by Nora Roberts
His answer was a grunt.
"I wanted to buy it_the mermaid. I was with my mother, and I couldn't because she'd have reminded me I couldn't afford the price. I went back the next day, because I couldn't stop thinking about it, but it was already sold."
"In front of the window, turn to me."
"That was two years ago, and I've thought about her a dozen times since. Isn't it amazing that she was yours?"
Muttering an oath, he strode to her, pulled her to the window. "Lift your head, like that. Hold it there. And be quiet."
"Are you going to draw me?"
"No, I'm after building a boat here. Of course I'm drawing you. Now be quiet for one bloody minute."
She shut her mouth, but couldn't do anything about the grin that trembled on her lips. And that, he thought, was precisely what he wanted. Just that trace of humor, of energy, of personal delight.
He would do a clay model, he thought, and cast her in bronze. Something that gleamed gold and warmed to the touch. She wasn't for stone or wood. He did three quick studies of her face, moving around her for a change of angle. Then he lowered his pad.
"I need the line of your body. Your shape. Take off your clothes."
"Excuse me?"
"I have to see how you're made. The clothes are in the way of you."
"You want me to pose nude?"
With an effort, he brought himself back from his plans, met her eyes.
"If this was a matter of sex, I wouldn't have slept on that rock in the corner last night. You've my word I won't touch you. But I have to see you."
"If this was a matter of sex, I wouldn't be so nervous. Okay." She shut her eyes a minute, bolstered her courage. "I'm like a bowl of fruit," she told herself and unbuttoned her shirt.
When she slipped it off, folded it, set it aside, Conal lifted a brow.
"No, you're like a woman. If I wanted a bowl of fruit, I'd get one."
Chapter 6
She was slim, leaning toward angular, and exactly right. Eyes narrowed, mind focused, he flipped up a fresh page and began.
"No, keep your head up," he ordered, faintly irritated that she should be so exactly right. "Hold your arms back. Just a bit more. Palms down and flat. No, you're not a flaming penguin, spread your fingers a little.
Ah."
It was then he noticed the faint flush spreading over her skin, the stiffness in her movements. Moron, he told himself and bit back a sigh. Of course she was nervous and embarrassed. And he'd done nothing to put her at ease.
He'd grown too used, he supposed, to professional models who undraped without a thought. She liked to talk, so he would let her talk.
"Tell me about these lessons of yours."
"What?"
"The lessons. You said you'd taken a number of lessons on this and that. What was it you studied?"
She pressed her lips together, fought back the foolish urge to cross her arms over her breasts. "I thought you said I wasn't supposed to talk."
"Now I'm saying you can."
She heard the exasperation, rolled her eyes. What was she, a mind reader?
"I, ah, took art lessons."
"Did you now? Turn to the right just a bit. And what did you learn from them?"
"That I'm not an artist." She smiled a little. "I'm told I have a good eye for color and shapes and aesthetics, but no great skill with the execution."
Yes, it was better when she talked. Her face became mobile again. Alive again. "That discouraged you?"
"Not really. I draw now and then when I'm in the mood."
"Another hobby?"
"Oh, I'm loaded with them. Like music. I took music lessons."
Ah, she was relaxing. The doe-in-the-crosshairs look was fading from her eyes. "What's your instrument?"
"The flute. I'm reasonably adept, but I'm never going to have a chair with the Philharmonic."
She shrugged, and he bit back a sharp order for her not to change the line.
"I took a course in computer programming, and that was a complete wash.
As most of my business courses were, which scuttled the idea I had of opening a little craft shop. I could handle the craft part, but not the shop part."
Her gaze was drawn back to the mermaid. She coveted that, not just the piece itself, but the talent and vision that had created it.
"Stand on your toes. That's it, that's lovely. Hold a minute. Why don't you take on a partner?"
"For what?"
"The shop, if it's what you want. Someone business-minded."
"Mostly because I have enough business sense to know I could never afford the rent in New York, the start-up costs." She moved a shoulder.
"Overhead, equipment, stock. I guess running a business is a study in stress. Margaret always says so."
Ah, he thought, the inestimable Margaret, whom he'd already decided to detest. "What do you care what she says? No, that's not right. It's not quite right. Turn around. You have a beautiful back."
"I do?" Surprise had her turning her head to look at him.
"There! Hold that. Lower your chin a little more to your shoulder, keep your eyes on me."
That was what he wanted. No shyness here. Coyness was something different altogether. There was a hint of that in the upward angle of her gaze, the tilt of her head. And just a bit of smugness as well, in the slight curve of her lips.
Allena of the Faeries, he thought, already eager to begin in clay. He ripped the sheets off the pad, began tacking them to the wall.
"I'll do better with you as well as the sketches. Relax a minute while
I prep the clay." As he passed, he touched a hand absently to her shoulder. He stopped. "Christ, you're cold. Why didn't you say something?"
She was turning toward him, a slow shift of her body. "I didn't notice."
"I didn't think to keep the fire going." His hand skimmed over her shoulder, fingers tracing the blade where he imagined wings. "I'll build one now." Even as he spoke he was leaning toward her, his eyes locked on hers. Her lips parted, and he could feel the flutter of her breath.
He jerked back, like a man snapping out of a dream. Lifted his hand, then held them both up, away from her. "I said I wouldn't touch you. I'm sorry."
The rising wave of anticipation in her broke, then vanished as he walked away to yank a blanket from the cot. "I wish you weren't. Sorry, I mean."
He stood with the table between them, the blanket in his hands, and felt like a man drowning. There was no shyness in her now, nor coyness. But the patience was there, and the promise.
"I don't want this need for you. Do you understand?"
"You want me to say yes." She was laid bare now, she realized.
Much more than her body laid bare. "It would make it easier if I said that
I understand. But I can't, I don't. I want that need, Conal. And you."
"Another place, another time," he murmured. "There'd be no need to understand. Another place, another time, I'd want it as well."
"This is here," she said quietly. "And this is now. It's still your choice."
He wanted to be sure of it, wanted to know there was nothing but her.
"Will you take that off?"
She lifted a hand to the pendant, her last shield. Saying nothing, she slipped the chain over her head, then walked to the table, set it down.
"Do you think I'll feel differently without it?"
"There's no magic between us now. We're only who and what we are."
He stepped to her, swept the blanket around her shoulders. "It's as much your choice as mine, Allena. You've a right to say no."
"Then and" She laid her hands on his shoulders, brought her lips to within a breath of his. "I've also a right to say yes."
It was she who closed that tenuous distance so mouths and bodies met. And she who let the blanket drop when her arms went around him.
She gave, completely, utterly. All the love, so newly discovered in her heart, poured out for him. Her lips seduced, her hands soothed, her b
ody yielded.
There was a choice. She had made hers, but he still had his own. To draw back, step away and refuse. Or to gather close and take. Before his blood could take over, before it was all need and heat, he took her face in his hands until their eyes met again.
"With no promises, Allena."
He suffered. She could see the clouds and worry in his eyes, and said what she hoped would comfort. And be the truth as well. "And no regrets."
His thumbs skimmed over her cheeks, tracing the shape of her face as skillfully as he'd drawn it on paper. "Be with me, then."