LITMIR.BIZ

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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 cigarette in one grinding motion. “Let’s get started.”

      “I thought we already had,” she murmured. Her eyes were luminous and amused. He wanted to choke her every bit as much as he wanted to crawl for her. “You insisted on painting.”

      “Don’t push me too far, Kirby. You have a tendency to bring out my baser side.”

      “I don’t think I can be blamed for that. Maybe you’ve locked it up too long.” Because she’d gotten precisely the reaction she’d wanted, she became completely cooperative. “Now, where do you want me to stand?”

      “By the east window.”

      Tie score, she thought with satisfaction as she obliged him.

      He spoke only when he had to—tilt your chin higher, turn your head. Within moments he was able to turn the anger and the desire into concentration. The rain fell, but its sound was muffled against the thick glass windows. With the tower door nearly closed, there wasn’t another sound.

      He watched her, studied her, absorbed her, but the man and the artist were working together. Perhaps by putting her on canvas, he’d understand her…and himself. Adam swept the charcoal over the canvas and began.

      Now she could watch him, knowing that he was turned inward. She’d seen dozens of artists work; the old, the young, the talented, the amateur. Adam was, as she’d suspected, different.

      He wore a sweater, one he was obviously at home in, but no smock. Even as he sketched he stood straight, as though his nature demanded that he remain always alert. That was one of the things she’d noticed about him first. He was always watching. A true artist did, she knew, but there seemed to be something more.

      She called him conventional, knowing it wasn’t quite true. Not quite. What was it about him that didn’t fit into the mold he’d been fashioned for? Tall, lean, attractive, aristocratic, wealthy, successful, and…daring? That was the word that came to mind, though she wasn’t completely sure why.

      There was something reckless about him that appealed to her. It balanced the maturity, the dependability she hadn’t known she’d wanted in a man. He’d be a rock to hold on to during an earthquake. And he’d be the earthquake. She was, Kirby realized, sinking fast. The trick would be to keep him from realizing it and making a fool of herself. Still, beneath it all, she liked him. That simple.

      Adam glanced up to see her smiling at him. It was disarming, sweet and uncomplicated. Something warned him that Kirby without guards was far more dangerous than Kirby with them. When she let hers drop, he put his in place.

      “Doesn’t Hiller paint a bit?”

      He saw her smile fade and tried not to regret it. “A bit.”

      “Haven’t you posed for him?”

      “No.”

      “Why not?”

      The ice that came into her eyes wasn’t what he wanted for the painting. The man and artist warred as he continued to sketch. “Let’s say I didn’t care much for his work.”

      “I suppose I can take that as a compliment to mine.”

      She gave him a long, neutral look. “If you like.”

      Deceit was part of the job, he reminded himself. What he’d heard in Fairchild’s studio left him no choice. “I’m surprised he didn’t make an issue of it, being in love with you.”

      “He wasn’t.” She bit off the words, and ice turned to heat.

      “He asked you to marry him.”

      “One hasn’t anything to do with the other.”

      He looked up and saw she said exactly what she meant. “Doesn’t it?”

      “I agreed to marry him without loving him.”

      He held the charcoal an inch from the canvas, forgetting the painting. “Why?”

      While she stared at him, he saw the anger fade. For a moment she was simply a woman at her most vulnerable. “Timing,” she murmured. “It’s probably the most important factor governing our lives. If it hadn’t been for timing, Romeo and Juliet would’ve raised a half-dozen children.”

      He was beginning to understand, and understanding only made him more uncomfortable. “You thought it was time to get married?”

      “Stuart’s attractive, very polished, charming, and I’d thought harmless. I realized the last thing I wanted was a polished, charming, harmless husband. Still, I thought he loved me. I didn’t break the engagement for a long time because I thought he’d make a convenient husband, and one who wouldn’t demand too much.” It sounded empty. It had been empty. “One who’d give me children.”

      “You want children?”

      The anger was back, quickly. “Is there something wrong with that?” she demanded. “Do you think it strange that I’d want a family?” She made a quick, furious movement that had the gold jangling again. “This might come as a shock, but I have needs and feelings almost like a real person. And I don’t have to justify myself to you.”

      She was halfway to the door before he could stop her.

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