LITMIR.BIZ

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frowned. “What?”

       “You saw me naked.”

      He busied himself with his silverware again. “No. I saw you lying on the bed with a towel wrapped around you. You weren’t naked.”

      “Oh, way to split hairs.”

      “Americans are prudish.”

      She squeezed her eyes shut. Was she making too much of this? “You’re half-American!”

      He laughed. “What are you worried about? You have a beautiful, long, sleek back. I’d love to paint you, but I’d replace the towel with a swatch of silk—” He stopped. His brow furrowed.

      This time she frowned. “What?”

      He picked up his napkin. “It’s my turn to say nothing.”

      “Really? Because I wouldn’t mind sitting for a portrait.”

      He sniffed a laugh. “Then you’d be sitting for a long time. I haven’t painted for two years.”

      Since his wife died. She knew that. And knowing he’d grieved for two long years, a smart person wouldn’t push, wouldn’t question any further. She reached for her toast.

      Rosina walked into the dining room. “Excuse me, Mr. B. Your package has arrived. I sent it back to the office as you requested.”

      He rose. “Thank you, Rosina.”

      Laura Beth looked from Antonio to Rosina and back again. But the oldest maid smiled and walked away. Antonio set his napkin on his plate. “That would be your computer.”

      “My computer?”

      “Yes. I ordered you a new one, since you insist on playing secretary for two weeks. Come back to the office whenever you’re ready. I’ll have it set up.”

      An odd feeling stole through Laura Beth as he walked out of the room. Why had he gotten her a new computer when there were two perfectly good computers in his office? She remembered the software might have commands in Italian and she didn’t speak Italian, and went back to eating.

      She finished her breakfast, wishing she could eat more. Not because she was hungry but because she simply wanted more food. But in the end, she knew if she didn’t soon get ahold of her appetite, she’d be big as a house when this baby was born.

      After washing her hands and brushing her teeth in her room, she made her way to the office.

      As she entered, she gasped. “Wow. Look at this.” Everything on the desk had been stacked in neat piles. The old computer had been removed and sat on the floor in a corner.

      He pointed at his office behind her. “Everything in that room is to be left alone.” He motioned to the piles on the smaller secretarial desk. “This fan mail you can answer.”

      “What about the other stacks?”

      “Some are requests for portraits or for me to paint specific scenes or commissioned work for someone’s home or office. Those we will answer together.”

      She nodded. Obviously considering the conversation over, he walked to the computer sitting in the corner, picked up the monitor and took it into his office. He returned and did the same with the computer tower and the keyboard. When he was done, he pulled the office door closed and locked it.

      She tried to catch his gaze, but he avoided her by keeping his attention on the keys he shoved into his pocket.

      “I have some errands in town. I’ll be back at noon to read any letters you’ve drafted.”

      She nodded and said, “Yes,” but before the word was fully out of her mouth he was gone.

      She sat at her desk, glancing at the new computer, which he’d set up while she finished breakfast. When she saw that everything was in English, she reminded herself that was why he’d bought a new computer.

      But that made her frown. If the computer had instructions and menus in a language she didn’t speak, why would he feel the need to hide it behind closed doors?

      Why hide it at all?

       CHAPTER FIVE

      ANTONIO RETURNED A little after three. Angry with himself for being so obvious about hiding the computer, he’d avoided his office. But he couldn’t stay away any longer.

      With a resigned sigh, he walked down the long quiet hall. About two feet before he reached the door, he heard the click, clack of the computer keys. He sucked in a breath and stepped inside. Laura Beth immediately looked up.

      Her green eyes sparkled. Obviously, she loved to work, and he had to admit she looked right sitting behind the long, flat computer screen, her brown hair knotted away from her face and held together by two pencils.

      “Love your hair.”

      She laughed and stretched her arms above her head, revealing her perfect bosom to him. Her pink tank top expanded to its limits. The long lines of her slender neck all but outlined themselves for him. The slope of her breasts above the pale pink material made his fingers twitch.

      The desire to paint her tightened his chest and he had to fight to stop a groan. She was the last woman in the world he needed to have in his house right now. He didn’t want to give their attraction the chance to grow when he knew there was no future for them. Not only did he not want to hurt her, but he also could not handle seeing her pregnancy.

      But, oh, how he wanted to paint. How he longed for brushstrokes. For the joy of finding just the right light, just the right angle...and he could see all of it with her.

      She pointed at her head. “I forgot that my hair gets in my way. So I had to improvise.”

      She lowered her arms and his vision of painting her crumbled like the walls of the Coliseum. One second the urge to paint was so strong he could see the brushstrokes in his mind’s eye; the next minute it was gone and in its wake was a cold, hollow space.

      He wanted to curse. He’d finally gotten adjusted to not painting. He’d lost the hunger. He didn’t awaken every morning trembling with sorrow over losing himself, his identity, his passion.

      And she’d brought it all back.

      He fought the impulse to turn and walk out of the office, telling himself anything to do with painting wasn’t Laura Beth’s fault. These were his demons, left behind by the betrayal of a narcissistic wife and his own stupidity in tumbling into a disastrous marriage with her. He couldn’t take any of this out on Laura Beth.

      As casually as possible, he said, “Well, your hair is certainly interesting.” He motioned to the stacks of letters. “I see you made headway.”

      “It’s fun pretending to be you, thanking people for adoring my work.”

      He sniffed a laugh and leaned his hip against the corner of the desk. “Give me a pen and I’ll sign them.”

      Like a good assistant, she rummaged for a pen. When she found one, she handed it to him along with the first stack of replies to fan letters. He looked down only long enough to find the place for his signature, then began writing.

      He’d signed three letters before she grabbed the stack and pulled it away from him.

      A look of sheer horror darkened her face. “You’re not reading them!”

      “I don’t need to read them. I trust you.”

      “That’s nice, but aren’t you at least a little curious about what I’m telling people?”

      “No. I assume you’re saying thanks, and that you homed in on some detail of their letter to me, some comment, and you addressed that to make each letter sound personal.”

      She fell back to her chair.

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