When I arrive at the studio at 10 a.m., I detect the distinct smell that comes from oil-based paints. He must have been working this morning, I surmise as I make my way into the sun-filled room. There’s no sign of him yet, so I go ahead and sit down in my chair. I pull my notebook out and wait for him to appear.
I don’t have to wait long. Not even five minutes later, he enters with two cups in his hand. His eyes hold mine as he makes his way toward me. I find I can’t smile or do anything but stare until he finally stops in front of me, offering me one of the porcelain mugs.
“Tea?”
Finally, I muster a half smile, reaching out to take it.
He seems different this morning, agitated in some way. I wonder if he’s feeling uncomfortable from last evening’s encounter on the stairs. Just as I’m about to ask if he’s okay, he sits down and explains.
“I didn’t sleep very well last night. I suppose I should apologize in advance for any—what should we call it—asshole episodes I might have.”
Shaking my head, I consider that before I take a sip of tea and then place the mug on the desk beside me. “Do you have them often?”
Finally, I get a somewhat hesitant smile from him as his eyes narrow and his mouth shifts. Truly, the man’s face is not like any I have seen before. While it’s rugged and masculine in its own way, he is so intensely alluring in other ways that it’s hard to tear your eyes from him.
“Do I have what often?”
Cautiously, I remind him of his own words. “Asshole episodes?”
Arching a brow, he seems to think it over for a second. “I’m not sure. You’ll have to tell me.”
“We could just start later.”
He shakes his head. “No, no. Let’s start now.”
As I cross one leg over the other, his eyes drop down to my legs. I have to remind myself that now is not the time. He is not an option. He is a job—an intimidating and intriguing job.
“Okay, so tell me. What did you show her the day she came back to the chateau?”
This is the first time I get a full-on wouldn’t-you-like-to-know smirk as he settles back in his chair.
“Would you like to rephrase that question and be a little more specific?” he questions, shutting his eyes.
I take the opportunity to watch his throat and mouth as he explains further.
“There were plenty of things I showed Chantel in the chateau, Gemma. So, depending on where you want to be, you need to be much more specific.” His tongue comes out to moistens his full bottom lip. “Then again, perhaps that’s exactly where you want to be after your indecision last night on the stairs, hmm…between Chantel and me?”
As my heart starts a rapid tattoo rhythm in my chest, I allow my eyes to move up to his face. I find he has one eye open, watching me.
He closes it and queries again. “No?”
Clearing my throat, I think quickly and rephrase my question. “Chantel writes that she is coming to see you the next day because you want to show her something. So, what did you show her when she arrived?”
She’s right on time, he thought as he heard a sharp rap on the front door.
Chantel Rosenberg was punctual. He liked that about her.
Actually, he was starting to obsess about everything related to the intensely serious, gray-eyed woman he’d run into only days earlier.
He made his way down the large staircase and over to the door.
Opening it, his breath was once again taken away by her. Her raven hair had been left out today, fluttering around her shoulders. With legs displayed in black shorts, she was wearing a red blouse with short sleeves that cupped around her upper arms, leaving her neck and shoulders bare. He was struck with the sudden urge to reach out and stroke his finger across her naked collarbone. Her skin was incandescent.
“Right on time,” he said, dismissing his need to touch her.
“Well, you did tell me 10 a.m. Uncle Beau made sure I arrived on time.”
He smiled, moving aside. When she remained where she was standing, he berated himself silently. There were so many things he did unconsciously without realizing that she was not able to see him or understand his meaning. Luckily, this also meant that when he made these mistakes, he could quietly fix them.
“Will you come inside?” he asked, waiting as she moved the cane out in front of her.
Once she was happy, knowing the path was clear, she made her way to move by him. When she was directly beside him, she stopped and turned.
He didn’t know why, but he found himself holding his breath.
Those compelling eyes locked onto his face, and he wondered if she could see anything at all. He wanted desperately to ask her, but he had no idea if that was considered rude. So, he stood there, frozen.
She took in a deep breath and then let it out gently. “I like the way you smell.”
He grinned at her strange, soft confession as she took another deep breath. He leaned in, so his mouth was by her ear. “I like the way you look.” He blew a hot breath gently against her. “And the way you smell.”
She turned her head, so they were nose to nose. She breathed out, and he could taste her on his lips and tongue.
“You’re going to destroy me,” he admitted with a sigh.
“You don’t even know me.”
“Don’t I?” he responded, watching her pulse beat at the base of her throat.
She was nervous but excited, and he was ensnared.
Taking a small step back, she continued past him. He swallowed and closed his eyes as she stopped in the center of the foyer. He shut the door and carefully moved around, standing beside her.
She turned in his direction. “How old are you?”
Her hearing seemed to be extra sensitive. No matter where he was in the room, she moved in that direction, appearing to somehow sense him.
“Does it matter?” he asked, knowing that he wasn’t really being fair.
He could see her, so he knew her approximate age. She, on the other hand, had no idea what he looked like or how old he might be. He got the impression that she liked it when he treated her as he would anyone else, so that was exactly what he planned to do.
“Well, no, I guess it doesn’t.” She paused, thinking about it. “Actually, yes. Yes, it does matter.”
He stepped closer to her. Reaching out, he moved to touch the ends of her hair, but he thought better of it, not wanting to startle her. “May I touch you?”
He watched closely as a smile tugged at her lips.
“You may…if you tell me how old you are.”
Hesitantly, he stroked the pads of his fingers across her naked collarbone. She took a swift breath.
“How old are you?” she asked again.
“I’m thirty-two. How old are you, Chantel?” he questioned, looking down to see her sightless eyes focused on his face. He knew instantly that if she could, she would be looking right at him.
“I’m twenty-six.”
Running his fingers along the bare skin across her shoulder, he inquired softly, “Am I too old for you?”