Kezia."
"Not half as much as I missed you." A brief flash of the evening before raced through her mind. Visions of the dancing Baron. She pulled away from Mark then and smiled at him for a long moment. "You're the most beautiful man in the world, Mark Wooly."
"And your slave." She laughed at him, because Mark was no one's slave and they both knew it, and then, barefoot, she darted away from him and ran behind the easel, grabbing his box of chocolate cookies as she went "Hey!"
"Okay, Mark, now the truth will out. What do you love more? Me or your chocolate cookies?"
"What are you, crazy or something?" He chased her behind the easel but she fled to the bedroom doorway. "I love my chocolate cookies! What do you think?"
"Ha ha! Well, I've got them!" She ran into the bedroom and leapt onto the bed, dancing from one foot to the other, laughing, her eyes sparkling, her hair flying around her head like a flock of silky ravens.
"Give me my chocolate cookies, woman! I'm addicted!"
"Fiend!"
"Yeah!" He joined her on the bed with a gleam in his eye, took the cookies from her and flung them to the sheepskin chair, then pulled her into a tight embrace.
"Not only are you a hopeless chocoholic, Mark Wooly, but you're a sex fiend too!" She laughed the laugh of her childhood as she settled into his arms.
"You know, maybe I'm addicted to you too."
"I doubt it." But he pulled her down beside him, and wrapped in laughter and her long black hair, they made love.
"What do you want for dinner?" She yawned and cuddled closer to him in the comfortable bed.
"You."
"That was lunch."
"So? There's a law that says I can't have for dinner what I had for lunch?" He rumpled her hair, and his mouth sought her lips.
"Come on, Mark, be serious. What else do you want? Besides chocolate cookies?"
"Oh . .. steak . . . lobster ... caviar ... the usual." He didn't know just how usual it was. "Oh shit, I don't know. Pasta, I guess. Fettuccine maybe. Al pesto? Can you get some basil? The fresh kind?"
"You're four months late. It's out of season. How about clam sauce?"
"You're on."
"Then I'll see you in a bit." She ran her tongue across the small of his back, stretched once more and then hopped out of bed, just out of reach of the hand he held out for her. "None of that, Marcus. Later. Or we'll never get dinner."
"Screw dinner." The light in his eyes was reviving.
"Screw you."
"That's just what I had in mind. Now you've got the picture." He grinned broadly as he lay on his back and watched her dress. "You're really no fun, Kezia, but you're pretty to watch."
"So are you." His long frame was stretched out lazily atop the sheets. It occurred to her as she looked at him that there was nothing quite so beautiful as the bold good looks of a very young man, a very handsome young man. . . . She left the bedroom and returned with her string bag in hand, one of his shirts knotted just under her breasts above well-tailored jeans, her hair tied in a wisp of red ribbon. "I ought to paint you like that."
"You ought to stop being so silly. I'll get a fat head. Any special requests?" He smiled, shook his head, and she was gone, off to the market.
There were Italian markets nearby, and she always liked to shop for him. Here, the food was real.
Home-made pasta, fresh vegetables, oversized fruit, tomatoes to squeeze, a whole array of sausages and cheeses waiting to be felt and sniffed and taken home for a princely repast. Long loaves of Italian bread to carry home under your arm the way they did in Europe. Bottles of Chianti dancing from hooks near the ceiling.
It was a short walk, and it was the time of day when young artists began to come out of their lairs. The end of the day, when those who worked at night began to come alive, and those who worked by day needed to stretch and walk. Later there would be more people in the streets, wandering, talking, smoking grass, drifting, stopping in at the cafes, en route to the studios of friends or someone's latest
"Not half as much as I missed you." A brief flash of the evening before raced through her mind. Visions of the dancing Baron. She pulled away from Mark then and smiled at him for a long moment. "You're the most beautiful man in the world, Mark Wooly."
"And your slave." She laughed at him, because Mark was no one's slave and they both knew it, and then, barefoot, she darted away from him and ran behind the easel, grabbing his box of chocolate cookies as she went "Hey!"
"Okay, Mark, now the truth will out. What do you love more? Me or your chocolate cookies?"
"What are you, crazy or something?" He chased her behind the easel but she fled to the bedroom doorway. "I love my chocolate cookies! What do you think?"
"Ha ha! Well, I've got them!" She ran into the bedroom and leapt onto the bed, dancing from one foot to the other, laughing, her eyes sparkling, her hair flying around her head like a flock of silky ravens.
"Give me my chocolate cookies, woman! I'm addicted!"
"Fiend!"
"Yeah!" He joined her on the bed with a gleam in his eye, took the cookies from her and flung them to the sheepskin chair, then pulled her into a tight embrace.
"Not only are you a hopeless chocoholic, Mark Wooly, but you're a sex fiend too!" She laughed the laugh of her childhood as she settled into his arms.
"You know, maybe I'm addicted to you too."
"I doubt it." But he pulled her down beside him, and wrapped in laughter and her long black hair, they made love.
"What do you want for dinner?" She yawned and cuddled closer to him in the comfortable bed.
"You."
"That was lunch."
"So? There's a law that says I can't have for dinner what I had for lunch?" He rumpled her hair, and his mouth sought her lips.
"Come on, Mark, be serious. What else do you want? Besides chocolate cookies?"
"Oh . .. steak . . . lobster ... caviar ... the usual." He didn't know just how usual it was. "Oh shit, I don't know. Pasta, I guess. Fettuccine maybe. Al pesto? Can you get some basil? The fresh kind?"
"You're four months late. It's out of season. How about clam sauce?"
"You're on."
"Then I'll see you in a bit." She ran her tongue across the small of his back, stretched once more and then hopped out of bed, just out of reach of the hand he held out for her. "None of that, Marcus. Later. Or we'll never get dinner."
"Screw dinner." The light in his eyes was reviving.
"Screw you."
"That's just what I had in mind. Now you've got the picture." He grinned broadly as he lay on his back and watched her dress. "You're really no fun, Kezia, but you're pretty to watch."
"So are you." His long frame was stretched out lazily atop the sheets. It occurred to her as she looked at him that there was nothing quite so beautiful as the bold good looks of a very young man, a very handsome young man. . . . She left the bedroom and returned with her string bag in hand, one of his shirts knotted just under her breasts above well-tailored jeans, her hair tied in a wisp of red ribbon. "I ought to paint you like that."
"You ought to stop being so silly. I'll get a fat head. Any special requests?" He smiled, shook his head, and she was gone, off to the market.
There were Italian markets nearby, and she always liked to shop for him. Here, the food was real.
Home-made pasta, fresh vegetables, oversized fruit, tomatoes to squeeze, a whole array of sausages and cheeses waiting to be felt and sniffed and taken home for a princely repast. Long loaves of Italian bread to carry home under your arm the way they did in Europe. Bottles of Chianti dancing from hooks near the ceiling.
It was a short walk, and it was the time of day when young artists began to come out of their lairs. The end of the day, when those who worked at night began to come alive, and those who worked by day needed to stretch and walk. Later there would be more people in the streets, wandering, talking, smoking grass, drifting, stopping in at the cafes, en route to the studios of friends or someone's latest
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