After finishing her sketch of Wes, she signed her initials and dated it before turning to a fresh page. The birds were difficult to capture. They weren’t perfectly still but hopped and chattered. The Parisian birds outside landed on the balcony and spoke in their own avian tongue, conversing with the lovebirds. Callie captured rough sketches of the birds, hasty sketches of their wings, their faces, their bright eyes and affectionate poses.
She would never be able to live somewhere without a lot of birds, whether in the wild or as pets. The sounds and the need to hear them were deep in her blood, just like her love of the mountains and the feel of herself on horseback. After only a handful of days in Paris, she knew she would have to come back here again someday. The city seemed to pulse with a quiet sort of creative energy, like the beating of an invisible heart made by the collective passions of a thousand artists, living and dead. She was connected to those other souls, joining them in a pursuit of the creation of true art.
As she worked on additional sketches, she contemplated her argument with Wes from the night before. He wanted to pay for her to go to art school. He’d already filled out the application. Callie knew she could get over the way he’d acted on her behalf, at least in this instance, but if he did that too often in other areas of her life, she was going to have problems with it.
Her real concern was the money. It was against everything in her to take a hefty financial handout like payment for art school. She would apply for scholarships of course, but if she couldn’t qualify for any and Wes paid her tuition, it would be too much. She’d never be able to repay him. Never. So would he expect her to repay him in other ways? She was already sleeping with him. What else could he want? What else could she give?
Wes’s cell phone buzzed on the table beside him. The rattling sound of the electronic device against the wood was loud and jarring. It set her lovebirds into a twittering rage. Wes groaned and fumbled for his phone.
“Not a morning person?” she asked sweetly when he studied the phone screen through one squinting eye and then hit the ignore button.
“And you are?” he asked with a sleepy chuckle as he rolled over onto his back.
“Yep. Farm work makes you a morning person whether you want to be one or not.” She set down her light 2H pencil and picked up a dark 2B and shaded a portion of one of her lovebirds on the paper, fluffing the texture to show that the bird was preening its feathers. Pleased with the effect, she had the sudden urge to show it to Wes. She’d always kept her art fairly private. Her father and Fenn never really had time to look at it.
She flipped the pad in her arms and showed him the sketch. “What do you think?”
He sat up and immediately waved a hand, indicating she should come closer.
“Come over here.” He scooted over so she could perch on the bed beside him as she handed him the pad. He took it with such obvious reverence, she started to blush. His keen gaze swept over the birds, not missing any detail. A wild flutter of nerves exploded in her stomach and her breath came a little shorter.
“You managed to capture them in motion. I always admire artists who can sketch a pose from memory when the subject is in constant motion.” His gaze drifted to the birds in the cage. The two lovebirds were nestled together, watching him and Callie.
“You little rascals,” he called out, then stroked Callie’s back. “They stop moving the instant you’re done. I bet they believe they’re training you in the difficult act of capturing their likenesses.”
Callie giggled, delighted that Wes was teasing her.
“I doubt that’s their secret goal.” She reached for her pad, but Wes moved it out of her reach.
“I’m not done looking.” He flipped back a page before she could stop him, staring at the image she’d drawn of him in bed. Callie held her breath for so long her lungs burned. Would he be angry? Would he not like it? She didn’t think she could bear either reaction.
“Callie.” His voice was soft and low, his hand on her back stilled.
She shifted restlessly, worry and tension knotted painfully in her stomach.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“No,” he said and set the pad down before he leaned in and kissed her soundly.
Dazed by the quick, passionate, and all too thorough kiss, she blinked up at him.
“You’re not mad?”
“Mad? Of course not. I’m honored you drew me. You’re incredibly talented.” He traced her lips with his thumbs.
“No. I’m not. You don’t have to flatter me, Wes. I’m already in your bed.”
Dark clouds obscured the pure blue cobalt of his eyes.
“What we do in bed has nothing to do with this.” He lifted the pad up. “If you were an old man with a bald head and completely unattractive, I would still tell you the truth about your art. You are talented. Luckily for me, you’re a beautiful young woman who I happily seduced into my bed.” He captured her chin. “Never for a moment think that I want to encourage your art simply to bed you. I wouldn’t have cared about that if sex was the only thing I wanted. Do you understand?” His question seemed so earnest, as though he really did wish for her to understand.
“I think so,” she replied. He liked her, and her art. He wasn’t using her art as a way to sleep with her. He genuinely thought she had talent, and he genuinely desired her. That was a good thing.
When she smiled at him, the tension coiling in his body seemed to release.
“Good. Now why don’t you join me in bed. I’m still a little tired.” He set her pad safely out of the way and tugged her down beside him. She expected him to initiate sex and was surprised when he seemed content merely to hold her.
“This is nice,” she whispered, nuzzling his throat and closing her eyes. She’d always wanted to have this sort of intimacy with a man, but hadn’t, not until now. And the feel of her body with his nestled together like lovebirds made her chest nearly burst with a soft, sleepy warmth, like a glass of bourbon by a warm winter’s fire.
Wes rubbed her back with one hand and rested his cheek on the crown of her hair.
“At the risk of ruining this pleasant moment,” he said, laughing softly, “I want to talk to you about art school.”
She stiffened but his arms tightened around her, keeping her from retreating.
“Historically,” he continued, “artists with talent were financially supported by patrons. All I am proposing is that you allow me to be your patron.”
Callie breathed in his warm masculine scent and relaxed. When he phrased his argument like that, it made it impossible to argue without sounding silly.
When she raised her head and faced him, she gazed at his mouth firmed into a solid line. She brushed a finger over his pursed lips, smiling a little.
“Patron, huh? I could agree to that.”
His lips curved into a grin beneath her finger.
“Good. Then you don’t have any objections to spending the next week receiving some private lessons at the Louvre?”
“Private lessons at the Louvre?” Callie blinked, staring at him. “Is that even possible? Who would give me these lessons?”
“Quite a few talented artists I know would happily volunteer.” He seemed entirely serious.
“Okay…assuming you can get people to teach me, then I suppose I can’t refuse.”
“No.” Wes touched the tip of his nose to hers. “You can’t refuse, not any longer.” The blue of his eyes was scorching and she knew he was right. Whatever he gave her, out of bed, in bed, she couldn’t say no…and she didn’t want to.
“Darling, when your eyes burn me like that it makes me hard.” He lifted her onto his lap so she could straddle him. Then he fisted his hands in her hair and devoured her mouth. “Fuck, I want you wet for me.”