If he really believed that he loved her, a clean break was better. She’d thought long and hard over the past twenty-four hours about whether or not she wanted to continue the relationship. But it wasn’t a matter of want. Or even need. She couldn’t continue with this thing, couldn’t let Kevin start building his life around hers. Her life was such a mess—as evinced by the events of the past forty-eight hours—how could she still look at herself in the mirror if she asked him to take all of her baggage on?
Besides, it would have to end eventually. She’d rather end it now, when there were good feelings between them than let it drag on and end with broken promises, missed meetings, and burning bitterness. No, clean and quick was definitely better. And if her heart hurt just looking at him, that was one more reason to end it.
Kevin had reached the porch, though the tears in her eyes blurred her view of him. Serena blinked, rapidly, desperate to hide the signs of her emotional weakness. She was smiling when Kevin reached the kitchen, and if the smile didn’t touch her eyes, it would be hard for him to notice around the bruises.
“Hey there, gorgeous!” she said, wrapping her arms around his waist, absorbing his wonderful scent for one of the last times.
“Hey, yourself.” He looked around the kitchen, eyes narrowed. “You’ve been working,” he accused.
“Only a little.” She turned her back on him, closed her computer. “Besides, it’s not like I’ve got a choice. The deadline for the book is looming, Kevin.”
“Call Steve. Tell him to explain the situation to them. They’ll understand.”
“I don’t miss deadlines.”
“I know, cher. But this is different. You’re malad. Sick,” he elaborated at her blank look.
“I’m not sick. I was punched. And pardon me if I don’t want to broadcast that fact to the world.”
Kevin sighed wearily. “Serena, bebe. You don’t have to tell him the whole story. Though I don’t understand why you’re ashamed of it. You’re the victim here.”
“I’m done talking about it, Kevin.” She put a hand up when he started to protest. “No, I mean it. I’m finished.”
His eyes narrowed dangerously, though he didn’t say another word. Serena looked at him suspiciously, not trusting his easy capitulation. It was so un-Kevin-like. What exactly was he up to?
“So when do you need to head back to Baton Rouge?” he asked, his voice a rough velvet rasp that curled her toes.
“Tomorrow. I have pictures that need to be developed and sorted through, though I have a pretty good idea which ones I want to use in the book.”
His eyebrows rose in surprise. “Already?” he asked.
“Pretty much.”
“Then come with me. And bring your camera. I have something I want you to see.”
“What is it?” she asked, already reaching for her camera bag.
“You’ll see. And while I know that it’s your vision that’s going into the book, I really want this to be a part of it.”
Her furrowed brow smoothed out. “You’ve finished your sculpture! Oh, Kevin, that’s wonderful! I can’t wait to see it!” She stepped out the door in front of him, practically dancing in her eagerness to see his newest creation. She’d watched him work on each of the various parts of it in the last couple of weeks, but she’d been dying to see the whole thing put together.
This sculpture seemed special to her, and not just because he’d commented more than once on it being the best thing he’d ever done—his talent was so great that nearly everything he did was head and shoulders above the competition. Maybe it was the intimacy of her connection to the piece—watching it form from nothing into pieces that were beautiful on their own. She could only imagine how stunning it was when completely assembled.
“Hurry up, let’s go,” she said, rushing across the grass that separated the two buildings.
Kevin grinned at her enthusiasm. “What if you hate it?”
She rolled her eyes. “I won’t! I’ve been wanting to see it finished forever!”
“I’ve only been working on it for a couple of weeks. It’s come together much faster than a lot of my work.”
“Blah, blah, blah. It’s seemed like a lot longer, let me tell you. Can you tell me what it is now? You wouldn’t before.”
“I said that you’d either see it—”
“Or I wouldn’t. I know, I know. But I really want to be able to see it.”
He pushed open to door to his studio. “You will. I’ve got faith in you.”
Serena walked in, her face raised expectantly to the ceiling. But this piece was nowhere near as large as some of his sculptures, rather it was quite petite and delicate in stature. Her eyes widened as she looked at the graceful lines, the metal curved and flowing like water from the top of the sculpture.
She tilted her head, her eyes growing wider and wider. It couldn’t be, but it certainly looked—No. It couldn’t be. She walked around the sculpture slowly, searching for something beside the obvious.
She glanced at Kevin, who was watching her closely. “Do you like it?”
“Of course I do.” Her smile was a little forced as the old, familiar panic began to claw at her stomach.
“Are you sure?” he asked. “You don’t look too certain.”
“It’s not that.” She wrapped her arms around herself, studied the abstract sculpture that looked more and more like a woman the longer she stood and stared at it. Her eyes fell on the smooth chunk of metal clutched between the woman’s hands and her heart skipped a beat. It was a camera.
“Kevin!” Her voice came out high and panicked, but she could do nothing to change it. “It’s me. Isn’t it? You’ve sculpted me?”
His smile was blinding. “Yes. It’s not what I intended, but every time I came down here all I could see was you.”
It was beautiful, gorgeous really. The work of a genius who had truly outdone himself. The colors were brilliant—he’d heated the metal to such a state that it bled colors, a shimmering rainbow that added much to the personality of the piece. She tried to be objective, tried to look at the artistic value alone. But everywhere she looked Kevin’s incredible emotions stared back.
The metal was so smooth, the lines so fluid, that the woman actually looked like she was moving. No matter what angle Serena studied her from, the sculpture seemed to be staring back. Its lines were so graceful, so defined, that her face and the back of her head were interchangeable, the curve of her br**sts and buttocks the same. No detail was too small for him to notice, no part of her not represented.
From the crazy winged butterfly in the sculpture’s hair—identical to the one on her hip—to the fists tightly clenched around the fanciful camera, this sculpture was her. It was a labor of love, Kevin’s testimony to his love for her. She’d have to be blind not to see it. And though she was stubborn and repressed and often rigid, she was definitely not blind.
Fear crawled through her. She couldn’t handle this, couldn’t handle the visible evidence of Kevin’s feelings for her. He wouldn’t have done this if he wasn’t serious, wouldn’t have put himself on display for the world to see if he didn’t mean it. Maybe that’s what scared her the most. Kevin wasn’t like so many of the artists she knew—falling in and out of love with each new model they used. He never let anyone get close, never opened himself up enough for others to see what really made him tick.
But he had with this piece. Everything he felt was obvious, laid open for even the least observant person to see. Oh God, what was she going to do? What was she going to do?
“Serena, cher? What do you think? Do you like it?”
“It’s—” Her voice broke. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Like you.” His arms came around her from behind and it was all she could do to stop herself from weeping. “I love you, Serena. It astounds me how much feeling I have inside of me for you.”
“Kevin—”
“No, you always stop me. Let me get this out.” He took her hand, laced his large, callused fingers with her own. “I hadn’t planned on doing this yet, hadn’t planned on doing it here. But somehow it seems perfect.”
She started to interrupt again, but he covered her mouth lightly with his other hand. “I know you, bebe. Whatever you think, whatever you’d hoped to hold back, know that I see it. I see the real you.”
He pulled her to him, turned her around so that her back was to his chest and her eyes were focused, once again, on his sculpture of her. “That’s the real you, Serena. Every bit of it.”
“No,” she shook her head, tried to push his hands away but his hold remained firm. “Kevin, you don’t know the real me. All the dark, disgusting parts. You can’t—”
He turned her toward him, cupped her face in his beloved hands while his beautiful blue eyes stared into hers. “I know you’re afraid. I know you’re raw inside. Who wouldn’t be after everything you’ve seen, everything you’ve had to live through? But you can do this. I know you can.”
“I’m a mess,” she protested, fear nearly strangling her with its frigid claws. “More now, I think, than when Sandra first died. I can’t do this. You can’t do this.”
“Can’t do what, Serena? Can’t want you? Can’t need you? Can’t love you more than I’ve ever loved another human being? Too late, cher. I already do. And I want to marry you. I want to build a life with you.”
Panic raced through her, a living, breathing entity shredding her insides until it was nearly impossible to breathe. Her head spun and the world went gray for the second time in as many days.
She bent over, braced her hands on her knees as she sucked in great gulps of air. Tried to find the words. Tried to find the courage to say what needed to be said. Kevin crouched beside her, reached to touch her but she backed away. If he touched her now, she’d be lost. And she couldn’t make this mistake, couldn’t let him throw his life away on someone who’d never be whole.
He reached for her again, but she knocked his hand away. She straightened slowly, not wanting to risk another bout of dizziness. Watched as Kevin did the same. His eyes were wary but his gaze was steady as he stared at her, taking in every emotion she didn’t have the strength to hide.
“Don’t do this, Kevin.”
“I have to.” His hands gripped her arms right above the elbow and lifted her onto her tiptoes. “Because you won’t.”
He kept his eyes opened and focused on hers as he slowly leaned down to kiss her. She’d expected it to be punishing, had prepared herself to taste his anger and hurt. But his lips caressed hers gently, his mouth tender as he slowly slipped his tongue between her lips. She should fight him, should turn him away—after all, she couldn’t give him what he wanted. But if this was it, if this was the last time she would ever kiss him, she wanted everything she could get.
Her arms crept around his neck as she eagerly pressed her body to his. His big arms wrapped around her, slid down to cup her ass and pull her against his erection. She spread her legs before she could stop herself, relished the sudden dampness of her panties as she rubbed herself against him. He thrust himself gently against her, increasing her need to fever pitch as his mouth continued to devour hers softly.
His tongue slid teasingly between her lips, tangled with hers before retreating, again and again, She moaned in frustration, pressing herself more firmly against him as her hands yanked his soft, well-worn T-shirt from the waistband of his jeans. She wanted to touch him, needed to feel his body against her own. One more time.