Thank you, Mary5958, for allowing me to use her fantastic manip of Spike for this story and for personalizing it for me. I fell in love with it as soon as I saw it. That's the image of him that I had in mind for this story. :D
As always, a million thanks to my lovely Im_bloody_English for her patience, her time and her amazing beta skills. *smooches* And to MarzBar for betaing this chapter for me and Tammy and peroxide_dreams for listening to my muse's crazy ideas and fueling her on. ;)
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Chapter 4. Surrealism
“Good evenin’, love.”
Buffy jolted in surprise when she realized that the voice purring in her ear was the same one she hadn’t been able to forget. Her heart skipped a beat as she turned around in her chair to confirm what she already knew, only to start beating faster when she found herself staring into the deep ocean blue eyes of the man that had dominated her thoughts and fantasies since last night.
She blinked several times, waiting for him to disappear as he’d done so many times in her dreams. Ever since he’d bid her good night at the exhibit, she’d hoped he would come looking for her.
And he had.
Her emerald eyes followed him in complete astonishment as he sat down across from her. Dressed in black jeans, a cream-colored shirt and vest, black tie and coat, he looked quite different from last night. Different, but not any less handsome… or mysterious. She snapped out of her reverie when she watched him unfold the napkin placed in front of him, making her realize that he was planning to join her.
“Wha— I-I mean,” she cleared her throat, her voice failing her at first. “Not that I’m not glad to see you again, but… what are you doing here?” She shifted nervously in her seat, stealing peeks over her shoulder at the entrance door to the salon, unsure of what to do.
She stole a sideways glance at the clock, sighing dejectedly as she noticed the time. She didn’t want Spike to leave, but it was ten after five now and Mr. Wellington should be arriving any minute. And no matter how deliciously handsome the man in front of her was, she wasn’t about to be rude to the artist that had gifted her with one of the most amazing paintings she’d ever seen.
She was gorgeous, much more so than he remembered. His eyes drifted longingly to her glorious golden hair—which fell unbound down her back in smooth waves, tempting him to bury his fingers in it—before settling on her expressive eyes.
Confusion, delight, indecision swirled upon the green depths as they shifted from him to the entrance of the salon to the clock on the wall and back to him again. Her whole demeanor making it clear she still had no idea who he truly was or why he was here, or how to handle the situation in which she’d found herself.
He relished the thought of how she would react when she discovered William Wellington and he were one and the same. And suddenly he could wait no longer to find out.
“Are you waitin’ for someone in particular, pet?”
“Ummm, yes… actually. Mr. Wellington agreed to meet me here and well, I think it will be a discourtesy to him if you stay. Is there any chance we could meet later? Perhaps… if you like?”
“There’s no need for that.”
“There’s not?” ‘What the…’
“He’s already here.”
“He is? Where?” She turned on her chair toward the entranceway, twisting back around when she heard him chuckle.
“You’re lookin’ at him, pet.”
“I’m loo— Y-you? You’re William Wellington?” she asked, her eyes widening when he nodded. Finding it difficult to grasp the concept that Spike and the artist she’d been dying to meet were the same person, she breathlessly added, “But w-why? Last night—”
“Why?” he repeated. “Why didn’t I tell you who I was when we met last night?”
“Yes, I mean no, wait.” She shook her head after remembering what she’d read of Mr. Wellington. “Of course you wouldn’t tell me... I’ve read that you’re a private person and you probably wanted to see how people would react to your work without knowing you were there.”
“You are very perceptive, Miss Summers,” he nodded to validate her statement. “But I already knew that.”
She smiled, pleased with his compliment. “What I really want to know is why did you give me that painting? And please don’t get me wrong, I truly appreciate it, more than you can imagine. Not even in my wildest dreams did I ever expect to own something as magnificent, as priceless as that piece. But… you don’t know me, so why would you want me to have it when I’m sure if you’d sold it you would have received more than just a simple thank you?”
“A genuine smile of gratitude is payment enough, love. That… is priceless. I don’t care about its monetary value; I have more than enough money to last me several lifetimes. What is invaluable to me is the knowledge that I gave it to the one person who would love and care for it as much as I do,” he said matter-of-factly, then tilted his head to one side and asked, “Am I wrong?”
“No, no, you’re not.” She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. “And I do… thank you from the bottom of my heart. I promise I’ll take good care of it.”
“I know, sweetheart.”
She melted at this new nickname he used with her. “I have another question,” she began hesitantly. “Why did you agree to meet with me today?”
“I thought it was obvious,” he replied, cocking a scarred eyebrow upward at her, smirking when her cheeks turned crimson the moment she understood his innuendo.
“W-well, I would imagine that being the private person you are, you wouldn’t want a stranger like me knowing your identity?” God, he made her nervous… but in all the right ways.
“You’re hardly a stranger, love. A stranger wouldn’t understand… recognize all that I felt while painting that piece. I consider myself an excellent judge of character and I know you’re not the type of person who would betray my trust.”
Hearing this, she felt deeply touched and was about to tell him just that when the maître d’ entered the private dining room wheeling in a small cart of food.
The man placed the trays on the table, full of homemade scones, sandwiches and cupcakes before serving them tea and leaving milk, lemon and sugar cubes for them to prepare it with, asking if they would be needing anything else before disappearing when he received a ‘no’ from Spike.
Buffy’s eyes widened like saucers at the display and how heavenly it smelled. Nervous as she’d been about this meeting, she hadn’t eaten all day and now she was ravenous.
“Sandwich?” Spike asked, unable to hide his smile at Buffy’s eager nod and the way her eyes lit up when she’d seen the array of food. She was so bloody adorable. “Or perhaps we could sample everything? You simply have not lived if you haven’t tried some of these.”
“How can I resist?” She giggled, taking the plate he’d filled for her, trying one of the sandwiches first. She closed her eyes, her expression one of pure, undiluted pleasure as her taste buds exploded in rapture at the amazing combination of flavors. “God, this is simply scrumptious! Here,” she said, handing him the rest of her sandwich.
Spike’s eyes darkened with lust as they fixed on her lips, wishing he had the right to pull her onto his lap and devour them, taste them as she’d done her food. Up until that moment he’d been able to keep his thoughts of her on a purely intellectual and artistic basis, or so he told himself. Just the appreciation of an artist for a beautiful creature. Nothing more.
Unable to resist the temptation, he took her gently by the wrist and drew her hand towards his mouth, taking a bite of the small sandwich, his tongue swiping sensuously over her fingers as he did, as if by accident.
The telltale warmth of her blush washed over her face again as she felt his tongue graze her fingers. This time it wasn’t due to shyness, but to desire. Her skin tingled and the tiny sparks of lust spread through her body to her most intimate of places while losing herself in his eyes once again.
“Scrumptious, indeed,” he said, winking playfully at her before finishing off the sandwich and allowing her to pull her hand away from his.
“Hey, that was mine,” she pouted.
He had to fake a cough to hide the groan erupting from his throat at the sight of that lip jutting out slightly, wishing he could get closer and take it between his own to suckle. It would be all too easy to do, too. But he couldn’t, if he did… there was the chance that he’d want more and that couldn’t be.
Shaking the gloomy feel that the resolution brought and determined to enjoy the rest of the time they still had, he smiled as he offered her a sandwich from his own plate.
They continued chatting animatedly about art, life and themselves while eating, enjoying the easy rapport between them, flirting casually while exchanging brief glances and small touches every now and then, almost forgetting about the time until the maître d’ entered the room again to retrieve the trays and hand the check to Spike, who immediately brought his wallet out to extract a few crisp bills and gave them to the boy.
Sensing their time together was coming to an end and not wanting that to happen, Buffy gave in to an impulse. “Hmm, I don’t know about you, but I’m quite full, perhaps we could walk it off?”
“Walk it off?” he asked, his left eyebrow rising inquisitively.
“Yes, around the block, or somewhere close by. I think I read there was a park that closes late at night during the summer?”
“The Regent’s Park?”
“Yes, that's the one. I-if you want to, I mean,” she backpedaled. “If you have somewhere else to be I understand.”
Up to that last statement, she looked so excited at the prospect of extending their evening that he simply couldn’t deny her. Since he didn’t expect to see her again after tonight, what harm could come from spending a little more time in her company?
He smiled. “I don’t. Shall we then?”
“Yes,” she beamed as he helped her out of her chair.
His eyes raked over her backside as she preceded him outside of the restaurant, delighting in the way her pale dress clung to every curve and belatedly noticed she hadn’t brought a shawl or a sweater. He wondered if he should warn her of the cold London nights, but ultimately decided not to. Wouldn’t it be 'just awful' if he had to help keep her warm?
*****
Buffy tried to suppress a shiver as she braved England’s-much-cooler-than-Sunnydale’s night air. She was afraid that if Spike noticed he’d insist they go back and she’d hate to cut their evening short just because she was chilly.
Spike noticed her barely repressed shudder however, and knowing he wasn’t yet ready to say goodbye, took his coat off and placed it over her shoulders, keeping his arm around her just to better guard her from the cold. Or so he told himself.
It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that, like last night, when he touched her, he found it impossible to stop. What was it about this girl, this woman that made him want to never release her?
She was cold one second and blissfully warm the next. His scent surrounded her as she felt something wrap around her. Surprised, she turned to look at her shoulders then at him, finding those baby blues watching her intently while his coat and arm kept her comfortable.
She smiled gratefully and ducked her head shyly; her cheeks flush with undisguised pleasure. She brought her hand up to pull his coat closer to her body, inhaling deeply to drown herself in his heady scent, unwittingly grazing his fingers with hers as she did.
He felt the need to capture her hand in his, craving the feel of her soft skin and immediately felt the same electrical undercurrent he’d felt the night before coursing through the borrowed blood that filled his veins.
“Thanks, but aren’t you cold?” she finally asked, tightening her grasp on his hand as their fingers intertwined.
He shrugged, not wanting to explain that weather didn’t affect him in the slightest. His undead heart soared, however, when she laced her hand with his. He hadn’t expected to feel this… need to connect with her in such a simple way as skin on skin.
“But your hand is freezing.”
“You know what they say, love… cold hands, warm heart.”
The heated look he treated her with was enough to make her forget about the cool night; make her forget about everything except them. Walking with him, talking only when needed was paradise. She didn’t feel the need to fill the comfortable silence they’d fallen into with meaningless chatter, it just felt... right. It was as if they could communicate through something that went deeper than words.
It reminded her of her daydream. Of how his hands and lips felt as they touched her. Of how it affected her. Of how her blood boiled in her veins when he pressed his hard body against her and the evidence of his arousal sent shivers of need to her womb.
He drew in a deep, unneeded breath, just to savor the aroma of her burgeoning arousal. Delighting in the feel of his manhood as it hardened in reaction to it, to her, fully aware that it was their closeness that provoked her, enticed her. He tightened his hold to her shoulders, pulling her as close as possible against him.
“Tell me, luv, what are you thinkin' ‘bout right now?"
‘You.’ “How lucky I am."
"Lucky?"
“Yeah, to have such a beautiful gift given to me. To have met the artist who painted it... and that it’s you," she whispered shyly while hoping her true meaning wasn't lost on him.
He couldn’t hide his prideful smile at her words, at the tone she used as she’d said them. It meant the world to him to know that she admired his work. To know that he hadn’t been wrong when he’d gifted her with his painting. And to realize that it wasn’t only the artist she was talking about, but him. Spike. The man.
Before either knew, they were standing at the entrance to The Mandeville. The walk back from the park had been made at a slow pace, as if neither wanted their encounter to end. In Buffy’s case, due to the uncertainty of knowing if he’d want to meet with her again after tonight; and in Spike’s, because he had promised himself this would be the last time he’d ever see her.
“Well, this is me.” She nodded towards the hotel. “I’ll be in London for two more weeks, if you feel inclined to call me.” She held her breath at the bold statement, but she couldn’t say goodnight without letting him know in this way, that she hoped he would want to see her again.
“Is that what you’d like?”
“Yes,” she answered, hope flooding her heart and staining her cheeks pink.
He waited a moment before answering, before realizing he couldn’t deny her, especially with the way she was looking at him… right now. “Then, count on it, love.”
“I will.” She took his jacket off from around her shoulders and handed it back to him. On a whim, she stood on her tiptoes, placing her hands over his chest for leverage, before pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. “Good night, Spike.”
He stood on the sidewalk for a while longer after she entered the hotel. A grin tugged at his lips as he touched the place where she’d kiss him before taking his cell-phone out and calling his driver to pick him up.
******
Riley’s fists clenched and unclenched furiously as he witnessed the scene unfolding in front of him. He’d been about to step out of the cab transporting him, when Buffy kissed the man he’d seen her arm in arm with at the exhibition last night. How dare she? He itched to intervene, let the man know that she was his, and his only, even if she didn’t know it herself, but decided this was not the place or time for that. And especially not with as mad from jealousy as he was now.
Tomorrow… tomorrow would be soon enough.
tbc
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