Passionate by Anthea Lawson Page B

moment her gaze left him he felt relieved, and oddly abandoned. The respite was short-lived—her attention returned to him almost immediately as she dipped and swirled paint on the palette. She held the paintbrush like a scepter. She was queen here, a queen of color and light, vibrant and passionate. And what would that passion taste like? What would she feel like in his arms? His bed?
    He closed his eyes, shutting out the sight of her, and shifted on the stool.
    “Are you still comfortable? We could take a break, if you’d like.”
    “I’m fine.” He opened his eyes and tried to look more at ease.
    “It’s going very well,” she said, then her eyebrows drew together. “Wait. You moved. Try turning to your left a bit more.” She watched him swivel and shook her head. “No, that’s not quite it. One moment.”
    She stared hard at the sketch then moved to stand in front of him, their eyes at a level.
    “I am used to more immobile subjects that I can place at will,” she said. “I think it would be easier if I just…” She reached out and set her hands on his shoulders.
    The pressure of her fingers guided his body to the left. He turned in response, but his eyes remained fixed on her face. She was so close he could smell her fragrance—lavender and linseed oil. His pulse throbbed.
    “Now, tilt your head up a bit…no, not quite so much.”
    “Like this?”
    “Here, let me.”
    She lifted her hand to his chin and raised it with a gentle pressure—as if for a kiss. His gaze dropped to her lips, full, and open. If he leaned forward, just a few inches, he could brush them with his own.
    Her eyes darted to his, and he saw realization seep into her as the artist gave way to the woman. She took a hasty step back, then retreated to her easel.
    James cleared his throat. “Do I have the pose right?”
    “Um. Yes. Well enough. We can break soon. You’ll be able to stand and walk about then.”
    He rather doubted it—his response to her had been tangible and physical. He would require a large frond if he were asked to stand before his yearning had subsided.
    James closed his eyes and summoned up images of the worst field conditions he had endured while serving in the Queen’s army. He would not dwell on the woman before him. He would not watch her eyes as they lingered on his body or recall the smooth touch of her fingertips.
    At last she stepped away from her work. “You are free—for the moment.”
    He stood, twisting at the waist to loosen his tight muscles.
    “It is tiring to keep still,” she said.
    “I ought to be used to it—in the army we were trained to stand immobile and at attention for hours. Though with the amount of starch in our dress uniforms, there really wasn’t much option.”
    She smiled. “I shall have to instruct Richard’s valet to starch him thoroughly before I try painting him again. You are doing splendidly. Would you like some lemonade?” She lifted a carafe from the table beside her and poured two glasses.
    James joined her, noticing how petite she actually was. It surprised him. She gave the impression of being taller, but her head only came up to his shoulder.
    As she handed him the tumbler his fingers brushed against hers. The coolness of the glass contrasted with the warmth of her skin. Miss Strathmore’s eyes widened.
    She took a hasty sip, then set her glass down with a bump on the crowded table. Several brushes rolled off the edge, tumbling to the bricks.
    James went down on one knee to pick them up. He counted two heartbeats, three, before he straightened, offering her the bouquet of brushes.
    “Thank you,” she said. “I seem intent on making an unfavorable impression, don’t I? I assure you, in most circumstances I am perfectly capable of setting down a glass of lemonade.”
    “I do not think you make an unfavorable impression, Miss Strathmore. In fact, I find you extremely…interesting.”
    “Interesting. Of course.” Her lips tightened. “How kind of