Every Time I Love You by Heather Graham

caviar, smoked Nova, Brie, Camembert, and delicate rye and wheat crackers.
    Every painting on display had been sold within an hour after the first guest had arrived. The patrons who had not made purchases now wished they had, and those who now owned McCauleys were gloating over their newly acquired treasures.
    Dressed in a long blue velvet gown designed by Oleg Cassini, Gayle idly twirled her strand of cultured pearls as she leaned against her desk and listened to Sylvia Guteledge, the art critic for the prestigious Richmond Mirror, rave about the eroticism of McCauley's paintings.
    Gayle nodded politely now and then, but she couldn't really keep her eyes off the man of the hour.
    He was actually in a tuxedo, of course an unconventional one. The coat wasn't exactly tailed, nor was it short, but made more to resemble the coats of an earlier era, perhaps a Civil War frock coat. His shirt was pink—which she had never imagined as a proper color on a man, but appeared exceptionally masculine on Brent. He'd consented politely to photographs throughout the evening. He hadn't behaved at all like an eccentric recluse. He'd been completely charming to everyone.
    Gayle hadn't known what to expect earlier in the day. He had appeared at the gallery that morning in a pair of worn jeans and a T-shirt that advertised a heavy metal band. Artists were strange people—Gayle knew that from experience. She had wondered if Brent McCauley did not only mean to make an appearance, but to make such an appearance that the art world would gossip about it for the next ten years.
    To her surprise, he hadn't chosen to move a single painting; he had approved all of her arrangements. She grew nervous showing him around, explaining her use of light and space within the gallery. And when they'd stood before his painting of the entwined lovers, she had found herself growing very warm.
    Something bothered her. Haphazard snatches of her strange dreams came to mind. She tried to remember her dreams, but she couldn't seem to hold on to the memories. She caught her breath sharply, realizing that her dreams had left her with the same curious feelings as the painting...a yearning to be loved that way.
    McCauley was watching her. Stuttering, she praised the painting's unique beauty. It deserved to stand alone upon the divider wall, singularly lighted, she explained, because it was the star piece of the show.
    “You really do like it?” he had asked her.
    “Yes. It's your finest piece.” She couldn't help it; she looked at the painting and realized that she was blushing again. Evocative, yes. With Brent McCauley standing beside her, it also seemed to be very, very erotic. She couldn't look at that painting now without imagining the two of them in such a pose.
    It was embarrassing. She was flushing a deep shade of red. Because she knew...he was imagining the same thing. The two of them, entwined. Lovers for all time.
    “It's strange, isn't it?” he murmured. She felt him behind her, looking over her head. If she were to lean back, her head would rest against his chest and her hair would tease his chin.
    “What?” She asked him in a whisper.
    “The feeling. Don't you see it? Can't you imagine it? As if it has happened a thousand times before.”
    “I don't know what you're talking about.”
    “Yes, you do. You and me. I saw it, in your eyes. The two of us. There. In the painting. You've imagined the two of us as lovers. In the mist and shadow and light of the canvas.” He paused a moment. “A hundred times before.”
    “I barely know you,” she said weakly, waving her hand dismissively.
    “Last night you kissed me as if you knew me very well.”
    “Oh, God, that again!” She moaned softly. “Brent, please, I just—I'm sorry. I don't pose—nude or otherwise—and it was very wrong of me to kiss you last night because I just don't—move that quickly. And now you're giving me a new line because of this painting—”
    “It isn't a line and you know