Rebel Waltz by Kay Hooper Page B

agree with what appeared so obvious to her.
    Moore walked around, picking out half a dozen of the canvases, choosing a variety of subjects, and leaning them all around the easel holding the blond man's portrait. Then he stood back and stared at them for endless moments. “Look at the feeling for color and line,” he murmured, as if to himself. “And life. The detail. And the brushwork is superb.”
    “Thank you,” Banner managed to say, stunned by the curious and sudden muted passion in his voice.
    He turned to her then, his sharp eyes alight with what looked like excitement. “You've never had a show, Miss Clairmont, and I'd like to give you one.”
    “A show?” she said blankly.
    “In New York. I have a gallery there.”
    “But—” To Banner, this enthusiastic offer was more than a shock. She had never even imagined her work displayed for the public to see and judge. Fear washed over her.
    He seemed to see that fear even as she did.
    “Miss Clairmont,” he said quietly, “you obviously don't realize it, but you have a very great talent. Artworks are more than a hobby to me— they're my life. And I can promise you that you could name your own price for any or all of these paintings.”
    Banner sat down rather suddenly on the tall stool and stared at him. Then she stared at Jake. Then at Rory. All three nodded encouragingly. “I—I don't know what to say,” she murmured finally.
    “Say yes,” Moore very nearly pleaded. “I'd consider it an honor to show you and your work to the art world.”
    Only dimly aware that her entire life could be changed for good or ill when the public saw her work, Banner took her courage in both hands and nodded. “It's… my honor, Mr. Moore. And thank you.”
    Ten minutes later, Banner was still sitting on the stool. Jake and Moore had returned to thehouse, Moore literally rubbing his hands together in excitement and already planning phone calls to begin making arrangements. Banner and Rory were alone in the cottage, and she was stunned.
    “But I've never had any training,” she said incredulously. “I learned from books, for heaven's sake!”
    “And by painting.” Rory stood before her, smiling.
    She stared at him, then laughed unsteadily. “I can't believe this. It's like something out of a dream… or a nightmare. Rory, what if they don't like my work? What if they laugh at me?”
    “They won't,” he promised firmly. “Moore isn't the only one who knows something about art, milady; I know a bit myself. And I'm quite sure that you're going to be a famous lady very shortly.”
    “I'm afraid,” she admitted. “I'm afraid I'll regret this.”
    He pulled her to her feet, smiling down at her.
    “Wouldn't you regret it much more if you didn't take the chance?” he challenged quietly.
    “I—yes, I suppose so.” She shook her head. “I know I would.”
    Gravely, Rory said, “In that case, may I buy the future talk of the art world a cup of coffee? I don't think she had any breakfast.”
    In the new and bewildering excitement of a soon-to-be showing of her work in New York, Banner should have found it easy to think of things other than Rory.
    Should have. But didn't.
    David Moore was remaining at the Hall for a few days, making his arrangements by phone. From his gallery in Charleston, he'd borrowed a couple of his men to crate her paintings carefully for their shipment to New York. He had asked gravely that he be allowed to give her a second show later on, at the Charleston gallery, so that the South could admire the work of one of its own, and she had assented even while wonderingif there would be a second anything after the critics in New York finished with her.
    All of this should have been a diversion from Rory and from the way he made her feel simply by entering a room and smiling at her.
    But he was never out of her thoughts, and she no longer even tried to fight him—on any level. She became as unembarrassed as he by possessive touches and passionate