Page 150 of This Heart Of Mine (Chicago Stars 5)

“Like you couldn’t have him eating out of your hand if you wanted.”

“Don’t you take that tone of voice with me, young lady.”

“You’re such a dork.” Molly smiled. “Go upstairs and see what he left you.”

Lilly tried to sweep from the kitchen in a diva’s huff, but she knew that Molly wasn’t buying it. Her son’s wife had the same kind of open, honest charm as Mallory. Why couldn’t Kevin see what he’d turned his back on?

And what about the man she’d turned her back on? She still couldn’t work on her quilt. All she could see now when she looked at it were scraps of fabric. There were no more surges of creative energy, no more glimpses of the answers to life’s mysteries.

She made her way past the second-floor landing to the narrower flight of stairs that led to the attic. Kevin had tried to get her to move into one of the larger rooms, but Lilly liked it up here.

As she slipped inside, she saw a large canvas, taller than it was wide, leaning against the end of her bed. Even though it was wrapped in brown paper, she knew exactly what it was. The Madonna she’d admired so much that afternoon in his studio. She fell to her knees on the braided rug and, holding her breath, pulled away the paper.

But it wasn’t the Madonna at all. It was the painting Liam had done of her.

A sob rose in her chest. She pressed her fingers to her mouth and scrambled back. He’d been brutal in his depiction of her body. He’d shown every sag, every wrinkle, every bulge that should have been flat. The flesh of one thigh lapped the edge of the chair where she was seated; her breasts hung heavy.

And yet she was glorious. Her skin was luminous with a glow that seemed to come from deep inside, her curves strong and fluid, her face majestically beautiful. She was both herself and Everywoman, wise in her age.

This was Liam Jenner’s final love letter to her. An uncompromising statement of feelings that were clear-sighted and fearless. This was her soul exposed by the brilliant man she hadn’t been courageous enough to claim as her own. And now it might be too late.

She grabbed her keys, flew down the stairs, and ran outside to her car. One of the children had drawn an elaborate rabbit in the dust on the trunk. Then she realized that the drawing was too sophisticated. More of Molly and her mischief.

Too late, too late, too late… The tires hissed as she sped from the campground toward his glass house. While she’d been putting up barriers against a dead husband she hadn’t loved in years, he’d gone after what he wanted.

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Too late, too late, too late… The car jolted over the ruts at the top of the lane, then steadied as the house came into view. It looked empty and deserted.

She jumped out, rushed to the door, and leaned on the bell. There was no answer. She banged it with her fists, then raced to the back. He’s going to Mexico…

The glass-enclosed studio rose above her, a tree house for a genius. She could see no signs of life inside, none in the rest of the house either.

Behind her the lake sparkled in the sunlight, and the sky floated blue and cloudless above, the perfect day mocking her. She spotted a door off to the side and rushed toward it, not expecting it to be open, but the heavy knob turned in her hand.

Everything was quiet inside. She moved through the back of the house into the kitchen, then made her way to the living room. From there she mounted the catwalk.

The arch at the end beckoned her toward his sacred space. She had no right to enter, but she did.

He was standing with his back to the door packing tubes of acrylics into a carrying case. Like the other time she’d been here, he was dressed in black—tailored slacks and a long-sleeved shirt. Dressed for traveling.

“Do you want something?” he growled without looking up.

“Oh, yes,” she said breathlessly.

He finally turned, but she saw by the stubborn set of his jaw that he wouldn’t make it easy.

“I want you,” she said.

If anything, his expression grew more arrogant. She’d badly dented his pride, and he needed much more.

She reached for the hem of her linen sundress, pulled it over her head, and tossed it aside. She unsnapped her bra and discarded it, slipped her thumbs beneath the waistband of her panties, pushed them down, and stepped out of them.

He watched her silently, his face revealing nothing.

She raised her arms and slid her hands into her hair, lifting it from the nape of her neck. She crooked one knee, turned slightly from the waist, and eased into the pose that had sold a million posters.

With her age and her weight, standing before him like this should have been a travesty. Instead, she felt powerful and fiercely sexual, just as he’d painted her.

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