taking her availability for granted.
That was simply principle.
And, of course, it was expected that he would follow up. A man didn't ask to take you to bed one day, then treat you like a casual neighbor the next.
So perhaps he had surprised her after all. Which only irritated her more.
Just as well, she told herself as she worked on the small table-top arrangements she sold to one of the waterfront's upscale restaurants. She was settling into St. Chris, into her business, into the kind of life she'd always wanted—without knowing she wanted it. A relationship, whether it was an affair, a romance or just no-strings sex, would change the balance. And she was so enjoying the balance.
The only person who needed anything from her, demanded anything from her, expected anything from her these days was herself. That, in itself, was like a gift from God.
Pleased with the combination of narcissus and sprekelia, she loaded the arrangements into refrigeration. Her part-time delivery man would pick them up, along with the iris and tulips and showy white lilies ordered by a couple of the local B and B's.
She heard Seth arrive—the sound of the car door slamming, the crunch of footsteps over gravel, then the quick slap of them up the back steps.
Moments later came the music. Rock today, she noted with a glance at the overhead vent. Which probably meant he'd be up on the roof shortly, working on the skylights.
She went back into the shop, picked up the plant she'd earmarked, then headed out the back and up the steps. A polite knock wouldn't do, not with the music blaring, so she used the side of her fist to pound.
"Yeah, yeah, it's open. Since when do you guys knock?"
He turned, in the act of strapping on a tool belt, as she opened the door. "Hey." His smile came quick and easy. "I thought you were one of my brothers, but you're a lot better-looking."
"I heard you come in." She would not be a cliché, she promised herself. She would not entertain ridiculous fantasies because she'd come upon a long, lanky male wearing a tool belt. "I thought you might like these."
"What? Wait." Amused at himself, he walked into the tiny kitchen where he'd set a tabletop stereo and turned down the volume. Sorry.
His hammer bounced against his hip. He was wearing jeans that were equal parts holes and denim. His T-shirt was faded gray and splotched with paint and what was probably some sort of engine grease. He hadn't shaved.
She was not, absolutely not, attracted to rough, untidy men.
"I brought you a plant." Her tone was sharper, more impatient than she intended. Her own words came back to haunt her. No, she didn't want to be interested in Seth Quinn.
"Yeah?" Despite her tone, he looked very pleased as he crossed over and took the pot from her. "Thanks," he said as he studied the green leaves and little white blossoms.
"It's a shamrock," she told him. "Quinn. It seemed to fit."
"Guess it does." Then those blue eyes lifted, locked on hers. "I appreciate it."
"Don't let it dry out." She glanced up. Two skylights were already installed. And he was right, she mused, they made all the difference. "You've been busy."
"Hmm. Traded some time at the boatyard for some labor here. Cam's going to give me a hand today, so we should finish up."
"Well then." She glanced around. After all, she reminded herself, she owned the place. She could take some interest in what went on there.
He had canvases stacked against two of the walls. An easel with a blank canvas was already set up in front of the windows. She wasn't sure how he'd managed to muscle the enormous worktable up the stairs and through the rather narrow door, but it was plopped in the center of the room and already covered with the detritus of the artist: brushes, paints, a mason jar of turpentine, rags, pencils, chalks.
There were a couple of stools, an old wooden chair, an even older table topped by a particularly ugly lamp.
Shelves, again wood, held more painting supplies. He'd hung nothing on the walls, she noted. There was nothing but space, tools and light.
"You seem to be settling in. I'll let you get back to it." But one of the propped canvases drew her. It was a wash of purple over green. A riot of wild foxglove under pearly light pulled her in so that she could almost feel the brush of leaves and petals on her skin. "A roadside in Ireland," he said. "County Clare. I spent a few weeks there once. Everywhere you look it's a painting. You can never really translate it on canvas."
"I think you have. It's wonderful. Simple and strong. I've never seen foxglove growing wild on a roadside in Ireland. But now I feel I have. Isn't that the point?"
He stared at her a moment. The morning sun speared through the skylight and streamed over her, accented the line of jaw and cheek. "Just stand there. Just stand right there," he repeated as he swung to his worktable. "Ten minutes. Okay, I lied. Twenty tops."
"Just stand there. Damn it, where's my—ah." He scooped up a hunk of charcoal, then dragged his easel around. "No, don't look at me. Look over there. Wait."
He moved quickly, snatching up the painting of foxgloves, pulling out a nail from his pouch, then pounding it into the wall. "Just look at the painting."
"I don't have time to—"
"At the painting." This time his voice snapped, so full of authority and impatience, she obeyed before she thought it through. "I'll pay you for the time."
"I don't want your money."
"In trade." He was already stroking the charcoal over the canvas. "You've got that house by the river. You probably need things done off and on."
"I can take care of—"
"Uh-huh, uh-huh. Tilt your chin up a little, to the right. Jesus, Jesus, this light. Relax your jaw. Be pissed off later, just let me get this."
Who the hell was he? she wondered. He stood there, legs apart, body set like a man poised to fight. He had a tool belt slung at his hips and was sketching in charcoal as if his life depended on it.
His eyes were narrowed, so intense, so focused, that her heart jumped a little each time they whipped up and over her face.
On the stereo AC/DC was on the highway to hell. Through the open window came the cry of gulls as they swooped over the bay. Not entirely sure why she'd allowed herself to be ordered around, she stood and studied the foxgloves.
She began to see it gracing her bedroom wall. "How much do you want for it?"
His eyebrows remained knit. "I'll let you know when I've finished it."
"No, the painting I'm staring at while I'm trying not to be annoyed with you. I'd like to buy it. You have an agent, I imagine. Should I contact him or her?"
He only grunted, not the least interested in business at the moment, and continued to work. "Don't move your head, just your eyes. And look at me. That's some face, all right."
"Yes, and I'm certainly all aflutter by your interest in it, but I have to go down and open for the day."
"Couple more minutes."
"Would you like to hear my opinion of people who can't take no for an answer?"
"Not right now." Keep her occupied, keep her talking, he thought quickly. Oh Jesus, it was perfect—the light, the face, that cool stare out of mossy green eyes. "I hear you've got old Mr. Gimball doing deliveries for you. How's that working out?"
"Perfectly fine, and as he's going to be pulling up in back very shortly—"
"He'll wait. Mr. Gimball used to teach history when I was in middle school. He seemed ancient then, as creaky as the dead presidents he lectured about. Once some of us found this big snakeskin. We brought it in and curled it up on Mr. G's desk chair before third period."
"I'm sure you thought that was hysterically funny."
"Are you kidding? I was eleven. I nearly cracked a rib laughing. Didn't you ever pull stunts like that on teachers in your private school for girls?"
"No, and why do you assume I went to a private school for girls?"
"Oh, sugar, it's all over you." He stepped back, nodded at the canv
as. "Yeah, and it looks good on you." He reached forward, softened a line of charcoal with his thumb before he looked over at her. "You want to call this a sitting or our second date?"
"Neither." It took every ounce of will, but she didn't cross over to look at what he'd drawn.
"Second date," he decided, as he tossed the charcoal aside, absently picked up a rag to clean it off his hands. "After all, you brought me flowers."
"A plant," she corrected.
"Semantics. You really want the painting?"
"That would depend on how much really wanting it jacks up the price."
"You're pretty cynical."
"Cynicism is underrated. Why don't you give me your representative's name? Then we'll see."
He loved the way that short, sleek hair followed the shape of her head. He wanted to do more than sketch it. He needed to paint it.
And to touch it. To run his hands over that silky, dense black until he'd know its texture in his sleep.
"Let's do a friendly trade instead. Pose for me, and it's yours."
"I believe I just did."
"No. I want you in oil." And in watercolors. In pastels.
He'd spent a great deal of time thinking about her over the last few days. Enough time to have concluded that a woman like her—with her looks, her background—would be used to men in active pursuit.
So he'd slowed things down, deliberately, and had waited for her to take the next step. To his way of thinking, she had. In the form of a houseplant.
He wanted her personally as much as he wanted her professionally. It didn't matter which came first, as long as he got both. She shifted her gaze to the painting again. It was always a pleasure, and a bit of a shock, when he saw desire in someone's eyes when they looked at his work. Seeing it in Dru's he knew he'd scored, professionally.
"I have a business to run," she began.
"I'll work around your schedule. Give me an hour in the mornings before you open when you can manage it. Four hours on Sundays."
She frowned. It didn't seem like so very much, when he put it like that. And oh, the painting was gorgeous. "For how long?"
"I don't know yet." He felt a little ripple of irritation. "It's art, not accounting."
"To start, anyway."