astonishment he threw his fine dark head back and laughed, long and uproariously. She made fists of her fingers, raging inside. People didn't laugh at her like that!
Sobering, but with his dark sardonic eyes still mocking her, he said, 'You're perfectly right, we are from different sides of the track. I grew up in genteel poverty ... which is a polite way of saying a slum.'
From what she had heard about slums, Domini could believe that he had. He was hot-tempered, mercurial, and aggressive, and she didn't like him at all. Injured by his mockery, she was still glaring at him angrily when he made a sweeping gesture at his sculptures. 'Be my guest,' he said, 'I'm afraid most of my work is at the dealer's. Not selling yet, I'm sorry to say ... , ' he sets too stiff a price on the stuff. 'That's why I'm anxious to get at this commission.'
'I think I just changed my mind,' Domini replied tautly. 'I don't want to see after all.'
She rounded on her heel to go, but Sander was too fast for her. He moved like a panther on his bare feet, and his arm shot out to bar her way. 'Oh, no you don't,' he ordered coolly. 'Now that you're in the door you can damn well stay.'
'I don't want to see your work!'
'Ah, but I want to see you.'
His hands closed over her unclad upper arms, the grip light but firm. Domini started to pull back and then stopped, her eyes widening, her anger evaporating as swiftly as it had appeared. His palms were callused, his fingers rough with incessant exposure to hammer and chisel. They were the hands of a day labourer and yet they were not, for the fingers were long and strong and sensitive, the hold of the palms light but persuasive on her flesh, like fine sandpaper grazing over satin. His touch was a new experience, and not an unpleasant one. Little tingles started to travel along her bare arm?
He pulled her to the best-lit part of the shed, the place occupied by the big marble block. Without hurting her he held her against it, pinning her there with those powerful hands. She didn't try to protest. The male scent of him filled her nostrils, causing an intense exhilaration Domini did not at once understand; the closest sensation she could remember had been caused by a particularly wild storm in the mountains, terrifying and thrilling all at once.
'I couldn't see you too well in the doorway, with the sun behind you. I'm curious to know if the famous Didi lives up to her father's vision.'
No instinct told her to resist now, any more than she had resisted the excitement of that long-ago storm in the Pyrenees, which she had watched from her window with dancing eyes. When his hand came up to twine lightly in her hair, she didn't cry out. When he tilted her head to the light, resting it against the marble block, she permitted it although the bend of her throat was sacrificial. Fearless, she gazed up into his probing eyes, filled with a wonder beyond telling.
For now she understood. She had read enough and heard enough and seen enough, and it only surprised her that she had not understood at once. In her youth her father had never tried to protect her from the knowledge of why he kept a mistress to warm his bed, nor from the sight of mating animals, common enough in the open, mountainous countryside where walls hid no secrets. It was perfectly right, perfectly natural that she should thrill to the touch and the smell and the heat of a man. In body Domini was an innocent, but in her heart she was a pagan.
'Extraordinary,' he breathed.
He was hardly making bodily contact at all, only that hand twisted in her hair and one palm against her shoulder, resting against the thin cotton. And yet she could feel the male textures of him as if they touched her ... the stretch of tendons, the roughness of chest hair dampened by exertion, the firmness of flesh, the scratch of denim that didn't quite connect with her thinly clad thighs. She quivered to close the gap.
'Why, you're still a child,' he murmured half in wonder, as if
Sobering, but with his dark sardonic eyes still mocking her, he said, 'You're perfectly right, we are from different sides of the track. I grew up in genteel poverty ... which is a polite way of saying a slum.'
From what she had heard about slums, Domini could believe that he had. He was hot-tempered, mercurial, and aggressive, and she didn't like him at all. Injured by his mockery, she was still glaring at him angrily when he made a sweeping gesture at his sculptures. 'Be my guest,' he said, 'I'm afraid most of my work is at the dealer's. Not selling yet, I'm sorry to say ... , ' he sets too stiff a price on the stuff. 'That's why I'm anxious to get at this commission.'
'I think I just changed my mind,' Domini replied tautly. 'I don't want to see after all.'
She rounded on her heel to go, but Sander was too fast for her. He moved like a panther on his bare feet, and his arm shot out to bar her way. 'Oh, no you don't,' he ordered coolly. 'Now that you're in the door you can damn well stay.'
'I don't want to see your work!'
'Ah, but I want to see you.'
His hands closed over her unclad upper arms, the grip light but firm. Domini started to pull back and then stopped, her eyes widening, her anger evaporating as swiftly as it had appeared. His palms were callused, his fingers rough with incessant exposure to hammer and chisel. They were the hands of a day labourer and yet they were not, for the fingers were long and strong and sensitive, the hold of the palms light but persuasive on her flesh, like fine sandpaper grazing over satin. His touch was a new experience, and not an unpleasant one. Little tingles started to travel along her bare arm?
He pulled her to the best-lit part of the shed, the place occupied by the big marble block. Without hurting her he held her against it, pinning her there with those powerful hands. She didn't try to protest. The male scent of him filled her nostrils, causing an intense exhilaration Domini did not at once understand; the closest sensation she could remember had been caused by a particularly wild storm in the mountains, terrifying and thrilling all at once.
'I couldn't see you too well in the doorway, with the sun behind you. I'm curious to know if the famous Didi lives up to her father's vision.'
No instinct told her to resist now, any more than she had resisted the excitement of that long-ago storm in the Pyrenees, which she had watched from her window with dancing eyes. When his hand came up to twine lightly in her hair, she didn't cry out. When he tilted her head to the light, resting it against the marble block, she permitted it although the bend of her throat was sacrificial. Fearless, she gazed up into his probing eyes, filled with a wonder beyond telling.
For now she understood. She had read enough and heard enough and seen enough, and it only surprised her that she had not understood at once. In her youth her father had never tried to protect her from the knowledge of why he kept a mistress to warm his bed, nor from the sight of mating animals, common enough in the open, mountainous countryside where walls hid no secrets. It was perfectly right, perfectly natural that she should thrill to the touch and the smell and the heat of a man. In body Domini was an innocent, but in her heart she was a pagan.
'Extraordinary,' he breathed.
He was hardly making bodily contact at all, only that hand twisted in her hair and one palm against her shoulder, resting against the thin cotton. And yet she could feel the male textures of him as if they touched her ... the stretch of tendons, the roughness of chest hair dampened by exertion, the firmness of flesh, the scratch of denim that didn't quite connect with her thinly clad thighs. She quivered to close the gap.
'Why, you're still a child,' he murmured half in wonder, as if
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