and he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Boy, oh, boy, just look at those pecs, she thought, and barely resisted licking her lips.
His jeans were faded, his feet bare, and his face—his face was so wonderfully serious and sober.
“Hi.” She managed to make it sound bright and easy while she pictured herself biting him. “You run out of soap in the shower? Need to borrow some?”
“What? No.” He’d forgotten he was only half-dressed. “I want to ask you about this,” he continued, lifting the paper.
“Sure, come on in.” It would be safe, she told herself. Jody would be there any minute and stop her from jumping Preston. “Why don’t you get some coffee and come up? I’m working and it’s rolling pretty well.”
“I don’t want to interrupt, but—”
“Not much does,” she said cheerfully over her shoulder as she started up the stairs. “There’s cinnamon bagels if you want one.”
“No.” Hell, he thought, and ended up pouring a cup of coffee and taking a bagel after all.
He hadn’t been upstairs before, since he’d never come over when she was working. He tormented himself by glancing into her bedroom, studying the big bed with its bold blue cover and sumptuous mountain of jewel-toned pillows, the slim rods of the white iron headboard where he could imagine trapping her hands under his as he finally did everything he wanted with her. To her.
It smelled of her, fresh, female, with seductive undertones of vanilla.
She kept rose petals in a bowl, a book beside the bed and candles in the window.
“Find everything?” she called out.
He shook himself. “Yeah. Listen, Cybil …” He stepped into her studio. “God, how do you work with all that noise?”
She barely glanced up. “What noise? Oh, that.” She continued to sketch, using a new pencil, as she’d forgotten the one behind her ear. “Sort of like background music. Half the time I don’t hear it.”
The room looked efficient and creative with its neat shelves holding both supplies and clever tchotchkes. He recognized the work of the sidewalk artist in one of the paintings on her wall, and the genius of her mother in two others.
There was a complex and fascinating metal sculpture in the corner, a little clutch of violets tucked into a glass inkwell and a cozy divan heaped with more pillows against the wall.
But she didn’t look efficient, bent over the big slanted board with her legs folded up under her, the toenails of her bare feet painted pink, a pencil behind one ear and a gold hoop in the other.
She looked scattered, and sexy.
Curious, he walked around to peer over her shoulder. An act that, he admitted, had anyone dared to try on him would have earned the offender a quick and painful death.
“What are all the blue lines for?”
“Scaling, perspective. Takes a little math before you can get down to business. I work in five windows for the dailies,” she continued, sketching easily. “I have to set them on paper like this, work out the theme, the gag, the hit, so that the strip can move from start to finish in five connected beats.”
Satisfied, she moved to the next section. “I sketch it in first, just need to see how it hangs—you’d say a draft, where you get the story line down, then decide where it needs to be punched up. I’ll give it more details, fiddle a bit before I switch to pen and ink.”
He frowned, focusing on the first sketch. “Is that supposed to be me?”
“Hmm. Why don’t you pull up a stool. You’re blocking the light.”
“What is she doing there?” Ignoring the suggestion, he tapped a finger on the second window. “Spying on me. You’re spying on me?”
“Don’t be ridiculous—you don’t even have a fire escape outside your bedroom.” She looked into her mirror, made several faces that left him staring at her, then started on the third section.
“What about this?” he demanded, rapping the paper on her shoulder.
“What about it? God, you smell fabulous.” Pleasing
His jeans were faded, his feet bare, and his face—his face was so wonderfully serious and sober.
“Hi.” She managed to make it sound bright and easy while she pictured herself biting him. “You run out of soap in the shower? Need to borrow some?”
“What? No.” He’d forgotten he was only half-dressed. “I want to ask you about this,” he continued, lifting the paper.
“Sure, come on in.” It would be safe, she told herself. Jody would be there any minute and stop her from jumping Preston. “Why don’t you get some coffee and come up? I’m working and it’s rolling pretty well.”
“I don’t want to interrupt, but—”
“Not much does,” she said cheerfully over her shoulder as she started up the stairs. “There’s cinnamon bagels if you want one.”
“No.” Hell, he thought, and ended up pouring a cup of coffee and taking a bagel after all.
He hadn’t been upstairs before, since he’d never come over when she was working. He tormented himself by glancing into her bedroom, studying the big bed with its bold blue cover and sumptuous mountain of jewel-toned pillows, the slim rods of the white iron headboard where he could imagine trapping her hands under his as he finally did everything he wanted with her. To her.
It smelled of her, fresh, female, with seductive undertones of vanilla.
She kept rose petals in a bowl, a book beside the bed and candles in the window.
“Find everything?” she called out.
He shook himself. “Yeah. Listen, Cybil …” He stepped into her studio. “God, how do you work with all that noise?”
She barely glanced up. “What noise? Oh, that.” She continued to sketch, using a new pencil, as she’d forgotten the one behind her ear. “Sort of like background music. Half the time I don’t hear it.”
The room looked efficient and creative with its neat shelves holding both supplies and clever tchotchkes. He recognized the work of the sidewalk artist in one of the paintings on her wall, and the genius of her mother in two others.
There was a complex and fascinating metal sculpture in the corner, a little clutch of violets tucked into a glass inkwell and a cozy divan heaped with more pillows against the wall.
But she didn’t look efficient, bent over the big slanted board with her legs folded up under her, the toenails of her bare feet painted pink, a pencil behind one ear and a gold hoop in the other.
She looked scattered, and sexy.
Curious, he walked around to peer over her shoulder. An act that, he admitted, had anyone dared to try on him would have earned the offender a quick and painful death.
“What are all the blue lines for?”
“Scaling, perspective. Takes a little math before you can get down to business. I work in five windows for the dailies,” she continued, sketching easily. “I have to set them on paper like this, work out the theme, the gag, the hit, so that the strip can move from start to finish in five connected beats.”
Satisfied, she moved to the next section. “I sketch it in first, just need to see how it hangs—you’d say a draft, where you get the story line down, then decide where it needs to be punched up. I’ll give it more details, fiddle a bit before I switch to pen and ink.”
He frowned, focusing on the first sketch. “Is that supposed to be me?”
“Hmm. Why don’t you pull up a stool. You’re blocking the light.”
“What is she doing there?” Ignoring the suggestion, he tapped a finger on the second window. “Spying on me. You’re spying on me?”
“Don’t be ridiculous—you don’t even have a fire escape outside your bedroom.” She looked into her mirror, made several faces that left him staring at her, then started on the third section.
“What about this?” he demanded, rapping the paper on her shoulder.
“What about it? God, you smell fabulous.” Pleasing
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