Page 41 of Enticing the Devil

Understanding the unspoken cue, Anne flattened her palm over the bulging muscle of his chest to leverage herself to a more stable position as she eased herself back to her knees. With her chin lowered and her gaze unfocused, she lifted her hands to her hair, self-consciously trying to ascertain just how mussed she might look.

She should say something. But what exactly could one say after having their entire world flipped upside down?

He cleared his throat and she stilled her nervous ministrations, dropping her hands to her lap.

“You should finish your painting.”

His voice—gravelly and intimate—tingled over every inch of her skin.

But he was right. The realization of how easily someone could have come upon them caused a flush to heat her cheeks. Though her belly still trembled, she rose carefully to stand. The heaviness in her limbs which had felt so languid and wonderful while held secure in his arms now made her feel clumsy and awkward as she made her way back to the easel.

She supposed they would now simply pretend the kiss never happened. Just as they had in the maze.

But she didn’t want to pretend it didn’t happen. It had been too...wonderful. Too enlightening. Too powerfully perfect to sweep it away into some dark corner, leaving her to wonder if it would ever happen again.

Inexplicable tears pricked her eyes as she lowered herself to the stool, picked up a paintbrush, and tried to refocus on the watercolor. She hated crying. It never changed anything. And besides...no matter how beautifully stunning the kiss had been, it certainly didn’t warrant such a reaction.

Breathing deep and slow, she forced herself to glance back toward the tree. He’d returned to his prior pose with an ease that shouldn’t have surprised her. The open collar had been loosened even further by her grasping fingers. He looked unapologetically masculine—strong, at ease in his body, his expression both forbidding and challenging at once—and so very sensual.

Their gazes met for just a moment but for Anne it was as if he were still touching her. Her nerves ignited. Her breath shortened. And her low belly fluttered with delicious longing.

But she couldn’t tell what he was thinking—only what he made her feel.

His thoughts remained as darkly shadowed as always.

She finished the painting in silence. Each breath she drew into her lungs brought a return of her usual, practiced steadiness until a focused calm replaced the wild storm of confusion and desire inside her. Instead of looking at the man, she forced herself to see only the lines and curves and shapes and colors. Her brushstrokes gradually became more confident and concise, moving over the paper with a fluid instinct as she recreated the image before her into the greater composition she envisioned.

Finally, she stepped back and she gave the watercolor a critical look. Then with a sigh of releasing tension, she put down her brush.

Apparently realizing she was done, Mr. Thomas rose to his feet in a swift, solid motion and started toward her. “My turn.”

Flustered at his sudden approach and the way it started things swirling again in her core, Anne quickly started loosening the ties of her smock.

“Where would you like me to pose?” she asked as she set the smock aside and started to rise from the stool.

“Right there. Don’t move.”

She blinked and looked at him where he stood behind the other easel. He’d already turned it to face him and was starting to swirl his brush in some pigment.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” she asked dubiously.

“I watched you,” he replied.

His shoulders were tense and his brows were drawn dangerously low over his gaze while his jawline was as hard as she’d ever seen it. Altogether, he appeared a bit hostile. And frighteningly handsome.

She didn’t understand it, but the more menacing and forbidding he looked, the more intensely her body reacted.

He looked up at her then and time stood still.

Utterly self-conscious, she realized her lips were parted as her breath passed quickly between them and her eyes were probably overflowing with the wanting that gripped her.

Her lashes fluttered, but a short, harsh sound from him prevented her from closing her eyes or turning away as she wanted to. Instead, she watched as his focus shifted from her face to the painting while he moved his brush in bold brushing sweeps.

She almost smiled at his rushed and haphazard technique, but the experience was too fascinating to manage it. She could only stare. Breathless and curious. And oddly...stimulated.

In barely any time at all, it seemed, he was finished.

He simply paused, gave another back-and-forth glance, then nodded and set his brush down. Still without a word, he turned away and strode to where he’d left his coat and cravat.

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