One Passionate Night. Jessica Gilmore
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I don’t think you trust me as much as you’re disinterested.”
“I’m not sure I see the difference.”
“I did a good job!”
“Oh, you want me to read them so I can praise you?”
She tossed her hands in the air. “You’re impossible.”
“Actually, I’m very simple to understand. None of this interests me because I was a painter. Now I’m not.”
She frowned. “But you said this morning that you’d like to paint me.”
He had wanted to paint her. Twice. But both times the feeling had come and gone. Now that he had a minute of distance from it, it was easy to see the urge was unreliable. Not something to take seriously. Certainly not something to change the stable course of his life. Given that he was attracted to her and she was pregnant—while he still wrestled with the loss of his own child—that was for the best.
“A momentary slip.”
She frowned at him. “Really? Because it might actually be your desire to paint coming back, and like I told you, I wouldn’t mind sitting for a portrait.”
He chuckled at her innocence. “Trust me. You wouldn’t want to sit for a portrait.”
She rose and came around the desk to face him. Leaning on the corner, he didn’t have to look down to catch her gaze. They were eye level.
“I have the chance to be painted by the most sought-after artist in the world. How could that not be fun?”
He licked his suddenly dry lips. She stood inches away. Close enough that he could touch her. His desire to paint her took second place to his desire to kiss her. If wanting to paint a pregnant woman was a bad idea, being attracted to that woman was a hundred times worse. Spending the amount of time together that they’d need for a portrait would be asking for trouble.
“I didn’t say it wouldn’t be fun. But it wouldn’t be what you think.”
Her eyes lit. “That’s what makes it great. I have no idea about so many things in life. I might have lived in one of the most wonderful cities in the world, but I was broke and couldn’t experience any of it. Now, here I am in gorgeous Italy and I feel like the whole world is opened up to me.” She stepped closer, put her hands on his shoulders. “Paint me, Antonio.”
Her simple words sent a raging fire through him and the desire to paint reared up. Having to turn down the chance to get his life back hurt almost as much as the betrayal that had brought him here. But though his attraction to her was very real, there was no guarantee this yearning to paint was. He could take her to his studio, risk his sanity, feed his attraction to her, and then be unable to hold a brush.
“I told you. It wouldn’t be what you think.”
“Then tell me.” Her eyelids blinked over her incredibly big, incredibly innocent green eyes. “Please.”
Attraction stole through him, reminding him that his desire to paint her and his attraction to her were somehow knitted together, something he’d never felt before, adding to the untrustworthiness of his desire to paint. He refused to embarrass himself by taking her to his studio and freezing. And maybe it was time to be honest with her so she’d know the truth and they wouldn’t have this discussion again.
“Last night, seeing your back, I might have wanted to paint you, but the feelings were different than any other I’d had when I saw something—someone—I wanted to paint.”
Her head tilted. “How?”
He’d always known, even before he’d studied painting, that the eyes were the windows to the soul. With his gaze connected to Laura Beth’s, he could see the naïveté, see that she really didn’t understand a lot about life. How could he explain that the reasons he wanted to paint her were all wrapped up in an appreciation of her beauty that tipped into physical desire, when he wasn’t 100 percent sure he understood it himself?
When he didn’t answer, she stepped back. The innocent joy on her face disappeared. “It’s okay. I get it.”
“I don’t think you do.”
“Sure, I do. It’s been two years since you’ve painted and suddenly you’re feeling the urge again. It’s not me. It’s your talent waking up.”
He should have agreed and let it go, but her eyes were just so sad. “It is you.”
“Oh, come on, Antonio. Look at me. I’m a green-eyed brunette. A common combination. I’ve never stood out. Not anywhere. Not because of anything.”
He stifled a laugh, then realized she was serious. “You don’t think you’re beautiful?”
She sniffed and turned away. “Right.”
Pushing off the desk, he headed toward her. He pulled the pencils from her hair, tossed them beside the computer and watched as the smooth brown locks swayed gracefully to her shoulders. He turned her to face the mirror on the wall by the door. “Still don’t think you’re beautiful?”
* * *
Her mouth went dry. Her gaze latched onto his, and the heat she saw in his eyes made her knees wobble. “What are you doing?”
“I want you to see what I see when I look at you.” He watched his finger as it traced along her jaw, down her neck to her collarbone. A thin line of fire sparked along her skin.
“You think you’re common. I see classic beauty.” His dark eyes heated even more. Anticipation trickled through her, tightening her chest, stealing her breath.
“A woman on the verge of life, about to become a mother. With everything in front of her. The painting wouldn’t be simple. It would be as complex as the wonder I see in your eyes every time I look at you. And it would take time. Lots of time.” His gaze met hers. “Still want me to paint you?”
Good God, yes.
The words didn’t come out, but she knew they were in her eyes. She couldn’t tell if he wanted to paint her because he saw something in her eyes, or if he saw something in her eyes because he wanted to paint her. But did it matter? Right at that second, with her attraction to him creating an ache in her chest...did it really freaking matter?
She waited. He waited. The electricity of longing passed between them. He longed to paint. She suddenly, fervently, wished he liked her.
Finally, her voice a mere whisper, she said, “You said this doesn’t happen often?”
He shook his head. “It’s never happened at all.”
She swallowed. “Wow.”
He spun around and stepped away. “Oh, Lord! Don’t be so naive! I have no idea what this feeling is, but it’s powerful.” He met her gaze again. “And it could let me down. We could spend hours in my studio and I could freeze. Or your portrait could be the most exciting, most important of my life.”
“Antonio, if you’re trying to dissuade me, you’re going at it all wrong. What woman in the world wouldn’t want to hear that?”
“You shouldn’t!” The words were hot, clipped. “This feeling could be nothing but my talent tormenting me.” He picked up the stack of letters. “Go freshen up for dinner while I sign these.”
She stayed where she stood, frozen, suddenly understanding. To him she wasn’t an opportunity, but a torment.
“Now!”
She pivoted and raced from the room, but even before she reached the stairs she’d decided Antonio was wrong. He couldn’t know that he would freeze unless he tried to paint her.
She might have lost tonight’s fight, but the next time they had this discussion, she wouldn’t lose.
* * *
They