by Susan Meier
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. “Yes. But you should still want to read them.”
He took the stack of letters from her again. “One would think you’d be happier that I trust you.”
She crossed her arms on her chest. “One would, except 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.”
&nb
sp; 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 managed to get through dinner by skirting the elephant in the room. He feared picking up a brush and she longed for him to paint her. Or maybe she was just curious. After all, Bruce dumping her had made her feel worthless. She’d spent every moment of every date trying to get Bruce to say something special, something romantic, and she’d failed. But Antonio wanted to paint her. He thought she was classically beautiful. That her painting might become the most important of his life.
She knew he hadn’t meant it as romantic, but she was so starved for affection that it felt romantic. And she was supposed to ignore it? Not want it? Not be curious?
But that night in her bed, she scolded herself for being such a schoolgirl. Yes, she’d never had a man think her beautiful enough to be a work of art. And, yes, she’d never been attracted to anyone the way she was to Antonio...but was that good? Or bad? She was a pregnant woman with responsibilities to think about. She shouldn’t be daydreaming. Fantasizing.
She spent an almost sleepless night, and in the morning groaned when she knew she had to get up. The truth was Antonio would probably like it if she slept in and didn’t do any work. They both knew the job was temporary. She was going home in a few weeks. He didn’t want the feelings that he had around her, and her going home would settle all that for him.
But like it or not, Antonio needed a PA and she had a baby to support. She should have been able to prove herself and keep this job, but that crazy feeling or need he had to paint her had ruined everything.
She pulled a pair of old, worn jeans and a big gray T-shirt from her closet. The staff might wear uniforms, but Antonio wore T-shirts—
An idea came and her eyes narrowed as she thought it through. She dug through her clothes until she found her three skirts, three pairs of dress trousers and a few tops that she typically wore for work. This might be Italy, and Antonio might dress like a beach bum, but she was supposed to be a PA. Maybe if she dressed like one, he’d stop wanting to paint her and see her as the worker she was supposed to be.
She slipped into a gray skirt and white blouse that looked like a man’s shirt, pulled her hair back into a bun at her nape, sans pencils this time, and slid into gray flats. Instead of her contacts, she wore brown-framed glasses.
Antonio wasn’t at breakfast that morning, so she ate quickly and headed for the office. He wasn’t there either. But that was fine. She still had plenty of fan letters to answer. She ate lunch alone, fighting the urge to ask Rosina if she knew where Antonio was. She was a secretary, not his girlfriend. Or even his friend. If she wanted to keep her job, then she couldn’t see herself as his friend anymore. She had to work the job correctly. Not insinuate herself into his life.
Not secretly long for a relationship with him.
But when he wasn’t there at supper time or for breakfast the next morning, she got nervous, antsy. What if his plan was to avoid her for two weeks, tell her the PA thing hadn’t worked out and give her another two weeks of alone time to rest? What if she was working to prove herself when there really was no possibility of her keeping this job?
In the office, she lifted the final three fan letters. In an hour, she’d have nothing to do. She answered the last pieces of fan mail and set the letters on top of the stack she’d generated the day before.
He hadn’t even come in to sign the letters.
Where was he?
Was she going to let him avoid her so he could take the easy way out? Just send her off with a pat on her head?
She straightened her shoulders. She’d be damned if yet another man would send her off with a pat on her head. And if she had to drag him into this office by the scruff of the neck, he would see that one of two things was going to happen here. Either he would let her work for him—really work—or she was going home. She did not take charity.
Still, she needed the job more than her pride. She was not going to let him slide out of giving her a chance to prove herself by avoiding her. He was going to answer the requests for commissioned paintings with her. He was going to do his job, damn it!
All fired up, she marched out of the office and into the kitchen. “Rosina?”
The maid looked up. “Sì?”
“Where is Mr. Bartulocci?”
She frowned. “He say not to tell you.”
She shoved her shoulders back even farther. “Oh, really? Would you like me to tell his father that you stood in the way of him getting the help in his office that he needs?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then let me suggest you tell me where he is.”
Rosina sighed. “Mr. Constanzo might be bossy, but Antonio is my boss.”
She spun on her heel. “Fine. Then I’ll simply find him myself.”
“Okay. Just don’t go into his studio.”
Her hand on the swinging door, Laura Beth paused, turned and
faced Rosina. “His studio?”
Rosina went back to kneading her bread. “I said nothing.”
Laura Beth’s lips rose slowly. “I wasn’t even in the kitchen.”
His strong reaction to painting her had led her to believe his studio would be the last place he’d want to be. So it confused her that he’d be in the old, crumbling house that reminded him he couldn’t paint.
But whatever. The plan was to find him, no matter where he was, and force him to see she could be a good employee for him.
It took a few minutes to locate the door that led to the studio. The old stone path had been repaired, but appeared to be the original walkway. The house’s door was so old the bottom looked to have been gnawed by wild animals. She tried the knob and it moved, granting her entrance.
The cluttered front room held everything but canvases and frames. Paint cans—not artist’s paint, but house paint—sat on the floor. Strips of fabric lay haphazardly on metal shelves. She recognized one of the swatches as the fabric for one of the chairs in his dining room.
She glanced around. Most of this stuff corresponded to something in his house. He’d stored leftovers and castoffs here.
He’d said he hadn’t painted since his wife’s death. But if the items in this room were any indicator, it had been longer than that.
She stepped over a small stack of lumber and around some paint cans and walked through a door that took her into the huge back room, empty save for Antonio, who sat on a stool, staring at a blank canvas.
Light poured in from a bank of windows on the back wall and set the entire room aglow. She didn’t know much about painting, but she imagined lots of light was essential.
“Think of the devil and look who appears.”
She walked a little farther into the room. “Are you calling me Satan?”
“I’m telling you I was thinking about you.”
In a room with a blank canvas.
Because he wanted to paint her.
Because he thought she was classically beautiful.
Tingles pirouetted along her skin. She told herself to ignore them. He didn’t want what he felt for her and she did want this job. Acting like a PA had jarred her out of her feelings, so maybe forcing him to see her as a PA would jar him out of his.
