One Passionate Night. Jessica Gilmore

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       CHAPTER FIVE

      ANTONIO RETURNED A little after three. Angry with himself for being so obvious about hiding the computer, he’d avoided his office. But he couldn’t stay away any longer.

      With a resigned sigh, he walked down the long quiet hall. About two feet before he reached the door, he heard the click, clack of the computer keys. He sucked in a breath and stepped inside. Laura Beth immediately looked up.

      Her green eyes sparkled. Obviously, she loved to work, and he had to admit she looked right sitting behind the long, flat computer screen, her brown hair knotted away from her face and held together by two pencils.

      “Love your hair.”

      She laughed and stretched her arms above her head, revealing her perfect bosom to him. Her pink tank top expanded to its limits. The long lines of her slender neck all but outlined themselves for him. The slope of her breasts above the pale pink material made his fingers twitch.

      The desire to paint her tightened his chest and he had to fight to stop a groan. She was the last woman in the world he needed to have in his house right now. He didn’t want to give their attraction the chance to grow when he knew there was no future for them. Not only did he not want to hurt her, but he also could not handle seeing her pregnancy.

      But, oh, how he wanted to paint. How he longed for brushstrokes. For the joy of finding just the right light, just the right angle...and he could see all of it with her.

      She pointed at her head. “I forgot that my hair gets in my way. So I had to improvise.”

      She lowered her arms and his vision of painting her crumbled like the walls of the Coliseum. One second the urge to paint was so strong he could see the brushstrokes in his mind’s eye; the next minute it was gone and in its wake was a cold, hollow space.

      He wanted to curse. He’d finally gotten adjusted to not painting. He’d lost the hunger. He didn’t awaken every morning trembling with sorrow over losing himself, his identity, his passion.

      And she’d brought it all back.

      He fought the impulse to turn and walk out of the office, telling himself anything to do with painting wasn’t Laura Beth’s fault. These were his demons, left behind by the betrayal of a narcissistic wife and his own stupidity in tumbling into a disastrous marriage with her. He couldn’t take any of this out on Laura Beth.

      As casually as possible, he said, “Well, your hair is certainly interesting.” He motioned to the stacks of letters. “I see you made headway.”

      “It’s fun pretending to be you, thanking people for adoring my work.”

      He sniffed a laugh and leaned his hip against the corner of the desk. “Give me a pen and I’ll sign them.”

      Like a good assistant, she rummaged for a pen. When she found one, she handed it to him along with the first stack of replies to fan letters. He looked down only long enough to find the place for his signature, then began writing.

      He’d signed three letters before she grabbed the stack and pulled it away from him.

      A look of sheer horror darkened her face. “You’re not reading them!”

      “I don’t need to read them. I trust you.”

      “That’s nice, but aren’t you at least a little curious about what I’m telling people?”

      “No. I assume you’re saying thanks, and that you homed in on some detail of their letter to me, some comment, and you addressed that to make each letter sound personal.”

      She fell back to her chair. “Yes. But you should still want to read them.”

      He took the stack of letters from her again. “One would think you’d be happier that I trust you.”

      She crossed her arms on her chest. “One would, except I don’t think you trust me as much as you’re disinterested.”

      “I’m not sure I see the difference.”

      “I did a good job!”

      “Oh, you want me to read them so I can praise you?”

      She tossed her hands in the air. “You’re impossible.”

      “Actually, I’m very simple to understand. None of this interests me because I was a painter. Now I’m not.”

      She frowned. “But you said this morning that you’d like to paint me.”

      He had wanted to paint her. Twice. But both times the feeling had come and gone. Now that he had a minute of distance from it, it was easy to see the urge was unreliable. Not something to take seriously. Certainly not something to change the stable course of his life. Given that he was attracted to her and she was pregnant—while he still wrestled with the loss of his own child—that was for the best.

      “A momentary slip.”

      She frowned at him. “Really? Because it might actually be your desire to paint coming back, and like I told you, I wouldn’t mind sitting for a portrait.”

      He chuckled at her innocence. “Trust me. You wouldn’t want to sit for a portrait.”

      She rose and came around the desk to face him. Leaning on the corner, he didn’t have to look down to catch her gaze. They were eye level.

      “I have the chance to be painted by the most sought-after artist in the world. How could that not be fun?”

      He licked his suddenly dry lips. She stood inches away. Close enough that he could touch her. His desire to paint her took second place to his desire to kiss her. If wanting to paint a pregnant woman was a bad idea, being attracted to that woman was a hundred times worse. Spending the amount of time together that they’d need for a portrait would be asking for trouble.

      “I didn’t say it wouldn’t be fun. But it wouldn’t be what you think.”

      Her eyes lit. “That’s what makes it great. I have no idea about so many things in life. I might have lived in one of the most wonderful cities in the world, but I was broke and couldn’t experience any of it. Now, here I am in gorgeous Italy and I feel like the whole world is opened up to me.” She stepped closer, put her hands on his shoulders. “Paint me, Antonio.”

      Her simple words sent a raging fire through him and the desire to paint reared up. Having to turn down the chance to get his life back hurt almost as much as the betrayal that had brought him here. But though his attraction to her was very real, there was no guarantee this yearning to paint was. He could take her to his studio, risk his sanity, feed his attraction to her, and then be unable to hold a brush.

      “I told you. It wouldn’t be what you think.”

      “Then tell me.” Her eyelids blinked over her incredibly big, incredibly innocent green eyes. “Please.”

      Attraction stole through him, reminding him that his desire to paint СКАЧАТЬ