Postcards From…Verses Brides Babies And Billionaires. Rebecca Winters

she said.

      Charlotte pulled a face. “We’ll keep it quiet, no one will know.”

      Maddy’s eyes slid over her shoulder, searching the crowd.

      “He’s toward the back. We both saw you arrive but he’s stuck with some boring arts patron who keeps fondling Max’s arm like a pet dog or something,” Charlotte said.

      “Oh.”

      “Ah. Here he is now.”

      Maddy swiveled on her heel, her heart in her throat, her palms suddenly sweaty.

      Her eyes ate him up, taking in his elegantly messy hair, the sharp lines of his face, the crispness of his white shirt and midnight-navy suit. Cuff links glinted at his wrists and his shoulders looked impossibly wide.

      “Maddy,” he said.

      His gaze scanned her face intently before finally his eyes locked with hers and they were staring at each other for the first time in three months.

      A deluge of memories hit her: Max looking into her eyes as he made love to her in the shower, Max laughing at her disastrous attempts at cooking, the solemn watchfulness on his face as he’d told her about the opportunity in Amsterdam.

      “You look beautiful,” he said.

      Heat raced up her spine as his gaze skimmed over her breasts and down her waist. She still found him enormously attractive, even though they were only supposed to be friends now.

      Not for the first time, she wondered how she would survive tonight with her pride intact. How was she going to stop herself from telling him how she felt, what she wanted?

      “This is a wonderful turnout,” she said because she couldn’t think of anything else to say. “You must be pleased.”

      He shrugged. “I’ve been waiting for you to get here.”

      Another wave of heat raced up her spine.

       Don’t get carried away, Maddy. He’s just being friendly.

      But there was something in his manner, the way he reached for her hand, the way he hesitated before threading his fingers through hers.

      “There’s something I want to show you,” he said.

      He led her deeper into the gallery, towing her behind him. She studied the strong column of his neck, the white collar of his shirt. Her gaze dipped to his backside, remembering the flex and contract of his hard muscles as he pumped into her. Her breath caught in her throat and her hand twitched in his.

      Suddenly she was filled with an intense longing. She wanted things to be the way they had been during those magical few weeks in Max’s apartment. Even in the midst of her grief over losing her career, she’d never been happier. And now she had her career but no Max. She knew which state she preferred, which grief was surmountable and which was not.

      The crowd parted before Max, people smiling and watching him avidly as he passed. Without even seeing his work Maddy understood that he was a hit. People watched him as if he was a star, a somebody.

      Then a man stepped to one side and she saw the first sculpture—a ballerina arching forward in a perfect arabesque, the muscles of her slim frame straining. Her face was lifted, her expression serene, as though she was exactly where she needed to be.

      The detail in the piece was extraordinary—the curve of the dancer’s naked breasts, the texture of curls between her thighs, the hollow beneath her armpit, the lines around her mouth and eyes. For a second Maddy fell victim to a wave of acute self-consciousness. This was her naked body, her face, depicted so faithfully, in such detail. This was so much more than what she’d imagined when she’d agreed to model for Max. He’d captured her forever. And then the self-consciousness was washed away as awe at his skill, at his power, swept over her.

      “She’s beautiful,” she said, overwhelmed by Max’s talent. “I almost feel as though she’s about to move.”

      “She’s you, Maddy,” he said quietly. He tugged on her hand. “There’s more.”

      He led her to the next dancer, caught forever in the middle of a pirouette. Maddy looked into her own face, cast in bronze, the expression there a mixture of pain and joy.

      “Do I really look like that when I dance?” she asked him.

      “Yes. When you danced for me.”

      The next figure was a dying swan, the dancer languishing at their feet in despair. Then there was a dancer executing a grand plié, and finally a seated posture, the ballerina contemplating her sore feet as she slipped off her shoes in a quiet moment.

      “Well, those are definitely my bent toes,” she said drily. “When did you do this sketch?”

      “When you weren’t looking. I wanted a quiet, private moment.”

      He’d found it. She was blown away by the beauty and energy and fineness of his work. Blown away, also, by the fact that all the dancers were her. He hadn’t used Yvette or anyone else.

      Max was watching her expectantly and she realized that there was one last sculpture remaining, a smaller figure placed beyond the adult dancers.

      She took a step forward. Then her hand went to her mouth as she understood what she was looking at.

      A little girl stood there, one hand on the barre, her feet turned out, the other hand raised over her head in a graceful arc. The little girl’s head was tilted so she could follow the line of her raised hand with her eyes, and the look on her face was pure joy, the expression of a little soul who had found her calling in life.

      Maddy’s eyes filled with tears.

      “I thought I was finished when I’d cast the first six. But then I realized that I wasn’t,” he said.

      “How did you…?” The resemblance to her four-year-old self was uncanny.

      “You had a picture in your room a long time ago,” he said.

      “And you remembered?”

      He nodded. She studied the figure and a slow understanding dawned on her.

      She saw the deep, abiding love that was evident in every line of the figure and the hollowness that she’d carried inside her for three months evaporated as she turned to look at Max. He couldn’t have made this sculpture and not feel something more than friendship for her. It simply wasn’t possible. Surely…?

      He was holding something in his hands, and she frowned as she recognized it.

      “My scarf,” she said stupidly.

      “Maddy, I’ve been wanting to say this to you for a long time. Ten years, in fact. I love you. I’ve loved you from the moment I met you. I’ve loved you every minute since. This scarf…well, frankly, I stole it so I could have something to remember you by. But I’m giving it back tonight because I’d rather have you.”

      For a moment all she could do was stare at him. What he was saying changed her world. Changed everything. Their shared history. Her present. Her future. She blinked, trying to come to terms with what she’d just heard.

      Max had always loved her. Always. When they were living together. When they were dancing together. When he was offering her comfort and solace.

      All that time he’d loved her.

      Suddenly she noticed how tight his jaw was, how square his shoulders were. Tension emanated from every muscle. He was waiting for her, waiting for her reaction. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry she was so touched by how uncertain he was.

      “Max,” she said. She had no words for the feeling expanding in her chest. Shaking her head at her inability to articulate her emotions, she settled for reaching up and holding his face as she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him. His hands found her face, and they pressed their mouths together in an intense, fierce meeting of souls.