comprehend why." Oh, how marvelous it would be to own such a sanctuary. To have serenity and quiet, no conflict or strife with which to deal. She was unaccountably jealous. "This is where you work?"
"For lengthy hours every day." He studied it then, too, as though having just detected its rarity. "The interior is even more wonderful. Shall we go in?"
"Yes!" She could hardly wait to see the rest.
They started down the walk, and she was damp and chilled. The temperature was frigid, the precipitation bracing, and guiltily, she pondered how long they'd tarried on the stairs. When she was with Mr. Cristofore, her discretion and prudence fled.
Buck up! she warned herself. Before you step over the threshold and the door shuts behind you.
While she planned to relish their rendezvous, she wasn't about to do anything foolish. He might make her feel like a giggling, swooning juvenile, but she was an adult, who'd already beheld his capacity for seduction. She wasn't about to be another conquest in what she was sure was an attenuated string of amorous pursuits.
Yet, as the door swung back, and she entered, she could barely keep from clucking her tongue in dismay. The main salon was a veritable sinner's paradise, a sanctuary of iniquity, a lavish, lewd celebration for the eyes, the nose, the skin.
Yes, it was unmistakably an artist's studio. There were easels and shelves covered with haphazard collections of paints, brushes, and other accouterments. Evidently, he had frantic spurts of inspiration that he couldn't contain for there were half-finished oil paintings—portraits, animals, pastoral countrysides, busy city avenues—leaned and piled in the corners. AH were in vibrant, intense hues, rich in detail and emotion, and they offered exuberant confirmation of his talent.
However, the room was also a visual feast, meant to sensually invigorate the painter as well as the painted.
Potted plants, many with festive flowers, hung from the ceiling and sat on the floor. Drapes and rugs, in varying hues of blue and green, were scattered about. Exquisite light filtered in, making it difficult to recall the dismal weather outside. She felt as though she'd been transported onto an Italian portico.
There was an older style marble fireplace, and a stove. Both blazed with cheery fires, and the dual heating converted the ambiance to humid and tropical. She longed to shed her heavy clothing, to lounge and pretend she was on a secluded, equatorial island.
A plush fainting couch was positioned in the center. It was covered with cushy pillows that fell to the floor in casual disarray. The material was soft and inviting, imploring her to recline upon it, to sprawl and grow more comfortable than she ought
How would she keep her wits about her in such an indecent environment? Why would she want to?
Mr. Cristofore's hand was at the small of her back, urging her inside. While any sane woman would have run m the opposite direction, she was excited, in awe, ready for whatever might happen in the risqué atmosphere. She'd come craving amusement and, apparently, she'd found it in spades.
"What do you think?" he asked from behind her. His voice was low and intimate, and it slithered across her nerves, inducing her to prickle and tremble. Crazily, she was wild to acquiesce in any unnatural deed he might suggest.
He stepped nearer, his legs pushing against her dress, so that the toes of his boots dipped under the hem of her skirt. She inhaled vigorously, cherishing his smell, his warmth.
"It's remarkable." She peered at him over her shoulder, and the side of her arm brushed his chest, her hip embedded in the cradle of his thighs. "How lucky you are."
"I agree."
Their gazes met and held, and Elizabeth was stunned by the forceful response that his adjacency produced. A tangible energy flared between them, inducing an invisible field of animation, and she'd never endured anything remotely similar.
Stimulated and enlivened, the hairs on her neck and arms
"For lengthy hours every day." He studied it then, too, as though having just detected its rarity. "The interior is even more wonderful. Shall we go in?"
"Yes!" She could hardly wait to see the rest.
They started down the walk, and she was damp and chilled. The temperature was frigid, the precipitation bracing, and guiltily, she pondered how long they'd tarried on the stairs. When she was with Mr. Cristofore, her discretion and prudence fled.
Buck up! she warned herself. Before you step over the threshold and the door shuts behind you.
While she planned to relish their rendezvous, she wasn't about to do anything foolish. He might make her feel like a giggling, swooning juvenile, but she was an adult, who'd already beheld his capacity for seduction. She wasn't about to be another conquest in what she was sure was an attenuated string of amorous pursuits.
Yet, as the door swung back, and she entered, she could barely keep from clucking her tongue in dismay. The main salon was a veritable sinner's paradise, a sanctuary of iniquity, a lavish, lewd celebration for the eyes, the nose, the skin.
Yes, it was unmistakably an artist's studio. There were easels and shelves covered with haphazard collections of paints, brushes, and other accouterments. Evidently, he had frantic spurts of inspiration that he couldn't contain for there were half-finished oil paintings—portraits, animals, pastoral countrysides, busy city avenues—leaned and piled in the corners. AH were in vibrant, intense hues, rich in detail and emotion, and they offered exuberant confirmation of his talent.
However, the room was also a visual feast, meant to sensually invigorate the painter as well as the painted.
Potted plants, many with festive flowers, hung from the ceiling and sat on the floor. Drapes and rugs, in varying hues of blue and green, were scattered about. Exquisite light filtered in, making it difficult to recall the dismal weather outside. She felt as though she'd been transported onto an Italian portico.
There was an older style marble fireplace, and a stove. Both blazed with cheery fires, and the dual heating converted the ambiance to humid and tropical. She longed to shed her heavy clothing, to lounge and pretend she was on a secluded, equatorial island.
A plush fainting couch was positioned in the center. It was covered with cushy pillows that fell to the floor in casual disarray. The material was soft and inviting, imploring her to recline upon it, to sprawl and grow more comfortable than she ought
How would she keep her wits about her in such an indecent environment? Why would she want to?
Mr. Cristofore's hand was at the small of her back, urging her inside. While any sane woman would have run m the opposite direction, she was excited, in awe, ready for whatever might happen in the risqué atmosphere. She'd come craving amusement and, apparently, she'd found it in spades.
"What do you think?" he asked from behind her. His voice was low and intimate, and it slithered across her nerves, inducing her to prickle and tremble. Crazily, she was wild to acquiesce in any unnatural deed he might suggest.
He stepped nearer, his legs pushing against her dress, so that the toes of his boots dipped under the hem of her skirt. She inhaled vigorously, cherishing his smell, his warmth.
"It's remarkable." She peered at him over her shoulder, and the side of her arm brushed his chest, her hip embedded in the cradle of his thighs. "How lucky you are."
"I agree."
Their gazes met and held, and Elizabeth was stunned by the forceful response that his adjacency produced. A tangible energy flared between them, inducing an invisible field of animation, and she'd never endured anything remotely similar.
Stimulated and enlivened, the hairs on her neck and arms
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