“I’m fine right here.”
“You’re in my light, lassie.”
In his light? That hardly seemed possible. The place was flooded with sun. Still, she moved deeper into the room, aware of the feel of her breasts beneath her sweater, of the unfamiliar sway of her hips with each step she took. She wondered if she would ever get used to her new, more womanly body or if she would spend the rest of her pregnancy feeling like a stranger in her own skin.
She stopped a few feet away from Duncan, who was still absorbed in his work. His concentration was almost palpable, like a force field that kept the rest of the world at bay. She wondered how it would feel to be the focus of all that intensity, to have him look at her that way, as if there was nothing and nobody else on earth that mattered.
The thought made her light-headed. She’d never inspired that kind of intensity in a man. There was certainly no reason to believe she’d ever inspire it in her new husband. She hadn’t even been able to inspire him to spend the entire night in the same bed.
He drew the back of his arm across his eyes again, and the male grace of the gesture made her breath catch in her throat. Hormones, she told herself. In a few months she wouldn’t even notice gestures like that.
He positioned the chisel once more and tapped the hammer against it, three times in rapid succession, then grimaced.
“What are you working on?” she asked. His body shielded the piece from her eyes.
He stepped away from the bench and wiped his hands on his thighs. “Look for yourself, lassie.”
She approached cautiously, aware of his nearness, of the fact that this was so clearly his territory and his alone. A block of marble lay sideways across the table. It wasn’t terribly impressive in size, certainly no more than two feet wide and half that deep. That was what she noticed first. The marble was a pale ivory color, tinted faintly yellow from the sunlight splashing across it. At first she saw nothing but angles and edges, and she felt a sharp stab of disappointment that his genius could seem so ordinary up close.
Then, suddenly, she focused in. Rising somehow from the marble itself was the gentle S curve of a woman’s back and the suggestion of a strong jawline and long neck. A jolt of recognition shot through her and she looked at Duncan. “That’s me,” she said quietly. “Isn’t it?”
“Aye,” he said, “or it will be.”
She bent low over the marble and ran the tip of her index finger along the curve. “I—I don’t know what to say.”
“Say nothing, lassie. Just stand there and let me capture the angle of your shoulders.”
She wrapped her arms around her waist and stepped back. “You’re joking.”
The look in his eyes told her otherwise.
“I don’t know the first thing about modeling.”
“There is nothing you need to know.” He placed his index finger under her chin and tilted her head. Then he angled her right shoulder down, down, until she felt the elongation of her spine, the shimmering S curve she’d seen rising from the marble. “Hold that…”
As if she could do anything else when he was looking at her that way.
The only sound in the room was the rhythmic tap of hammer to chisel. He circled the slab of marble, quickly etching a curve here, an angle there. His intensity was overwhelming. It seemed to draw the oxygen from her lungs.
Her nose itched but she held the pose steady. When her right arm began to tremble, she ignored it rather than disturb his concentration. However, when he gestured for her to turn to the left, she shook her head. “My leg’s asleep,” she said by way of apology. “If I turn, I’ll fall over.”
He dragged a chaise longue from the corner to the middle of the room then led her to it.
“I’m not a model, Duncan,” she protested as he helped her swing her legs onto the chair. “This is crazy.”
“A few more minutes,” he said, positioning her body in the elongated sweep of his sculpture.
There was something highly provocative about the position but she couldn’t say how or why. She was fully clothed. She wasn’t touching herself in any way that might be deemed erotic. And yet she felt as if every muscle in her body was being primed somehow for the act of love. For sex in all its infinite variety and joy. Was that the secret to his art, then, this ability to translate the ordinary stuff of life into pure sizzle and burn? Whatever it was, she felt the heat move through her like wildfire.
She found herself relaxing, enjoying the sensation of being the focus of his concentration. There was something heady and exciting about it, to know that it was the sweep of her throat, the curve of her spine, that inspired him.
He stopped every so often and guided her gently into another position, subtle alterations of line and angle that seemed to trigger an artistic response from him. Magic was rising from that cold block of marble, and it thrilled her to be a part of it.
DUNCAN WORKED as swiftly as he could, trying to capture her line before she grew too tired. There was something endearing about her self-consciousness, and he found himself trying to convey that uncertainty beneath the sheer beauty of her physical form.
Because that was the miracle of it all. She was, in all ways, a goddess yet unaware of the extraordinary power granted to her. The early stages of pregnancy had softened her beauty, turned her slim-hipped, coltish quality into something womanly and deeply alluring. Clothes seemed an abomination. She should be proudly naked, her ripe beauty there to be worshiped by mere mortals.
He wondered what she would do if he asked her to strip off her clothes for him right then
