The Rebel. Adrienne Giordano

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      INSIDE THE STAIRWELL of the hundred-year-old building on the city’s West Side, David climbed the last few steps leading to the landing of Amanda’s second-floor studio. He loved these old structures with the Portland stone and brick. The iconic columns on the facade urged the history major in him to research the place. Check the city records, see what information he could find on who’d built it, who’d lived here or which companies had run their wares through its doors.

      Structures like this had a charm all their own that couldn’t be duplicated with modern wizardry. Old buildings, this building, had a life, a past to be researched and appreciated.

      Or maybe he just wanted to believe that.

      He rapped on the door. No hollow wood there. By the scarred look and feel of its heavy weight under his knuckles, it might be the original door. How amazing would that be?

      The door swung open and a woman with lush curves a guy his size could wrap himself around greeted him. She wore jeans and a graphic T-shirt announcing he should make love, not war—gladly, sweetheart—and her honey-blond hair fell around her shoulders, curling at the ends. The whole look brought thoughts of lazy Sunday mornings, hot coffee and a few extracurricular activities, in a bed and out, David could think of.

      To say the least, she affected him.

      And she hadn’t even opened her mouth. Please don’t be an airhead.

      “David?”

      Yep. That was the voice from earlier. Soft and sweet and stirring up all kinds of images right along with Sunday mornings and coffee. With any luck, more than the coffee would be hot.

      Hokay. Mission Pam Hennings getting derailed by wicked thoughts. Time to get serious.

      “Hi. Amanda?”

      “Yes.” She held her hand out. “Amanda LeBlanc.”

      David grasped her hand and glanced down at her long, elegant fingers folding over his. Her silky skin absorbed his much larger hand, and he might like to stay this way awhile. Nice hands. Soft hands. He’d imagined a sculptor’s hands to be work-hardened and rough. Not that she swung an ax all day, but he’d expected...different.

      “Um.” She pointed at their still joined hands. “I kinda need that hand back.”

      Epic fail, Dave. He grinned and regrettably slid his hand away. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but where have you been all my life?”

      As recoveries went, it wouldn’t be listed among the top hundred in brilliance, but a man had to work with what he had. Still, her lips, those extraordinary, shapely lips, twisted until she finally gave up and awarded him with a smile.

      “Good one,” she said. “Come inside and we’ll talk about your project.”

      Right to business. Couldn’t blame her. She didn’t know him and he’d not only barged in on her day, but also hit on her. He stepped into the loft and let out a low whistle. A few walls had obviously been knocked out because her studio took up half of the entire floor. He scanned the room, his eyes darting over the open ceiling, the gleaming white walls, the easels and canvases in one corner. A large table covered with tools and brushes separated one area from a second space, where a bust was mounted on an adjustable stand.

      She closed the door behind him. “I’d ask you to excuse the mess, but since it always looks like this, I won’t bother.”

      “It’s a studio. I’m not sure it’s supposed to be neat.”

      “We can talk over here.” She motioned him to a round table for four by the windows.

      “This is a great space. Fantastic light. Do you know anything about the building?”

      Her eyebrows dipped. “As in who owns it?”

      “No. Sorry. I’m a history buff. Majored in it in college. The columns out front make me think early 1900s architecture.”

      “Ah. A man after my own heart. Believe it or not, I’m the only tenant right now. People just don’t see the beauty. According to city records, it was constructed in 1908. I’m not sure my landlord has a clue what a gem he has. When I toured the building he told me he wanted to paint the front of it.”

      David opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

      “I know,” she said. “I had to give him the number of a company that specializes in stone cleaning and repair before he stripped the historical value out of the place.”

      “No kidding.”

      Amanda took the chair by the window, where a legal pad and pencil waited to be put to use. David slid his jacket off, set it on the chair next to his and sat across from her. Damn, the woman was gorgeous. All big brown eyes and soft cheeks to go with the healthy curves.

      “Is that jacket a Belstaff?” she asked.

      And, oh, oh, oh, she knew motorcycles. Or at least biker jackets. This expedition of his mother’s might make his day.

      “It is. You like motorcycles?”

      “My dad does. What do you ride?”

      “A Ducati. Diavel Carbon.” He smiled. “It’s a beast.”

      “It should be with a name like Diavel. You know what it means, right?”

      He sure did. “Diavolo. Italian for devil.”

      She grinned. “And are you? A devil?”

      “My mother would say I am. I think I’m a history nerd with a thing for motorcycles.”

      “Huh,” she said.

      “What?”

      “Nothing. You’re just not what I expected.”

      Now, this sounded good. Maybe. “You know I have to ask...”

      “I expected someone who looks like your mother. Tall, blond hair, Italian suit. Instead I got dark with an Italian motorcycle.”

      He bit his bottom lip, then ran his teeth over it. “If my brother had knocked on your door, you’d have nailed it.” He shrugged. “But hey, you got the tall part right.”

      “That’s something, I guess.”

      She picked up her pencil and tossed her hair over her shoulder and David’s pulse went berserk. Damn, this woman was beautiful. And not in the normal way. This was more corn-fed, casual beauty that she probably had no idea she possessed.

      She angled her notepad in front of her. “Anyway, tell me about this project. What kind of paintings are you looking for?”

       Nudes.

      Of her.

      His mother would castrate him. He cleared his throat and got that vision out of his head. The naked Amanda, not СКАЧАТЬ