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What was wrong with her?
Maybe, she mused, it had something to do with Carrie being such a huge downer on the ride from San Francisco to Napa. A pang of guilt hit her right beneath her ribs. It wasn't Carrie's fault that she'd been dating such a prissy, rich jerk for two years. And that she hadn't had the sense to dump him until he was shoving a four-carat diamond onto her ring finger.
Vanessa and Carrie hadn't always seen eye to eye, but they'd always been there for each other. This time was no exception, even if Carrie was walking around with a big fat diamond in her pocket. She ran harder, her breaths coming' closer together, a fine sheen of sweat appearing across the top of her chest. Vanessa didn't want any part of that whole girly, weepy thing. She never had, and she didn't plan to start now.
Forty-five minutes of hard running later, she slowed down to a jog on Main Street, already looking forward to a hot shower and a cool drink at the nearest local hot spot. Her eyes glossed over the storefronts as she passed restaurants and boutiques, tasting rooms and art galleries.
And then she saw it. The most incredible nude she'd ever set eyes on. The dark-haired, dark-eyed, paleskinned woman was sex on canvas.
Vanessa could already see it hanging behind her desk, the second thing visitors would see upon entering her domain. The first, of course, being Vanessa herself. The painting was gorgeous, but she knew that she, herself, in the flesh, was even better.
Anyone else would have gone back to the hotel, cleaned up, and come by the gallery the next morning. But Vanessa wasn't anyone else. She wanted the painting now. Even though she didn't have any money with her. Even though a Closed sign was up on the pane glass door.
As far as she was concerned, the painting was already hers. All that remained was for her to arrange the details.
She knocked on the glass door, and a man got up from behind the cash register in the corner. Six feet of muscles and sinew and gorgeous sun-blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. She could already feel the stubble on his square chin and rugged cheekbones burning her between her thighs.
All traces of ennui fled as her heart raced faster than it had in years. Anyone else would have tried to chalk up her sweaty palms to her hard run, but Vanessa knew better.
She was coming apart on a sidewalk in Napa Valley because she'd just seen something that she wanted more than the painting in the window: a magnificent man in paint-stained jeans.
SAM MARSHALL LOOKED UP from tallying up the day's sales and nearly dropped the stack of credit card receipts to the floor. His hands started tingling from the tips of his fingernails to the base of his wrists. He had to take a deep breath.
He hadn't had that sensation-of needing a brush in his hands, a canvas before him, paints of every color so that he could create in an endless rush of inspiration-since Marissa. In his mind he was already painting the woman knocking on the glass door to his gallery, and the lines between what was and what '\ would be on canvas were blurred.
The metal feet on his chair were shrill against the cement floor as he scooted out. He got up to let her in and knew that he was . going to paint her. Nude. Surrounded by grapevines. The closer he got to her, the further the prickling sensation spread. All the way up his arm, past his elbow, into the joint of his shoulder. Conveying on canvas this woman's unique combination of razor-sharp edginess and passion was going to demand every ounce of his artistic ability. But he couldn't wait. Sam would do anything to end his six-month slump. Everything he'd painted
II since Marissa had left had ended up in a Dumpster.
Standing before him was so much more than a beautiful woman. She was the chance for his artistic redemption.
Sam turned the lock to open and spun the knob. "I want the painting in the window."
"Come in' he said, the calm words at odds with the pounding of blood through his veins. "I don't have my wallet with me, but I couldn't go another moment without knowing that she was mine' Something hit Sam low in his gut, in the place you didn't punch a guy, even when he deserved it. He knew what it was like to want Marissa. He had wanted her. And he'd had her, all right. Until she'd destroyed him. The crazy thing was, thinking of how his ex-muse had left him cold for an older, wealthier lover didn't hurt quite as much as it normally did. As it had for six months. Even five minutes ago, his memory of Marissa had been bigger, harsher, more erotic.
"She isn't for sale;' he finally said, pleased by the fire in the redhead's eyes.
"She is now;' she said, her long, taut legs moving out into a wide stance. "I'll double your asking price." He didn't respond. He couldn't. Because the truth was, he hadn't really heard what she'd said. He'd been too busy studying the flecks of blue and black in her gray eyes.
"Okay;' she said, "you win. I'll triple it:'
He shook his head, her words finally getting through. "This isn't about money:'
Something else flashed in her eyes. It wasn't fire. Lust, maybe?
Anger?
The buzzing moved across Sam's shoulders, down past his ribs. His fingers twitched with the urge to capture those eyes on canvas.
Her tongue flicked out to her bottom lip. Sam knew women, and he knew what this one was trying to do. She was using her potent sensuality to convince him to let her have the painting.
"If it isn't about the money, then why don't you tell me" -her voice was throaty, enticing-"what you would like in exchange for the painting:'
Her ni**les grew hard beneath her thin, white, tummy-baring tank as if she were giving him a free sample of what she had to offer. He ached to pull the fabric from her skin. He could only guess at the color of her br**sts. For a painter, guessing was never acceptable.
Fortunately, he wasn't so far gone that he couldn't play her game. "How bad do you want it?" She took a step closer, and the prickling moved all the way down his chest, past his waist. "Bad;' she whispered. "Real bad:'
The words went straight to his cock, which grew hard as it pressed against the zipper of his jeans. Hell yeah, bad was the word for it. Sam knew a dangerous situation when he saw one. Because the last thing he was ever going to do was sleep with one of his models. Especially one that made him feel this artistically alive.
Somehow he had to figure out a way to paint her without stepping over the line. Especially when it was a line that he already wanted to cross.
"Will you do whatever I ask you to?"
Any other woman would have slapped his face for what he was , insinuating. But not this one. She smiled, and her lips curved up with such mystery that she put the Mona Lisa to shame. ''Anything:' He couldn't hold back the note of surprise as he repeated the word. ''Anything?''
