Page 23 of Beside Golden Irish Fields
The wind rose up at her back as she took a moment to form a response. He’d admitted any entanglement between them was off-limits. This was good. “Being direct works for me. You don’t need to worry. You’re still in love with your wife. I wouldn’t mess with that for a million dollars. Well, I might for a million. I need to make money. Oh, never mind.”
He rubbed his jaw in a very appealing way before saying, “Usually I’d be amenable to having a good time together. An occasional dinner or drink at the pub. Some sightseeing. Some quiet time alone.”
“Is that an Irish way of describing something basic? Sounds like friends with benefits to me.”
“Or simple fucking.” He shook his head ruefully. “That’s another word for it. Seems I was right about being direct with you.”
“Yes, you were.” She stood up at last. “Let me be equally direct. I might find you attractive, but I’m here to paint. Find my voice again. Men and ‘spending time together’ are how I got into this place. My canvas isn’t minimalistic. It’s blank.”
His mouth twisted. “I know you’ve had troubles, Yank. I hope you get your voice back. With an artist for a wife, I understand artistic temperaments as much as I do the need to create. It fills some part of you, like my animals and land do for me.”
She could tell he meant it. That he reallydidunderstand. That was a surprise, somehow, but then again, the morning had been full of them. “I’m glad we’re clear then. We can be friends. With no fucking. It’s better than my other plan. I was going to avoid you.”
“I’d thought about that too, but it’s a small village. I like Bets and Liam, and my mum would kill me.”
“She’s a Lucky Charm.”
“She is. I wouldn’t be rude to Bets or her relation even if they were the Kardashians. Can you explain the American fascination with them?”
She laughed. “No.”
“Well, then, Yank, I’ll leave you to paint and see you around the village. Good luck.”
He was already striding away.
“You too,” she called and then dropped back onto her stool.
A stronger wind rushed over the land, and she watched as it ruffled his clothing but didn’t halt his progress. In fact, he seemed to lift his chin to the heavens as if to chide them for trying to slow him down. Her brain captured the scene—the way the white light coming from the Provence blue and Persian rose sky touched his hair. How the fields turned golden, the verdant green grass swaying in the breeze.
She was reaching for her paintbrush before she realized what she was doing.
Shehadto paint him.
The first brushstroke was as powerful as a lover’s first caress. It was staggering, in fact, to feel the connection between her fingers, the pad, the color, and the image in her mind. She felt something turn inside her, almost like a rusty wheel. Her heart picked up as she went the next step and sketched him lightly with Payne’s grey, striding away from her.
His body needed bold strokes. God, he was a bold man, telling her that he and his body had a liking for her. Her skin warmed.
She needed to paint his face. Now.
She tossed her paintbrush in the grass and reached for another, coating the bristles in yellow ochre. The angles of his face were strong, and she made slashes for his jaw, cheekbones, and brows. Then she settled into the very truth of him: his eyes. She threw aside another paintbrush and reached for a small, fine-tipped one and the Payne’s grey again.
As they formed, she could feel the heat in them as they looked at her. She shivered, her whole body rising to answer the desire there.
She threw the paintbrush aside with force.
“No!” she told herself, sucking in a breath to calm her wild heart. “If you paint him, he’ll become a part of you. And that man cannot become a part of you. In any way.”
Even if he had been the one to wake up her imagination.
She’d just have to find something else to inspire her.
Because if she let herself paint him, she would want to feel him. All over her. And that absolutely could not happen.
Good thing Carrick agreed.
Chapter Seven
She was in Ireland.
