Read Dancing Barefoot for Free Online Page A

stared at the painting she'd hung over a battered sofa she'd found years ago in an alley, now covered with a worn blue blanket. She'd painted that same scene dozens of times, maybe more. It depicted the apartment she'd shared with Jacques...the disheveled bed showing a man's leg dangling from between the sheets, his torso exposed, face hidden by an arm, low ceiling fan in the foreground, light flooding in from the windows. 
    Of course no visitors knew who m the man was or that she painted from memory. Much of her life operated on a 'need to know' basis.
    "I need to move on, let go, that's my problem," she muttered withou t looking away from the scene. "I'm pitiful, holding on to a time in my life that's long over."
    Taking a long swig from the bottle of wine, she turned her back on the painting and walked toward her easel that stood in front of a wide bay window that faced an alley and rested directly beneath a skylight.
    Emotions raging, she flicked on the stereo and faced the empty canvas on the easel. At the first stroke, she lost herself in the act of creation. Painting brought her peace.
    The buzz from the front intercom startled her back to reality. She blinked, at first unsure if she had heard the sound. Darkness had crept through the room without her noticing the passing of time. The buzzer came again, long and insistent. 
    Rubbing hands over the splattered pant s, she jogged down the stairs. The floor tipped beneath her feet from a combination of too much wine combined with beer and tequila. What had she been thinking?
    “If this is you, Marc, I’m really not up for company,” she said into the intercom. 
    “Does that apply to all guests or only Marc?” The accent and deep voice could only belong to one man...Jacques Sinclair. Here. Now.
    She dropped her forehead against the plaster wall and squeezed her eyes closed. Without saying a word, she buzzed him in and dragged her feet toward the door.  Maybe the alcohol would help...oh, who was she kidding?  This would be another fiasco ala Jessica.  
    With each thud of his feet against the stairs, she flinched. Opening the door, she watched him ascend. He met her gaze without breaking stride. She bit her bottom lip and scanned him from head to toe, her heart twisting with remorse. A familiar leather jacket—she remembered them buying it together in Florence—scarred boots that he'd always worn, same jeans and shirt from earlier, the man oozed familiarity and sex appeal.
    “ Were you painting?” He hesitated in the doorway, hands shoved in the back pockets of his jeans, expression cautious as he studied her. 
    Hand still on the doorframe, she swayed backward and gnawed her bottom lip. “I thought you said we didn’t have anything left to say.”
    He rocked back on his heels, eyes narrowing to slits. “Maybe I was wrong.”
    “Maybe?” Goosebumps rose on her skin while his gaze skimmed her body. 
    “I didn’t think you painted anymore.” He squinted as if trying to figure out a mystery. 
    “Just playing around.” She glanced down at the form fitting tank top. No bra.  Oh well. He had seen her looking a lot worse, and a lot better, in a lot less. “Come inside. The place is a mess.”
    “Organized on the outside b ut a mess behind closed doors. A contradiction.”
    “I’m a woman of mystery.” She walked ahead of him and gathered the clothes scattered across the floor. “Let me pick these up. Make yourself at home…or…well, there’s beer in the ‘fridge if you want one.” 
    “ Is this the same Marc I met in Florence? Are you two together now?” He lingered at the threshold, uncertainty shadowing his face. 
    “ We were friends then, we're friends now. It's nothing more,” she answered as she walked toward her bedroom.
    She tossed the clothes onto the bed and closed the door behind her. Anxiety wracked her body. Alone, she pressed her palm against the wall and took several deep breaths to steady herself.
    “Jessica?” he called