sumptuous pile of plum-colored brocade pillows, the small feather fan she held over her mons the only nod to modesty in the flagrantly sensual pose. The contrast of her warm, glowing flesh against the cool marble backdrop and the luxurious fur was riveting, as was the voluptuous splendor of her body. Her breasts were enormous and plump, dangling like delicious ripe fruit with the slightly forward twist of her torso, her waist was hands-span narrow-which enchanting thought added dimension to Sam's arousal. As for her slender, shapely legs, he reflected, his gaze traveling leisurely down her form, surely they were made to be wrapped around him.
He was so hard, he was aching, the eroticism so explicit and palpable, he was hard pressed not to stride up to her and carry her off like some marauding barbarian at the gates of Rome.
Suddenly aware he might not be the only man on the scene so inclined, Sam shot a glance at the artist, who was applying paint to the canvas with a decided ferocity. Moved to action by the sight, Sam shoved open the door and strode in. 'Forgive me for intruding.' His voice was too curt for true apology. 'I have a message for Miss Ionides.'
Masking her shock, Alex didn't know if she should be gratified or angry at Ranelagh's intrusion. Her second irrelevant thought was that he hadn't changed, as though it mattered a whit that he still wore his day clothes when she wore none. She sat up as Sir Lawrence moved to intercept Sam's progress.
'We're busy, sir,' the artist said gruffly, standing solidly in Sam's way. 'You must leave.'
'This won't take long,' Sam replied, coming to a stop, glancing at the man's crotch. Either Alma-Tadema had enormous restraint or was a eunuch, he decided. His affability restored, Sam's voice took on a new degree of courtesy. 'My compliments on your painting of the lady, Sir Lawrence. Could I buy it?'
The artist hesitated, wondering if he'd imagined the rude glance. Sam's expression was completely benign. 'I'm afraid it's already sold,' he finally said, giving the viscount the benefit of the doubt.
'To whom?'
'Mr. Cassels.'
'A shame. It's very beautiful.'
'Alex is an exceptional lady.'
'How so?' The words were suddenly abrupt, cool, all traces of amiability stripped away.
The painter squarely met the displeasure in Sam's gaze. 'I don't see that it's your concern.'
Both men were large, fit, and obviously disinclined to back down, Alex suspected, if their pugnacious poses were any indication. Since she had no wish to become the center of an embarrassing altercation, she said quickly, 'Never mind, Larry. I'll speak with Ranelagh.'
'You see?' Sam nodded a cool dismissal at his opponent.
Sir Lawrence cast a searching glance at Alex.
'I'm fine,' she asserted. 'Really.'
As Sam approached the dais, Alex tried to curb the heat rising to her face. He seemed larger than she'd remembered, and disconcertingly more handsome. Forcibly tamping down the flush of excitement that gripped her senses, she said crisply, 'You shouldn't be here, but since you are and since I prefer you not grapple with Larry, kindly state your business and be on your way.'
It took him a fraction of a second to answer because the view at close range was glorious.
She'd considered covering herself with the fur rug when he'd walked in, but it seemed too exaggerated and dramatic a gesture. She wasn't some innocent maiden. She'd posed nude before and she was comfortable in her skin. 'If you're done looking…' she said coolly.
Reminded of his manners, his gaze traveled to her eyes and he smiled. 'I saw your carriage outside, and I was hoping you might be free tonight.'
'I'm sorry, I'm not.' Temperate, imperturbable words.
He gave her high points for poise. She might have been refusing an invitation to tea… and, more to the point, been fully clothed. But his equanimity had been honed in the school of debauch, and it was impossible so tame a circumstance would extinguish it.
'Tomorrow, then?' he said with an equivalent dispassion.
'I'm afraid I'm busy tomorrow as well.'
'You're not actually
She shook her head, and a fortune in diamonds swung from her earlobes. 'I'm simply not interested.'
'Could I convince you somehow'-his voice dropped a half octave-'to
In the deepening shadows, the unadorned grace of his face and form almost took her breath away-her artist's eye in awe of such stark, sensual beauty. She'd been trying, with difficulty, not to take notice of his splendid looks and, more particularly, of his sizable erection lifting the soft wool of his trousers. 'I believe we've had this conversation before, and my feelings haven't changed.' She kept her tone neutral with effort. His arousal was fascinatingly large.
'I could contrive to mend my ways.'
A rush of heat spiked through her body at his wicked smile. 'You don't mean it, my lord. We both know that.'
But a faint equivocation in her voice quickened his senses. Did she mean no or not? Or how much did she mean it? His nostrils flared as though he might catch scent of the truth. Then a singularly familiar fragrance drifted into his nostrils, and his understanding was no longer in question. He recognized the redolent perfume of female arousal. Glancing downward, his gaze settled on the juncture of her thighs.
Her auburn curls melted into the soft sable fur, and she was getting wet for him.
'What if I really did mean it?' he said, heated and low, his gaze returning to hers. 'What then?'
The lust in his eyes excited her, stirred and thrilled her, when she should despise a man who made love only for sport.
But he moved a step closer, leaned in, and whispered in a velvety tone, 'We'll do whatever you want to do… you set the limits-you give the orders.'
For a reckless moment, she wanted to clutch the heavy black silk of his hair, pull him close, and kiss him hard- in prelude to what he so temptingly offered. Clenching her fists against the rash impulse, she said instead, 'I don't want to give orders.'
'Better yet.'
She shivered faintly at the implication.
'If I were to touch you… there'-he gestured languidly at her mons, and she found herself gauging the length of his long, large fingers-'I guarantee you'll change your mind.'
'If you dare,' she said tersely, feeling as though she were suffocating, 'you'll never touch me again.'
Her phrasing gave him pause, her 'again' tantalizing-a myriad of possibilities instantly reverberating through his brain. 'Tell me where or when or how'-his smile was carnal and lush-'or we could leave now and you could… show me.'
A clamorous ringing crash shattered the heated ferment.
Sam didn't turn his head. 'It doesn't matter,' he breathed.
But Alex looked, and like a sluice of icy water rushing in, the world intruded. Larry was reaching down to pick up the fallen container and scattered brushes from the puddle of linseed oil spreading over the floor.
Leaping to her feet, Alex shoved past Sam before she lost her resolve and jumped from the dais.
He could have stopped her if he'd wished, but no one could accuse him of being gauche. And he understood with a libertine's expertise, it was only a matter of time before the skittish Miss Ionides yielded. Watching her stride away, Sam admired her beauty and nerve, not to mention the silken sway of her hips.
She was going to be one hot little piece, he thought pleasantly.
When she disappeared from sight, the studio was eerily silent.
Moving toward Alma-Tadema, Sam issued a well-mannered and self-possessed smile, as though he'd not just tried to seduce the artist's model. 'Do you think Cassels might be talked into selling your painting to me?' he inquired, the cultivated world of the aristocracy in every smooth syllable.
Alma-Tadema shrugged. 'Who knows?' Alex had escaped; he could be urbane as well.
Sam's mouth curved into a rueful smile. 'You dropped those brushes on purpose, didn't you?'
The painter's expression was bland. 'You'll have to do your courting on your own time, my lord.'
'You're her champion, I presume.' Sam's gaze narrowed as he approached the man. 'Or are you more?'
