River Of Fire by Mary Jo Putney

cheek.
    He watched, thinking that artifice might counterfeit that rich auburn hair, but no cosmetic could ever duplicate her complexion, which had the translucent fairness of a true redhead.
    With sudden anger, he wished they had met in some other time and place, where she was not the daughter of a murder suspect and he was a gentleman of means, not a penniless spy. A place where he could explore the complexities of her mind and spirit. A place where he could kiss her, and persuade her to kiss back.
    He drew a deep, slow breath. Anger at the unjustness of fate subsided, but not his powerful desire to touch her. He leaned forward and took her hands in his, turning them palm up. They were capable hands, the fingers long and elegant, like those of a Renaissance saint. "Such strength and skill," he murmured. "What splendors will these create in the future?"
    Her hands quivered within his. "The real skill lies in the mind, not the fingers," she said huskily. "The spirit must see the picture before the body can create it."
    "Wherever it comes from, you have a great gift." He traced the lines in her palm with his fingertip. "I wonder if it's really possible to read the future in a hand. Will your talent bring you fame? Wealth? Happiness?"
    She pulled away, her fingers curling shut. "A creative gift guarantees none of those things. If anything, it interferes with happiness. The work itself is the only sure reward. It is a shield against loneliness, a passion safer than human love."
    He raised his head and their gazes met. The tension that had been slowly building rose to choking intensity. He sensed that they were both vulnerable, terribly so,and on the edge of doing something that could not be undone.
    Fearing her hazel eyes would see into the depths of his deceitful soul, he got abruptly to his feet. "I really must return to my regular work. Do you want me to model tomorrow?"
    She swallowed. "Not… not tomorrow. The day after." He nodded and left, wondering how the devil he would survive more such intimate sessions. Rebecca might be the best source of information about her mother, but he might not be able to keep his hands off her long enough to learn what he sought.
    Rebecca managed to remain impassive until she heard the door shut behind the captain. Then she closed her eyes and pressed her right palm to her cheek. Where he had touched her, the skin tingled as if she had stroked fur in winter.
    Damn
the man! What right did he have to come here and crack the shield that had protected her for so long? She had been in control of her life, grateful for the freedom to paint as she chose with few distractions. She'd needed nothing else.
    Exhaling roughly, she got to her feet and stalked the length of the attic. She'd always loved the slanting ceilings because she could walk erect where most people would have to bend. The captain had been able to stand straight only in the center. His vitality and powerful frame had filled the room to overflowing. Everywhere she turned, she saw him.
    She had been wise to admit few people into her sanctuary. Even wiser would have been not to allow Kenneth in.
    Allow? She'd practically dragged him up the stairs.
    She ran a hand through her hair, inadvertently loosening the pins so that the heavy mass fell loose to her waist. Impatiently she tied her hair into a knot and resumed her pacing.
    Kenneth's military past intrigued her, as did the contrast between his rugged form and his keen, perceptive mind. He was a magnificent subject for painting. Yet what drew her most was the way she could talk to him. No one had ever been so interested in what she had to say. The time with him had affected her like spring rain on flowers. She had not realized how lonely she was.
    No, perhaps not lonely, but certainly alone. She and her father shared a ruling passion and a house, and they understood each other well. Yet he was a famous man with a full life, and she was only a minor part of it.
    Absorbed in her art, she had