Best of Nora Roberts Books 1-6: The Art of Deception / Lessons Learned / Mind Over Matter / Risky Business / Second Nature / Unfinished Business

She spoke without looking at him. “Do you realize that not once have you asked me to pose for you? You told me you wanted to paint me, you told me you were going to paint me, but you’ve never asked if you could paint me.” With her hands still folded, one finger began to tap. “Instinct tells me you’re basically a gentleman, Adam. Perhaps you’ve just forgotten to say please.”

“I haven’t forgotten.” He tossed the dress across the bottom of the bed. “But I think you hear far too many pleases from men. You’re a woman who brings men to their knees with the bat of an eye. I’m not partial to kneeling.” No, he wasn’t partial to kneeling, and it was becoming imperative that he handle the controls, for both of them. Bending over, he put his hands on either side of her head then sat beside her. “And I’m just as used to getting my own way as you are.”

She studied him, thinking over his words and her position. “Then again, I haven’t batted my eyes at you yet.”

“Haven’t you?” he murmured.

He could smell her, that wild, untamed fragrance that was suited to isolated winter nights. Her lips pouted, not by design, but mood. It was that that tempted him. He had to taste them. He did so lightly, as he’d intended. Just a touch, just a taste, then he’d go about his business. But her mouth yielded to him as the whole woman hadn’t. Or perhaps it conquered.

Desire scorched him. Fire was all he could relate to. Flames and heat and smoke. That was her taste. Smoke and temptation and a promise of unreasonable delights.

He tasted, but it was no longer enough. He had to touch.

Her body was small, delicate, something a man might fear to take. He did, but no longer for her sake. For his own. Small and delicate she might be, but she could slice a man in two. Of that he was certain. But as he touched, as he tasted, he didn’t give a damn.

Never had he wanted a woman more. She made him feel like a teenager in the back seat of a car, like a man paying for the best whore in a French bordello, like a husband nuzzling into the security of a wife. Her complexities were more erotic than satin and lace and smoky light—the soft, agile mouth, the strong, determined hands. He wasn’t certain he’d ever escape from either. In possessing her, he’d invite an endless cycle of complications, of struggles, of excitement. She was an opiate. She was a dive from a cliff. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to overdose and hit the rocks.

It cost him more than he would have believed to draw back. She lay with her eyes half closed, her mouth just parted. Don’t get involved, he told himself frantically. Get the Rembrandt and walk away. That’s what you came to do.

“Adam…” She whispered his name as if she’d never said it before. It felt so beautiful on her tongue. The only thought that stayed with her was that no one had ever made her feel like this. No one else ever would. Something was opening inside her, but she wouldn’t fight it. She’d give. The innocence in her eyes was real, emotional not physical. Seeing it, Adam felt desire flare again.

She’s a witch, he told himself. Circe. Lorelei. He had to pull back before he forgot that. “You’ll have to change.”

“Adam…” Still swimming, she reached up and touched his face.

“Emphasize your eyes.” He stood before he could take the dive.

“My eyes?” Mind blank, body throbbing, she stared up at him.

“And leave your hair loose.” He strode to the door as she struggled up to her elbows. “Twenty minutes.”

She wouldn’t let him see the hurt. She wouldn’t allow herself to feel the rejection. “You’re a cool one, aren’t you?” she said softly. “And as smooth as any I’ve ever run across. You might find yourself on your knees yet.”

She was right—he could’ve strangled her for it. “That’s a risk I’ll have to take.” With a nod, he walked through the door. “Twenty minutes,” he called back.

Kirby clenched her fists together then slowly relaxed them. “On your knees,” she promised herself. “I swear it.”

Alone in Kirby’s studio, Adam searched for the mechanism to the passageway. He looked mainly from curiosity. It was doubtful he’d need to rummage through a room that he’d been given free run in, but he was satisfied when he located the control. The panel creaked open, as noisily as all the others he’d found. After a quick look inside, he shut it again and went back to the first order of business—painting.

It was never a job, but 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.”