A fireball of heat burst in her belly. "I'll say."
She arched, riding up on the joy of it, before she rolled over again. "But I don't think I was quite finished."
They grappled, burying themselves under the blankets, tangling in them. Struggling with laughter, biting back gasps, they tormented each other. Pleasured each other until bodies were damp and quaking, until the playful became the intense.
They rose up together, kneeling on the tumbled bed, locked tight. Breath heaving, she bowed back, an erotic bridge, and locked her legs around him.
In the thin light of the last quarter of the moon, they joined. They completed. Fluidly, she came back to him, pressed heart to heart, mouth to mouth, so they were wrapped together as they emptied.
"Don't let go." She burrowed into his shoulder. "Don't let go yet."
"I'm never going to let go." All but delirious, he ran his lips over her hair, her cheek. "I love you, Zoe. You know it. You love me. I can see it. Why won't you say it?"
"Bradley." Why shouldn't she say it, and damn all the consequences? Why shouldn't she take what she so desperately wanted? She turned her head, rubbing her cheek on his shoulder.
And saw, in the fading moonlight, the portrait that hung over the bedroom mantel.
After the Spell. That was the name of it, Zoe remembered. The Daughters of Glass lying in their transparent coffins.
Not dead. Worse than dead, she thought with a shiver.
Why shouldn't she say it? They were one reason, she knew. But even they weren't the heart of it. Kane couldn't see what was inside her—not what was deep inside her. He could neither see nor understand.
So she would keep it there, and keep Bradley as safe as she could, a few days longer.
"You put the portrait here."
"Damn it, Zoe." He yanked her back, then snapped out another oath at the plea on her face. "Yes, I hung it here."
He let her go.
She touched a hand to his shoulder. "I know I'm asking you for a lot."
"You're fucking testing me."
"Maybe I am. I don't know." She dragged her fingers through her hair. 'This has all been so fast for me. So fast and so big, sometimes it seems like I can't keep up with my own feelings. But I do know I don't want to hurt you. I don't want to fight with you. I have to take this at my own pace, and part of that's tied up with them." She gestured to the portrait before she rose and reached for her robe. "I can't help it."
"You think because there's some similarity between my background and James's, I'll turn away from you?"
"I did." She looked down as she belted her robe, then shifted her attention to him. "I did think that. And I thought maybe I was attracted to you because of those similarities. But I know better than that on both counts now. There's still a lot I have to work out, Bradley. I'm asking you to wait until I do."
He was silent for a moment, then reached over to flip a switch. Light washed over the portrait.
"When I first saw that, it was like being grabbed by the throat. I fell in love—in lust—whatever the hell it was, with that face. Your face, Zoe. When I first saw you, I had exactly the same reaction. But I didn't know you. I didn't know what was inside you. I didn't know how your mind or your heart worked, or what made you laugh, what irritated you. I didn't know you liked yellow roses and could handle a nail gun as well as I can. I didn't know dozens of the little details of you that I know now. What I felt for that face isn't a shadow of what I feel for the woman it belongs to."
She was afraid she wouldn't be able to speak. "The woman it belongs to has never known anyone like you. Never expected to."
"Get things worked out, Zoe. Because if you don't, I'm going to work them out for you."
She let out a small laugh. "No, never anyone like you. This is a big week for me, and by the time it's…" She trailed off as she looked at the portrait again.
Her heart began to thump. "Oh, God, could it have been that simple all along? Could it have been right there?"
Trembling, she walked toward the hearth, staring at the painting, her gaze riveted now to the three keys Rowena had painted, scattered over the ground by the coffins.
She stepped onto the hearth, held her breath, and reached up.
Her fingers bumped canvas.
She tried again, closing her eyes first, imagining her fingers reaching into the painting, closing over the key as Malory's had done.
But the painting stayed solid, the keys only color and shape.
"I thought…" Deflated, she stepped back. "For a minute, I thought maybe… It seems so stupid now."
"No, it doesn't. I tried it myself." He walked to her and wrapped his arms around her waist. "A few times."
"Really? But it's not for you to find."
"Who knows? Maybe this one's different."
She kept her eyes on the portrait. "It isn't one of them. Rowena painted those keys, years ago. And they're, well, they're despair, aren't they? And loss. Not hope or fulfillment. Because they lie there where no mortal can find them, and no god can use them. It's not despair that leads to my key. It's getting through it. I understand that."
But when she slept that night, she dreamed she stepped into the portrait, walked beside the still and pale shells of the daughters inside their glass coffins. She dreamed she picked up the three keys and took them to the Box of Souls, where the blue lights beat sluggishly.
Though she put each key into its lock, none would turn.
It was despair she felt when those blue lights winked out, and the glass of their prison went black.
Chapter Eighteen
Malory rushed into Indulgence the following morning, waving one of several copies of the Dispatch . "The article! Our article's in the morning edition."
She looked right, left, up the stairs, then huffed out a breath when no one came running. Flynn's article on Indulgence, and its "innovative proprietors"—oh, she loved that part—was front-page news in the Valley, and she couldn't get a rise out of her partners?
With her coat flapping behind her, she hurried into Dana's section. As always, the sight of the color, the books, the pretty tables, the things , made her want to do a happy dance. So she boogied her way into the next room, grinning when she saw Dana behind the counter with the phone at her ear.
Adding a little bump and grind to the dance, she waved the paper, only to have Dana nod and keep talking.
"That's right. Yes, I have that in stock. I'll be happy to. I could—yes—well, I don't… mmmhmm." She mimed acknowledgment, delight, then did a bootie shake when Malory slapped the article on the counter in front of her. "Just let me transfer you to the salon."
She took a deep breath, stared at the new phone system. "Please let me do this right, please don't let me cut her off." She punched buttons, crossed her fingers, then hung up the receiver.
An instant later she heard the faint ring of the phone from upstairs. "Thank you, Jesus. Mal, you just won't believe it."
"Forget that. Look at this! Look, look." She jabbed her finger on the newspaper.
"Oh, that." When Malory's jaw dropped, Dana pulled a stack of the Dispatch from under the counter. "I bought five copies. I've read it twice. Would've read it again, but I've been busy manning this phone. Mal—God, there goes yours, I think." "My what?"
"Your phone." Dana swung around the counter, grabbed Malory's arm, and dragged her to the other side of the house. "I got in ten minutes ago, and the phones were already ringing. Zoe said—never mind. Answer it."
"My phone's ringing," Malory murmured and stared at it as if it were an alien device.
"Watch this." Dana cleared her throat, picked up the receiver. "Good morning, Indulgence, the Gallery. Yes, one moment, please, let me put Ms. Price on the line."