“Just a few pieces I haven’t finished yet. No!”
He’s taking the stairs and whipping the sheet from the easel before I can follow and stop him, and I freeze, blushing crimson. That specific piece depicts the man reclining back against a sea of white pillows, and a sheet barely covers his lower half.
I’d painted him looking up from beneath lowered lashes, his vivid green eyes seductively inviting, just as I’d seen him in the erotically charged dream I’d had three nights ago.
It had started with a stroke of his hands over his muscled chest as I watched, rapt and needy, my hand frozen over the canvas. In the dream he’d been luring me, tempting me to stop working and come play. When I’d refused, unable to do anything but work frantically to capture the heat I’d seen in his eyes, he’d stroked all the way down his flat stomach and beneath the sheet, the movement of his fist showing in stark detail what I wanted to do to him.
I’d woken, aroused and unfulfilled, and painted till my hands had cramped, and still I can’t seem to capture him as perfectly as I’d seen him in that dream.
“Um—”
My words die when he turns to look at me, a dark, sensual smile curving his ruby red lips. Arousal, thick and hot, sets up a steady beat between my legs, reminding me of the dream and my as yet unfulfilled desire.
“I’ve set up a studio at my home,” he murmurs, his eyes running the length of my body, heating me everywhere. “You’ll paint me there, in my sheets.”
I nod, swallowing loudly when he prowls down the stairs and comes closer, not stopping till we’re melded together. He takes my hand and pulls it between us, cupping my fingers over his bulging girth, using me to stroke himself.
“And then I’ll show you why your dimensions are off.”
Chapter Four
By four o’clock the next afternoon I’m standing on his doorstep, a mess of nervous anticipation as my hand hovers over the doorbell. If I push it I know it’s a step that I can never go back from.
This is why he’d planted a kiss on my lips and left last night. He wants me to choose this. He’s used to getting his way; I know this just as I know that my father would always play to win while keeping his integrity and respecting others’ decisions.
I’m used to powerful men. My father, brother, and cousins are in the same league, and I know how they think. They want what they want, but they won’t and never will force someone to take that step.
Vincent is exactly the same. He’ll keep after me, but in the end it will always have to be me capitulating, not being forced into a decision.
My finger stops hovering and presses down, and I hear the soft chime echo from somewhere inside the town house. When the door opens, I’m surprised to see him and not a butler or housekeeper, and I say so.
“If I’m to lounge around in the nude I’d prefer we have privacy. Let me take your coat.”
“Gosh, I love this place. Who did the mosaic?” I ask, following him down the hall and into the kitchen I’d admired a week ago.
The center island is glass topped to protect the farm scene depicted in thousands of shards of colorful tile. Whoever had done this knows their craft, and I have to admit a certain jealousy. I can’t do anything this technical without making a mess, artist or not.
“Wine?”
I nod, noting his deflection, and shrug away my irritation. If he doesn’t want to talk, that’s fine by me. I’ve been on edge and needy all day, and part of me would prefer a quick roll between the sheets and an even quicker au revoir.
“I notice a slight drawl in your accent.”
“I’m from Texas originally,” I say, allowing the twang free rein as I follow him to the living room and snuggle into the corner of the sofa. “I try not to let the twang out if I can help it, or I’ll be faced with hillbilly jokes and insults a country girl like me doesn’t need.”
He seats himself a few feet away and turns to me.
“Understandable. Some people either talk to me as if I’m another species or they feel intimidated by my accent. Unfortunately, mine is not as easily disguisable.”
“You’re a transplant then?” I ask.
Of course he must be; his accent is all British upper class and definitely not American, but he seems so at ease and free of the lingo I know most Brits use.
“Not quite. My father is Walter Blake of the Chicago Blakes. When he and Mother divorced I went to live with her and only came back for the holidays and the odd family event. I’m what you would call a mutt.”
His derogatory tone and rueful smile make me laugh for the first time since I’d left my apartment this afternoon. For him to call himself a mutt is such a crock. I’ve never met a more well-heeled man in my life, and that’s saying a lot, with Mama’s country club rich boys I’d been forced to date in my teens.