It Must Be Love

'Sweet baby Jesus.'

She guessed not.

Slowly he walked into the room, until he stood an arm's length away from the life-sized painting. Gabrielle wanted nothing more at that moment than to run away and hide, but where would she go? She glanced over his shoulder at the canvas, at the early evening sunlight pouring through the sheer curtains, bleaching a patch of light on the hardwood floor, and lighting up the portrait with a sort of ethereal glow. She hoped he wouldn't recognize himself.

'Is that,' he asked, pointing at the painting, 'supposed to be me?'

There was no hope now. She'd been caught. She might have a problem with proportional hands and feet, but she'd had absolutely no trouble with Joe's penis. There was only one thing to do-brave it out and hide her embarrassment as best she could. 'I think it's very good,' she said and crossed her arms beneath her breasts.

He looked back over his shoulder at her, his eyes a little glassy. 'I'm naked.'

'Nude.'

'Same damn thing.' He turned back, and Ga-brielle moved to stand beside him.

'Where are my hands and feet?'

She tilted her head. 'Well, I haven't had time to paint them yet.'

'I see you had time to paint my dick, though.'

What could she say? 'I think I did a good job with the shape of your eyes.'

'And my balls too.'

She tried once again to divert his attention upward. 'I captured your mouth perfectly.'

'Are those supposed to be my lips? They look puffy,' he said, and she supposed she should be grateful he was no longer critiquing his genitals. 'And what in the hell is the big red ball? Fire or something?'

'Your aura.'

'Uh-huh.' He turned his attention to the two paintings leaning against the far wall. 'You've been busy.'

She bit her top lip and didn't say anything. At least in the painting of him as a demon, he was clothed. The other, well…

'Didn't have time to paint the hands or feet on those either?'

'Not yet.'

'Am I supposed to be the devil or something?' -

'Or something.'

'What's with the dog?'

'It's a lamb.'

'Oh… it looks like a Welsh corgi.'

It looked nothing like a Welsh corgi, but Gabrielle didn't argue. First of all, she never explained her art, and second, she could overlook a few tactless comments and blame them on shock. She imagined it might be a bit disturbing to open a door and find a nude portrait of yourself staring back at you.

'Who's that?' he asked, pointing to the painting of his head and David's body.

'Don't you know?'

'That is not me.'

'I used Michelangelo's sculpture of David as my model. I didn't know you had chest hair.'

'Is that supposed to be funny?' he asked, incredulous, as he shook his head. 'I never stand like that. He looks queer.'

She hoped he meant queer as in strange, but she doubted it. 'He's preparing for his battle with Goliath.'

'Damn,' he swore and pointed to David's groin. 'Look at that. I haven't packed anything that small since I was two.'

'You're fixated on your genitals.'

'Not me, lady.' He turned and directed his finger at her. 'You're the one sneaking around painting pictures of my bare ass.'

'I'm an artist.'

'Yeah, and I'm an astronaut.'

She'd been willing to forgive his rude criticism, but only up to a point, and he'd just stepped over the line. 'You need to leave now.'

He crossed his arms over his chest and shifted his weight to one foot. 'Are you kicking me out?'

'Yes.'

Undiluted machismo curved the corners of his mouth. 'Do you think you're big enough?'

'Yes.'

He laughed. 'Without your hair spray, little miss bad ass?'

Okay, now she was mad. She shoved his chest and knocked him a step backward. The next time she pushed, he was ready for her and didn't budge. 'You can't come in my house and bully me. I don't have to take this from you.' She pushed again, and he grabbed her wrist. 'You're an undercover cop. You're not my real boyfriend. I would never ever have a boyfriend like you.'

His smile flatlined as if she'd insulted him somehow. Which was impossible. He'd have to have human emotions to feel insulted. 'Why the hell not?'

'You're surrounded by negative energy,' she said as she struggled to pull free of his grasp but couldn't. 'And I don't like you.'

He let her go, and she took a step back. 'You liked me enough last night.'

She folded her arms, and her gaze narrowed. 'Last night there was a full moon.'

'What about those naked pictures you painted of me?'

'What about them?'

'You don't paint a guy's dick you don't like.'

'My only interest in your… ah,' she couldn't say it. She just couldn't say the D word.

'You can go ahead and call it Mr. Happy,' he supplied. 'Or penis is good.'

'Male anatomy,' she said, 'is that of an artist.'

'There you go again.' He placed his hands on her face and cupped her cheeks in his palms. 'Creating bad karma for yourself.' He lightly brushed one thumb across her chin.

'I'm not lying,' she lied. Her breath got stuck in her throat and she thought he would kiss her. But he just laughed, dropped his hands, and turned toward the door. She was caught somewhere between relief and regret.

'I'm a professional artist,' she assured Joe as she followed him into the living room.

'If you say so.'

'I am!'

'I'll tell you what then,' he said as he grabbed his keys from the coffee table, 'the next time you feel the urge to paint, give a holler. You dress up in some of your naughty undies, and. I'll show you my anatomy. Up close and real personal.'

Chapter Fourteen

Around midnight, Gabrielle shoved the lingerie Joe had dumped on her duvet to the floor and crawled into bed. She closed her eyes and tried not to think of him standing in her room, his broad shoulders filling out his hacked-up shirt, a pair of crotchless panties dangling from his finger. He was a throwback. A girl's anachronistic nightmare. He made her more angry than any man she'd ever known. She should hate him. She really should. He made fun of her beliefs and now her art, and – yet no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't dislike him. There was something about him, some thing drawing her to him like the faithful to Mecca. She didn't want to go, but her heart didn't seem to be listening.

If there was one person on this planet Gabrielle knew inside and out, it was herself. She knew what worked for her and what didn't. Sometimes she was wrong, like when she'd thought she'd wanted to become a masseuse, only to discover she needed a more creative outlet. Or when she'd taken classes on Feng Shui and learned that planning