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“I don’t embarrass, and I’m very comfortable, thanks. Am I to assume that you used the word sleep euphemistically?”
“You know what I meant.”
He looked at her for a moment. “I know what you meant, but I don’t recall asking.”
“That’s right, you didn’t. You don’t. You didn’t ask the first time.”
“I didn’t have to.”
There was no point in arguing that. He hadn’t needed to woo her that morning in Wyoming, so why had she presumed that he planned a fancy seduction tonight?
“I’m going to take a shower,” she mumbled. She picked up her satchel, carrying it and her smarting pride into the tiny bathroom and closing the door.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“A man painted me once.”
“Painted you?”
She’d come out of the bathroom wearing only her sweater and panties. She smelled like soap and damp skin, some of which he’d glimpsed when she quickly pulled her sweater over her head before sliding between the sheets. He’d taken up a sentry post in the chair near the window, where he took periodic peeks through the blinds and was doing his damnedest not to think about a clean-smelling, seminaked Barrie Travis only a few yards away.
“I don’t mean he painted my body,” she clarified. “He painted me on canvas. I posed nude for him.”
“How come? Need the money?”
“No, it wasn’t that. I was in college, feeling frisky and rebellious and wanting to do something outrageous and that my parents would definitely disapprove of. He asked, and I thought, what the hell, As long as he kept his studio warm.”
“How’d it go?” Gray asked.
“His studio turned out to be a ratty attic apartment that smelled of turpentine and unwashed artist. He smoked a lot of pot, drank a lot of cheap wine, and was very morose and moody.”
“What about the painting?”
“It was a disaster. A few of my body parts got lost in the translation. He felt he’d been betrayed by his own labor of love. He was in the throes of an artistic tirade when I collected my clothes and sneaked out. But he did hold to his promise to keep the place warm.”
Gray’s snuffle could have passed for a laugh. “Was he the one who taught you how to give head?” After a moment, when it became obvious that she wasn’t going to reply, he turned toward her.
She was lying on her side, facing him, knees drawn to her waist. Her hair was tumbling around her face and over her bare shoulders, childlike. Which had been one of the first things he’d found intriguing about her—that irresistible combination of womanly allure and childish vulnerability. Of course now, weeks later, when the snug heat of her was still vivid in his memory, there was no question that she was more woman than child.
Her expressive eyes showed a mix of innocent perplexity and hurt. “Why do you do that, Bondurant?”
“What?” he asked.
“Why do you say things intentionally crude, insulting, and hurtful?”
“It wasn’t meant that way. I was trying to tease you. I guess I’m not very good at it.”
“I’d say you’re pretty lousy at it.”
“Character flaw.”
A long moment passed before she said in a whisper, “The artist taught me nothing except to keep away from artists. As for learning how to… I sort of, hmm, developed my technique as I went along.” After a significant pause, she added in an even softer voice, “That morning at your ranch house.”
His body responded to the erotic memory, making the damned uncomfortable chair even more uncomfortable. Nor could he comfortably look into her eyes. He didn’t want to be her virgin voyage on any sexual adventure. That gave him significance. With significance came a responsibility he wasn’t certain he could handle. Changing the subject, he asked, “What brought that story to mind? About the painter.”
She gave a shrug. “I don’t know. I guess I didn’t know what else to say.”
“That’s a real thing with you.”
