dive.
“My eyes?” Mind blank, body throbbing, she stared up at him.
“And leave your hair loose.” He strode to the door as she struggled up to her elbows. “Twenty minutes.”
She wouldn’t let him see the hurt. She wouldn’t allow herself to feel the rejection. “You’re a cool one, aren’t you?” she said softly. “And as smooth as any I’ve ever run across. You might find yourself on your knees yet.”
She was right—he could’ve strangled her for it. “That’s a risk I’ll have to take.” With a nod, he walked through the door. “Twenty minutes,” he called back.
Kirby clenched her fists together then slowly relaxed them. “On your knees,” she promised herself. “I swear it.”
Alone in Kirby’s studio, Adam searched for the mechanism to the passageway. He looked mainly from curiosity. It was doubtful he’d need to rummage through a room that he’d been given free run in, but he was satisfied when he located the control. The panel creaked open, as noisily as all the others he’d found. After a quick look inside, he shut it again and went back to the first order of business—painting.
It was never a job, but it wasn’t always a pleasure. The need to paint was a demand that could be soft and gentle, or sharp and cutting. Not a job, but work certainly, sometimes every bit as exhausting as digging a trench with a pick and shovel.
Adam was a meticulous artist, as he was a meticulous man. Conventional, as Kirby had termed him, perhaps. But he wasn’t rigid. He was as orderly as she wasn’t, but his creative process was remarkably similar to hers. She might stare at a piece of wood for an hour until she saw the life in it. He would do the same with a canvas. She would feel a jolt, a physical release the moment she saw what she’d been searching for. He’d feel that same jolt when something would leap out at him from one of his dozens of sketches.
Now he was only preparing, and he was as calm and ordered as his equipment. On an easel he set the canvas, blank and waiting. Carefully, he selected three pieces of charcoal. He’d begin with them. He was going over his first informal sketches when he heard her footsteps.
She paused in the doorway, tossed her head and stared at him. With deliberate care, he set his pad back on the worktable.
Her hair fell loose and rich over the striped silk shoulders. At a movement, the gold hoops at her ears and the half-dozen gold bracelets on her arm jangled. Her eyes, darkened and sooty, still smoldered with temper. Without effort, he could picture her whirling around an open fire to the sound of violins and tambourines.
Aware of the image she projected, Kirby put both hands on her hips and walked into the room. The full scarlet skirt flowed around her legs. Standing in front of him, she whirled around twice, turning her head each time so that she watched him over her shoulder. The scent of wood smoke and roses flowed into the room.
“You want to paint Katrina’s picture, eh?” Her voice lowered into a sultry Slavic accent as she ran a fingertip down his cheek. Insolence, challenge, and then a laugh that skidded warm and dangerous over his skin. “First you cross her palm with silver.”
He’d have given her anything. What man wouldn’t? Fighting her, fighting himself, he pulled out a cigarette. “Over by the east window,” he said easily. “The light’s better there.”
No, he wouldn’t get off so easy. Behind the challenge and the insolence, her body still trembled for him. She wouldn’t let him know it. “How much you pay?” she demanded, swirling away in a flurry of scarlet and silk. “Katrina not come free.”
“Scale.” He barely resisted the urge to grab her by the hair and drag her back. “And you won’t get a dime until I’m finished.”
In an abrupt change, Kirby brushed and smoothed her skirts. “Is something wrong?” she asked mildly. “Perhaps you don’t like the dress after all.”
He crushed out his
“My eyes?” Mind blank, body throbbing, she stared up at him.
“And leave your hair loose.” He strode to the door as she struggled up to her elbows. “Twenty minutes.”
She wouldn’t let him see the hurt. She wouldn’t allow herself to feel the rejection. “You’re a cool one, aren’t you?” she said softly. “And as smooth as any I’ve ever run across. You might find yourself on your knees yet.”
She was right—he could’ve strangled her for it. “That’s a risk I’ll have to take.” With a nod, he walked through the door. “Twenty minutes,” he called back.
Kirby clenched her fists together then slowly relaxed them. “On your knees,” she promised herself. “I swear it.”
Alone in Kirby’s studio, Adam searched for the mechanism to the passageway. He looked mainly from curiosity. It was doubtful he’d need to rummage through a room that he’d been given free run in, but he was satisfied when he located the control. The panel creaked open, as noisily as all the others he’d found. After a quick look inside, he shut it again and went back to the first order of business—painting.
It was never a job, but it wasn’t always a pleasure. The need to paint was a demand that could be soft and gentle, or sharp and cutting. Not a job, but work certainly, sometimes every bit as exhausting as digging a trench with a pick and shovel.
Adam was a meticulous artist, as he was a meticulous man. Conventional, as Kirby had termed him, perhaps. But he wasn’t rigid. He was as orderly as she wasn’t, but his creative process was remarkably similar to hers. She might stare at a piece of wood for an hour until she saw the life in it. He would do the same with a canvas. She would feel a jolt, a physical release the moment she saw what she’d been searching for. He’d feel that same jolt when something would leap out at him from one of his dozens of sketches.
Now he was only preparing, and he was as calm and ordered as his equipment. On an easel he set the canvas, blank and waiting. Carefully, he selected three pieces of charcoal. He’d begin with them. He was going over his first informal sketches when he heard her footsteps.
She paused in the doorway, tossed her head and stared at him. With deliberate care, he set his pad back on the worktable.
Her hair fell loose and rich over the striped silk shoulders. At a movement, the gold hoops at her ears and the half-dozen gold bracelets on her arm jangled. Her eyes, darkened and sooty, still smoldered with temper. Without effort, he could picture her whirling around an open fire to the sound of violins and tambourines.
Aware of the image she projected, Kirby put both hands on her hips and walked into the room. The full scarlet skirt flowed around her legs. Standing in front of him, she whirled around twice, turning her head each time so that she watched him over her shoulder. The scent of wood smoke and roses flowed into the room.
“You want to paint Katrina’s picture, eh?” Her voice lowered into a sultry Slavic accent as she ran a fingertip down his cheek. Insolence, challenge, and then a laugh that skidded warm and dangerous over his skin. “First you cross her palm with silver.”
He’d have given her anything. What man wouldn’t? Fighting her, fighting himself, he pulled out a cigarette. “Over by the east window,” he said easily. “The light’s better there.”
No, he wouldn’t get off so easy. Behind the challenge and the insolence, her body still trembled for him. She wouldn’t let him know it. “How much you pay?” she demanded, swirling away in a flurry of scarlet and silk. “Katrina not come free.”
“Scale.” He barely resisted the urge to grab her by the hair and drag her back. “And you won’t get a dime until I’m finished.”
In an abrupt change, Kirby brushed and smoothed her skirts. “Is something wrong?” she asked mildly. “Perhaps you don’t like the dress after all.”
He crushed out his
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