Page 24 of What a Lord Wants

“Special,” he guessed when she couldn’t put her anguish into words.

She nodded. He wasn’t wrong. Those times when she felt most alive occurred when he made her feel exactly like that.

Rainwater dripped down the planes of his face, but his expression softened into one of relief. “And I made you feel as if you weren’t special at all.”

Another nod, and this time, she couldn’t bear the expression on his face and had to look away.

“Be assured, Eve, that youarespecial.” His warm words began to melt away the icy numbness that had gripped her only moments before. “Beautiful and bright, so very warm and strong.”

She shook her head, and her hot tears mixed anew with the cold raindrops falling onto her face, even though he did the best he could to shield her from the rain with his body. She desperately wanted him to understand her fear and the darkness that pressed in upon her, but he didn’t, not completely. He didn’t feel the same urgency to catch hold of life and not let go, didn’t feel the same terror that a ticking clock shivered through her.

Shehadto make him understand.

So she placed her hand on his chest, right over his heart.

“And you?” Her lips trembled from the cold and from the way his pulse spiked beneath her fingertips. “Why didn’t you let me leave? I’ve caused nothing but problems for you since the start. Why are you so determined to paint me?”

“Because I need to paint to live,” he confessed, not directly answering her question yet shocking her with his answer. He dropped his gaze to her mouth, to stare at her as if he were starving for a taste of her. “The same way I need air to breathe. If I can’t paint, it’s death.”

She let out a ragged sigh and couldn’t stop the faint smile of relief pulling at her lips, or how she clenched at his waistcoat, not wanting to let him go.

Hedidunderstand, and the happiness that poured through her at finally having an ally against the darkness shook her all the way down to her core.

“Eve.” Her name was a benediction as he traced his thumb over her bottom lip. Then he lowered his mouth toward hers.

Chapter 6

Dom jerked his head back, just before his lips touched hers.

Christ.What was he doing?

He stared down at her. Her eyes were softly closed, her long lashes wet with raindrops. She held her lips parted in delicate invitation, knowing he wanted to kiss her and granting permission. She even held her breath in anticipation, patiently waiting…

He bit back a groan, wanting nothing more than to give her that kiss.

And with that, destroy the masterpiece he’d begun to glimpse in her.

He would never allow that to happen. Not when he was so close to finally being able to claim his art as his own. Not when doing just that was the only thing that could stop Constance’s threats to expose him. He’d not been more honest in his life than when he told her that he needed his art the way he needed to breathe.

Just as he knew that once he had a taste of her, he wouldn’t be able to stop at only a kiss.

He moved his hands to her shoulders and put her at arms’ length to keep himself safely away. Yet his chest tightened with deep yearning when her eyes fluttered open and she gazed up at him, with longing and bewilderment warring in their amber depths.

He dodged the question in her eyes. “I’m sorry for being angry with you. What I’m going through…”

He couldn’t finish. Some secrets still needed to be kept from the light of day.

“Hell?” she prompted in a whisper, throwing his earlier words back at him.

“You have no idea.” With chagrin, he glanced over his shoulder at the carriage house. “Come back inside, and we’ll talk.” He held out his hand. She didn’t accept, staring at it as if she expected him to slap her. “Please.”

“But I’m not—” She hesitated, her face impossibly pale in the cold rain. “I’m not who you think I am.”

“I know.” Self-recrimination ate at his gut. “You’re not a model. I promise not to forget that again.” He forced a half-grin. “And you can remind me with a book over my head if I do.”

“I’m not an actress,” she whispered softly, yet something sparked deep inside her at her words—relief that she was no longer keeping secrets?

“It doesn’t matter who you are.” If he were ever to convince her to walk back to the studio, he’d have to assure her completely on this point—who she was and the life she led when she wasn’t posing made no difference whatsoever to him. What shined in her was the person she was beneath, and her past, no matter how harsh or troubled, wouldn’t change that. “What matters is finishing the painting in time for the exhibition.”