eagerness to put on a show for Chev, and he’d already made it clear he wanted more than a performance … more than she was willing to give.

      She glanced around the room, looking for a distraction. At the sight of her sketchbook, she brightened. She’d promised Chev she’d have the mural finished before his little family gathering. It was the perfect diversion from all the jumbled thoughts in her head.

      From a hallway closet she retrieved a folded easel, a dusty tube that held a roll of primed canvas, and a suitcase containing her stash of paints, linseed oil, turpentine and assorted brushes and palette knives. When she lifted the lid, a wave of nostalgia flooded her senses. The smell of the pungent linseed oil, the sight of curled tubes of paint, the comforting feel of a round wooden brush in her hand. She carried everything to Jason’s office and set up an impromptu studio, her excitement growing as the room took shape.

      Gemma used a utility knife to cut the canvas to the size she’d jotted down in her notebook, then used thumbtacks and clips to fasten it to the easel. There was something so optimistic about a piece of clean white canvas—she could make it anything she wanted. She took a few moments to picture in her mind a replica of the simple gestural landscape that had once adorned the kitchen wall of the Spanish house. With a vine of charcoal, she sketched the picture onto the canvas. When she was satisfied that it was a close rendering of the sketch she’d shown Chev, she wiped her stained fingers on a towel and stood back with a smile.

      She missed the therapeutic power of creating art. Creating something where once there had been nothing, something that had never before existed, could be a magical, insular experience. It had a way of crowding out everything else.

      Then the screech of the peacock cut into the night air.

      Gemma grimaced. Well, almost everything.

      As the bird continued its grating call, she remembered what Chev had said about the creature, that biology would drive it to leave if it didn’t find what it was looking for—a hen with which to mate. And she got the feeling that Chev was hinting that he, too, couldn’t wait forever for what he wanted—her.

      The difference, she reminded herself, was that unlike the peacock, Chev Martinez would be leaving no matter what. No-strings sex would be the perfect solution, but she knew she couldn’t sleep with her seductive neighbor and not feel something … and she didn’t want to go there. From now on, she would be on her best behavior, which meant staying away from her window, no matter how desperate she was.

      Gemma swallowed hard.

      And no matter how tempting he was.

       13

      “SO HOW’S THE HUNKY NEIGHBOR?” Sue Asked.

      “Fine,” Gemma answered cautiously into her cell phone. Over the past couple of days she and Chev had fallen into the role of … cheerful neighbors. He helped to chase the bothersome peacock from her yard, she answered any questions he had about the house and worked on the mural in her free time.

      And she scrupulously avoided her bedroom window.

      Meanwhile, he had respected the distance she’d put between them since her mother’s visit, with no questions. Although when they’d discussed the mosaic for the pool renovation last evening, she had felt his hungry gaze on her.

      And she’d reveled in it.

      “I think you should go for it,” Sue said, as if she could read her mind. “He sounds like the perfect prospect for a rebound affair. I say the sooner, the better.”

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