and freezing. And maybe it was time to be honest with her so she’d know the truth and they wouldn’t have this discussion again.
“Last night, seeing your back, I might have wanted to paint you, but the feelings were different than any other I’d had when I saw something—someone—I wanted to paint.”
Her head tilted. “How?”
He’d always known, even before he’d studied painting, that the eyes were the windows to the soul. With his gaze connected to Laura Beth’s, he could see the naïveté, see that she really didn’t understand a lot about life. How could he explain that the reasons he wanted to paint her were all wrapped up in an appreciation of her beauty that tipped into physical desire, when he wasn’t 100 percent sure he understood it himself?
When he didn’t answer, she stepped back. The innocent joy on her face disappeared. “It’s okay. I get it.”
“I don’t think you do.”
“Sure, I do. It’s been two years since you’ve painted and suddenly you’re feeling the urge again. It’s not me. It’s your talent waking up.”
He should have agreed and let it go, but her eyes were just so sad. “It is you.”
“Oh, come on, Antonio. Look at me. I’m a green-eyed brunette. A common combination. I’ve never stood out. Not anywhere. Not because of anything.”
He stifled a laugh, then realized she was serious. “You don’t think you’re beautiful?”
She sniffed and turned away. “Right.”
Pushing off the desk, he headed toward her. He pulled the pencils from her hair, tossed them beside the computer and watched as the smooth brown locks swayed gracefully to her shoulders. He turned her to face the mirror on the wall by the door. “Still don’t think you’re beautiful?”
* * *
Her mouth went dry. Her gaze latched onto his, and the heat she saw in his eyes made her knees wobble. “What are you doing?”
“I want you to see what I see when I look at you.” He watched his finger as it traced along her jaw, down her neck to her collarbone. A thin line of fire sparked along her skin.
“You think you’re common. I see classic beauty.” His dark eyes heated even more. Anticipation trickled through her, tightening her chest, stealing her breath.
“A woman on the verge of life, about to become a mother. With everything in front of her. The painting wouldn’t be simple. It would be as complex as the wonder I see in your eyes every time I look at you. And it would take time. Lots of time.” His gaze met hers. “Still want me to paint you?”
Good God, yes.
The words didn’t come out, but she knew they were in her eyes. She couldn’t tell if he wanted to paint her because he saw something in her eyes, or if he saw something in her eyes because he wanted to paint her. But did it matter? Right at that second, with her attraction to him creating an ache in her chest...did it really freaking matter?
She waited. He waited. The electricity of longing passed between them. He longed to paint. She suddenly, fervently, wished he liked her.
Finally, her voice a mere whisper, she said, “You said this doesn’t happen often?”
He shook his head. “It’s never happened at all.”
She swallowed. “Wow.”
He spun around and stepped away. “Oh, Lord! Don’t be so naive! I have no idea what this feeling is, but it’s powerful.” He met her gaze again. “And it could let me down. We could spend hours in my studio and I could freeze. Or your portrait could be the most exciting, most important of my life.”
“Antonio, if you’re trying to dissuade me, you’re going at it all wrong. What woman in the world wouldn’t want to hear that?”
“You shouldn’t!” The words were hot, clipped. “This feeling could be nothing but my talent tormenting me.” He picked up the stack of letters. “Go freshen up for dinner while I sign these.”
She stayed where she stood, frozen, suddenly understanding. To him she wasn’t an opportunity, but a torment.
“Now!”
She pivoted and raced from the room, but even before she reached the stairs she’d decided Antonio was wrong. He couldn’t know that he would freeze unless he tried to paint her.
She might have lost tonight’s fight, but the next time they had this discussion, she wouldn’t lose.
* * *
They managed to get through dinner by skirting the elephant in the room. He feared picking up a brush and she longed for him to paint her. Or maybe she was just curious. After all, Bruce dumping her had made her feel worthless. She’d spent every moment of every date trying to get Bruce to say something special, something romantic, and she’d failed. But Antonio wanted to paint her. He thought she was classically beautiful. That her painting might become the most important of his life.
She knew he hadn’t meant it as romantic, but she was so starved for affection that it felt romantic. And she was supposed to ignore it? Not want it? Not be curious?
But that night in her bed, she scolded herself for being such a schoolgirl. Yes, she’d never had a man think her beautiful enough to be a work of art. And, yes, she’d never been attracted to anyone the way she was to Antonio...but was that good? Or bad? She was a pregnant woman with responsibilities to think about. She shouldn’t be daydreaming. Fantasizing.
She spent an almost sleepless night, and in the morning groaned when she knew she had to get up. The truth was Antonio would probably like it if she slept in and didn’t do any work. They both knew the job was temporary. She was going home in a few weeks. He didn’t want the feelings that he had around her, and her going home would settle all that for him.
But like it or not, Antonio needed a PA and she had a baby to support. She should have been able to prove herself and keep this job, but that crazy feeling or need he had to paint her had ruined everything.
She pulled a pair of old, worn jeans and a big gray T-shirt from her closet. The staff might wear uniforms, but Antonio wore T-shirts—
An idea came and her eyes narrowed as she thought it through. She dug through her clothes until she found her three skirts, three pairs of dress trousers and a few tops that she typically wore for work. This might be Italy, and Antonio might dress like a beach bum, but she was supposed to be a PA. Maybe if she dressed like one, he’d stop wanting to paint her and see her as the worker she was supposed to be.
She slipped into a gray skirt and white blouse that looked like a man’s shirt, pulled her hair back into a bun at her nape, sans pencils this time, and slid into gray flats. Instead of her contacts, she wore brown-framed glasses.
Antonio wasn’t at breakfast that morning, so she ate quickly and headed for the office. He wasn’t there either. But that was fine. She still had plenty of fan letters to answer. She ate lunch alone, fighting the urge to ask Rosina if she knew where Antonio was. She was a secretary, not his girlfriend. Or even his friend. If she wanted to keep her job,
