Page 7 of Wicked Design
“You did.”
“Huh?”
She laughed. A light, tinkling sound that encouraged joy and hope. “It’s your design.” She stroked the petals. “I made it into jewelry. Hope you don’t mind me stealing the idea from you.”
“You didn’t. It’s not mine. Maybe Tor’s. I’m not into delicate stuff as a rule. It’s nice, though. Pretty. I like how it fits your arm.”
“That’s one of my styles. I call it wraparound jewelry. Metal or precious gems that decorate a woman like a tat. Maybe Lauren will commission more of my pieces and you’ll see them in the display case. I love your artwork, by the way. You’re living up to your name.”
“Van Gogh?”
“Yeah. His work is incredible. Monet’s, Renoir’s, and Degas’s, too. They’re my faves.”
He pointed. “I figured you might be an Impressionist fan.”
“Why?”
She had an ethereal quality, like a sprite. Instead of her black tank top, shorts, and sandals, she should have worn a gossamer gown, fragile and feminine like her umbrella. He’d planned to put the piece in his drawing and give her wings. Maybe even a halo. “I don’t know. You’re so…”
“Different?”
She was, but in a good way. “Not exactly.”
“Weird?”
“What? No. More like narrow.”
She glanced down. “You think I’m too skinny?”
“Not at all.” He gestured helplessly. “You’re small.”
“You mean flat-chested?”
“No.” His face heated. “Small all over.” He gestured from her hair to her feet.
“You can’t mean short. I’m five ten.”
“But not wide.”
“My hips?” She touched them. “They aren’t curvy like other women’s are?”
Van Gogh hadn’t a clue how they’d gotten on this subject or if other women talked this candidly to guys they’d just met. He didn’t have much experience. “No. I mean—I’m not referring to your hips. You look like a woman should. Not like a guy does, muscular or super athletic. You’re pretty and fragile looking. You know.”
Her eyes rounded, and then she beamed. “Thanks.”
He breathed more easily, amazed his compliment seemed to have surprised and pleased her. Women had never come to him for validation. Especially a babe who looked as good as she did. Not over-the-top provocative like many females in South Florida, but refreshingly natural. If she wore makeup, he couldn’t see it. She didn’t need enhancement or anything to cover up flaws that didn’t exist. There wasn’t one visible pore in her alabaster complexion. No moles or freckles either. She looked like she’d been Photoshopped, only in real life. “You’re sure you want to get inked?”
“Only by you. I don’t trust my bod to anyone else.”
A few more minutes of her praise and he’d hyperventilate. Spending several hours around her might not be a good idea for either of them. He could have a problem keeping his hands steady enough to ink. His resolve not to touch her X-rated parts might not last while giving her a tat. For her own good and his, he should turn her over to Tor. “You ready to look at some designs?”
“I have all night.”
The only responses that occurred to him sounded suggestive and foolish. She simply liked his art and was nice to him, as she was to everyone. Seeing him as a man couldn’t be in the equation. Too many missteps with women had convinced him of that.
He handed her the binders that advertised his and the other artists’ work. “Take your time. I have more designs on the computer. I can even make up something special for you.”
“You’d do that?”
