done.”
“In a minute,” he muttered, ignoring her outstretched hand.
“Your manners sink to my level when it’s convenient, I see.” Kirby plopped back in her chair. When he didn’t comment, she screwed her face into unnatural lines.
“I wouldn’t do that for long,” Adam advised. “You’ll hurt yourself. When I start in oil, you’ll have to behave or I’ll beat you.”
Kirby relaxed her face because her jaw was stiffening. “Corkscrews, you wouldn’t beat me. You have the disadvantage of being a gentleman, inside and out.”
Lifting his head, he pinned her with a look. “Don’t bank on it.”
The look alone stopped whatever sassy rejoinder she might have made. It wasn’t the look of a gentleman, but of a man who made his own way however he chose. Before she could think of a proper response, the sound of shouting and wailing drifted up the tower steps and through the open door. Kirby made no move to spring up and investigate. She merely smiled.
“I’m going to ask two questions,” Adam decided. “First, what the hell is that?”
“Which that is that, Adam?” Her eyes were dove gray and guileless.
“The sound of mourning.”
“Oh, that.” Grinning, she reached over and snatched his sketch pad. “That’s Papa’s latest tantrum because his sculpture’s not going well—which of course it never will. Does my nose really tilt that way?” Experimentally she ran her finger down it. “Yes, I guess it does. What was your other question?”
“Why do you say ‘corkscrews’ or something equally ridiculous when a simple ‘hell’ or ‘damn’ would do?”
“It has to do with cigars. You really must show these sketches to Papa. He’ll want to see them.”
“Cigars.” Determined to have her full attention, Adam grabbed the pad away from her.
“Those big, nasty, fat ones. Papa used to smoke them by the carload. You needed a gas mask just to come in the door. I begged, threatened, even tried smoking them myself.” She swallowed on that unfortunate memory. “Then I came up with the solution. Papa is a sucker.”
“Is that so?”
“That is, he just can’t resist a bet, no matter what the odds.” She touched the wood again, knowing she’d have to come back to it later. “My language was, let’s say, colorful. I can swear eloquently in seven languages.”
“Quite an accomplishment.”
“It has its uses, believe me. I bet Papa ten thousand dollars that I could go longer without swearing than he could without smoking. Both my language and the ozone layer have been clean for three months.” Rising, Kirby circled the table. “I have the gratitude of the entire staff.” Abruptly she dropped in his lap. Letting her head fall back, she wound her arms around his neck. “Kiss me again, will you? I can’t resist.”
There can’t be another like her, Adam thought as he closed his mouth over hers. With a low sound of pleasure, Kirby melted against him, all soft demand.
Then neither of them thought, but felt only.
Desire was swift and sharp. It built and expanded so that they could wallow in it. She allowed herself the luxury, for such things were too often brief, too often hollow. She wanted the speed, the heat, the current. A risk, but life was nothing without them. A challenge, but each day brought its own. He made her feel soft, giddy, senseless. No one else had. If she could be swept away, why shouldn’t she be? It had never happened before.
She needed what she’d never realized she needed from a man before: strength, solidity.
Adam felt the initial stir turn to an ache—something deep and dull and constant. It wasn’t something he could resist, but something he found he needed. Desire had always been basic and simple and painless. Hadn’t he known she was a woman who would make a man suffer? Knowing it, shouldn’t he have been able to avoid it? But he hurt. Holding her soft and pliant in his arms, he hurt. From wanting more.
“Can’t you two wait until after
“In a minute,” he muttered, ignoring her outstretched hand.
“Your manners sink to my level when it’s convenient, I see.” Kirby plopped back in her chair. When he didn’t comment, she screwed her face into unnatural lines.
“I wouldn’t do that for long,” Adam advised. “You’ll hurt yourself. When I start in oil, you’ll have to behave or I’ll beat you.”
Kirby relaxed her face because her jaw was stiffening. “Corkscrews, you wouldn’t beat me. You have the disadvantage of being a gentleman, inside and out.”
Lifting his head, he pinned her with a look. “Don’t bank on it.”
The look alone stopped whatever sassy rejoinder she might have made. It wasn’t the look of a gentleman, but of a man who made his own way however he chose. Before she could think of a proper response, the sound of shouting and wailing drifted up the tower steps and through the open door. Kirby made no move to spring up and investigate. She merely smiled.
“I’m going to ask two questions,” Adam decided. “First, what the hell is that?”
“Which that is that, Adam?” Her eyes were dove gray and guileless.
“The sound of mourning.”
“Oh, that.” Grinning, she reached over and snatched his sketch pad. “That’s Papa’s latest tantrum because his sculpture’s not going well—which of course it never will. Does my nose really tilt that way?” Experimentally she ran her finger down it. “Yes, I guess it does. What was your other question?”
“Why do you say ‘corkscrews’ or something equally ridiculous when a simple ‘hell’ or ‘damn’ would do?”
“It has to do with cigars. You really must show these sketches to Papa. He’ll want to see them.”
“Cigars.” Determined to have her full attention, Adam grabbed the pad away from her.
“Those big, nasty, fat ones. Papa used to smoke them by the carload. You needed a gas mask just to come in the door. I begged, threatened, even tried smoking them myself.” She swallowed on that unfortunate memory. “Then I came up with the solution. Papa is a sucker.”
“Is that so?”
“That is, he just can’t resist a bet, no matter what the odds.” She touched the wood again, knowing she’d have to come back to it later. “My language was, let’s say, colorful. I can swear eloquently in seven languages.”
“Quite an accomplishment.”
“It has its uses, believe me. I bet Papa ten thousand dollars that I could go longer without swearing than he could without smoking. Both my language and the ozone layer have been clean for three months.” Rising, Kirby circled the table. “I have the gratitude of the entire staff.” Abruptly she dropped in his lap. Letting her head fall back, she wound her arms around his neck. “Kiss me again, will you? I can’t resist.”
There can’t be another like her, Adam thought as he closed his mouth over hers. With a low sound of pleasure, Kirby melted against him, all soft demand.
Then neither of them thought, but felt only.
Desire was swift and sharp. It built and expanded so that they could wallow in it. She allowed herself the luxury, for such things were too often brief, too often hollow. She wanted the speed, the heat, the current. A risk, but life was nothing without them. A challenge, but each day brought its own. He made her feel soft, giddy, senseless. No one else had. If she could be swept away, why shouldn’t she be? It had never happened before.
She needed what she’d never realized she needed from a man before: strength, solidity.
Adam felt the initial stir turn to an ache—something deep and dull and constant. It wasn’t something he could resist, but something he found he needed. Desire had always been basic and simple and painless. Hadn’t he known she was a woman who would make a man suffer? Knowing it, shouldn’t he have been able to avoid it? But he hurt. Holding her soft and pliant in his arms, he hurt. From wanting more.
“Can’t you two wait until after
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