Could I blame her for the interrogation? Of course not. My world and life were a far cry from hers. I shifted closer, admiring the vision in front of me. Whatever prompted me I’d question later, but I lifted the cane, pressing the rubberized tip against just under her chin. She took a shallow breath, studying me while her lips curled just slightly, enough to initiate an intense need to kiss them.
Everything about exploring both her body and her mind kept me enthralled. I rolled the tip between her breasts, allowing my gaze to follow the trail. “Les actes sadiques que je pourrais commettre en ce moment même constituent l’aspect le plus criminel de ma personnalité.”
The sadistic things I could do right now are the most criminal aspect about me.
“Mmm… I doubt that,” she mused, pushing the cane aside. “There are rules inside my studio,” Fleur stated as soon as sheclosed the door behind us. I noticed tiny LED lights above in a warm amber glow. The space was no more than twelve by fourteen if that, complete with a loveseat and table perfect for reading.
“What are these rules before I respond?”
“You are required to follow them, which means you have no say in the matter. The first is to leave your weapon by the door.” She offered a dour look when I didn’t respond immediately.
I honored her request, grinning as I did. “Any others?”
“Just one.” She held up her index finger. “What I say goes. This is my space now. My space. My rules.”
Instead of agreeing, I offered a salute, which prompted her to roll her eyes.
“If you’re thirsty, there’s a small refrigerator in the corner by the couch. I keep a couple beers and a bottle of wine just in case.”
“You mean for all your boyfriends.”
“Ha! You’ve seen the selection. All the good men are taken. It’s just in case I have a meltdown when creating my art.”
Fleur was busy tossing chunks of wood into an old-fashioned woodstove, something I’d only seen in movies. Talk about being privileged. The studio was as eclectic as her shop, only with a decorative flair that spoke to the whimsical gypsy beyond the goofy expressions and lilting laugh. Even now, with her dress a floral print that suited the nickname I’d given her, the setting was completely perfect for her personality.
Including the bearskin rug in front of the chipped ebony stove. While there was vibrant art on every wall, the pottery obviouslycrafted by talented designer, thepièce de résistancewas the pottery wheel close to the single piece inside the space.
She noticed my gaze and smiled before squeezing past me and flipping a switch. “I like to work under mostly natural light.” When she flicked on a floor lamp, adjusting the head, she darted quick looks in my direction. “But the wattage of the lamp is close to being perfect.”
After pushing up her sleeves, she moved to what appeared to be a cooler, opening the lid. She plucked something from inside, the Ziploc bag holding a lump of tan clay.
“Are you going to give me a demonstration?”
“If you’re a very good boy.”
“Hmmm… I’ll try, but that’s one promise I can’t make.”
Her eyelashes skimmed her cheeks, the dots of blushing red easy to see even with the garish light. “I need to keep the clay moist. I use the box for humidity. Crude, but it works.”
“What now?”
She sat down on a bench in front of the wheel, spreading her legs so she could straddle the stand. “Now, I work my magic. Not with the Ouija board as you accused me of doing.”
“Touché.” As she began to work with the clay, pressing her foot on a pedal and controlling the spin, I was mesmerized. Her concentration was strong, her fingers nimble as she gently applied pressure.
As she worked, I thought about the number of round glass objects she had in her window. What had she called them? Suncatchers. Even as I’d walked onto her porch, I’d seen anumber of them outside, hanging from the porch eave along with several windchimes. They were vibrant, all different, some depicting butterflies and hummingbirds, others the essence of a golden sun surrounded by shades of fuchsia and violet.
Art with subtle attitude.
Just like the woman concentrating to the point her entire face was pinched.
Maybe two minutes later, a bowl began to take shape, carefully crafted by the talent of an incredible artist. I was in awe, something that rarely happened. As I stood watching her, numbness attacked my heart. She was in danger. The instinct had nothing to do with the goddamn board game, but everything to do with being with her when I’d known better.
If I cared about her and her safety, I’d leave. However, the same instinct was telling me it might already be too late. Not because assassins were clamoring at the door, but because of the possessive nature in my system.
Not only did I crave her body, I yearned for every inch. And not just for another taste.
With the wheel still spinning and her hands covered in clay, she lifted her head. Tiny beads of perspiration had formed over her top lip, glistening in the light. She raked her forearm through strands of hair, pursing her lips as she studied me.
