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Rufus breathes a laugh. “See that you do.” Then his cane clicks against the tiled floor, the darker patch of shadow coming closer, and my heart just about explodes through my ribs as a bristly mouth brushes my forehead. Ithurts, my insides are going so wild.
When he steps back, cool air washes over my skin. Did he just…?
Did that really happen? Did Rufus Grangemoor kiss my forehead?
I gape open-mouthed as he leaves, his footsteps heavy and uneven. And by the time I remember the half-drunk cocoa on the counter, the drink has gone stone cold.
Four
Rufus
The dreams are getting worse. Every night, now, Helen visits me as I sleep, so sweet and smiling as I lay her body down beneath mine. It’s a disgrace, the way I dream of her like this—moaning and begging, her hair wild. But what can I do?
There’s no stopping an unconscious brain.
Even if I wanted to.
And—alright. No bullshit; not to myself. I’ll admit, these dreams are like sustenance to me. Even though they’re not real, even though our relationship is strictly assistant and boss, I’ve never felt so inspired.
Colors are brighter; lines crisp. Ideas for new projects crackle in my brain like electricity, and I’ve painted more in the last few weeks than I have in months.Years, even.
It’s all Helen. My little muse.
When she steps into the studio, she’s blushing already. Is that because of the roses I left for her in the kitchen? Is it wrong to give my assistant a Valentine’s Day gift?
She can pretend it’s purely professional if she likes. I don’t mind.
Just wanted to give her something.
“Hi, Mr Grangemoor. Thank you for the flowers,” she says. “They’re beautiful.”
And those toffee-colored eyes are nervous, but Helen smiles as she plucks at the belt that holds her robe shut. It’s one of mine, an old toweling robe that’s far too big for her, slipping off her bare shoulders as she hovers in the doorway.
Shouldn’t like that sight so much. Shouldn’t give her roses. Shouldn’t do any of this, really.
But I could sooner flatten one of those mountain peaks than stop now.
“Is it warm enough?” I ask. I dragged three electric heaters in here an hour ago, and they’ve been humming away, scenting the air with burning dust. They’re grouped around the green velvet chaise lounge, turned perfectly in a shaft of sunlight from the window.
“Yes,” she whispers. Helen walks closer, her pulse thudding beneath her jaw. “Should I just—?”
“Please.” The word scrapes out of me, and I cough, embarrassed. “Get yourself comfortable, and then I’ll arrange you in position.”
Arrange her.It sounds so innocent, so boring, when I put it like that. Like my beautiful assistant is simply a doll to be posed, and not all my fantasies rolled into one person.
She unties the robe. I look out of the window.
Two crows play together above the scrubland, dipping and whirling in the thin air.
“Okay. Um, I’m ready,” Helen says.
That makes one of us. There’s a serious risk here that I’ll turn and look, then enter cardiac arrest. I chance a peek out ofthe corner of my eye, as though that will protect my battered old heart somehow.
No. No such luck. Helen’s bare, slender body, draped across the chaise lounge—put that down as my cause of death. My chest aches so badly I can hardly breathe, and I stagger toward my canvas.
Jesus Christ.
The canvas helps. It gives me a point of focus, you know? I look at the canvas, then at her. At the sunlight, then at her. Shift the easel forward a few inches, then back again.
