a straightforward conversation?”
“I don’t like conversation—straightforward or not. I can’t work with you popping up all over the place.”
“Tough. You’ve hauled me into your mess, and I need to know what I’m in for.”
“Do your job,” he said brusquely. “I’ll handle the rest.”
She wasn’t backing off. “I promise not to make eye contact while you talk. I know that makes you nervous.”
“I am not afraid to make eye contact with you.” He proved it. His eyes, dark as sin, locked with hers until she felt as if he could see into everything she wanted to keep hidden—her anger, her guilt over Bianca’s death, and her shame at not being able to move on from the loss of the only man she’d ever loved. She looked away first, shifting her focus to Wren. “One of us has to care about her.”
“Do you think I don’t care?” He jabbed a hand toward the window. “Sit over there. In that chair.”
She glanced toward the straight-back chair he’d indicated. “Why?”
“Because you don’t have anything better to do right now.”
She was curious enough to sit where he indicated. He rolled the sleeves of his denim shirt to his elbows, revealing long-muscled forearms all ready to chop wood. But instead of grabbing an ax, he picked up a sketchbook. She stared at him. “You’re going to draw me?”
“Don’t expect anything flattering.”
She wiggled self-consciously. “I’m surprised you can actually draw. I thought it was all paint rollers, stencils, and spray cans.”
“I didn’t say I was good at it. Move your legs to the left.”
She felt big and awkward, but she did as he asked. “If you give me purple horns or a word balloon, I’m suing.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“Can I have it afterward so I can sell it on eBay?”
He cocked his head at her, a shaggy curl falling over his forehead, but didn’t reply.
“How much money do you think it’d bring?”
He moved a second straight-back chair under a skylight and sat. “Turn your torso so you’re facing me.”
“I’ve never imagined you using a sketch pad. Maybe a blowtorch, but . . .”
He set an ankle on his opposite knee, propped the sketchbook on his thigh, and studied her. She gazed uncomfortably at the wall behind his head. “I’m serious about eBay. I could use a new car. A yacht would be okay, too.”
His pencil began moving over the paper.
She crossed and uncrossed her legs. “Or a house in Tuscany. Maybe in an olive orchard. Or a vineyard.”
More long strokes of the pencil. A pause.
He ripped the paper from his sketchbook, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it on the floor. She watched it roll toward the purple couch. “Bianca said you weren’t working. That you were blocked.”
“Did she?” He flipped the sketchbook to a fresh page and began to draw again.
“You could at least have let me comb my hair first. The great Ian North wants to draw me, and my hair’s a rat’s nest. You’re going to put a mustache on me, aren’t you?”
“Uncross your legs.”
She wasn’t aware she’d crossed them.
She couldn’t stand the tension any longer, and she gazed down at Wren. She took in her tiny movements—the twitches and sighs. Once again, she heard the rip of paper and watched another crumpled wad hit the floor. She refocused on the baby’s little frog-face. Matched her breath . . .
She jerked as his fingers touched her cheekbone. She hadn’t heard him move. He gently tipped her chin. His touch was light, merely a brush, but something inside her prickled, like an unhatched chick pecking the tiniest hole in its shell. No one had touched her face in so long. Not since . . .
Her throat constricted. The shawl slipped down on her breast. She drew it back.
He dropped his hand and turned away from her. “Wren’s father is a man named Simon Denning. He’s a photojournalist. Specializes in covering the world’s hot spots.”
The pressure in her throat eased. “I’m glad.”
“About what?”
“That you’re not her father.”
He began drawing again, his attention on the sketch pad. “Bianca and I were never lovers.”
She mulled that over. “That’s hard to believe. She loved you.”
“Yes. And hated me, too.”
“Because you didn’t love her back.”
“No more talking. I’m concentrating.”
“You were so protective of her. Overprotective. Trying to keep her away from me. What were you afraid I’d do to her?” The moment the words were out, her throat constricted. “I’m sorry, I—”
“Quiet. I’m trying to focus here.” He’d cut her off. Given her a reprieve.
She turned her head. “I don’t