"Likely." He liked the way she smelled when she worked-paint and perfume. "Have you been at it long?"
"Not long enough." Frowning, she swirled her brush in paint she'd smeared on her palette. "I should have set up at dawn to get the right shadows."
"There'll be another dawn tomorrow." He sat on the wall, tapping a finger against her sketchbook. "That shirt you're wearing, what does CM stand for?"
She set down her brush, took a step back to examine the canvas, and smeared more paint from her fingers to the sweatshirt. "Carnegie Mellon. It's the college I went to."
"You studied painting there."
"Umm." The stones weren't coming to life yet, she thought. She wanted them alive. "I concentrated on commercial art."
"Is that doing pictures for advertisements?"
"More or less."
He considered, picking up her sketchbook and leafing through. "Why would you want to draw up pictures of shoes or bottles of beer when you can do this?"
She picked up a rag, dampened it from her jar of turpentine. "I like making a living, and I make a good one." For some reason she found it imperative to remove a smudge of gray paint from the side of her hand. "I just copped a major account before I took my leave of absence. I'm likely to get a promotion."
"That's fine, isn't it?" He flipped another page, smiled over a sketch of Brianna working in her garden. "What sort of account is it?"
"Bottled water." She muttered it, because it seemed so foolish a thing out here in the wide fields and fragrant air.
"Water?" He did exactly what she'd expected. He grinned at her. "The fizzy kind? Why do you suppose people want to drink water that bubbles or comes in bottles?"
"Because it's pure. Not everyone has a well in their backyard, or a spring, or whatever the hell it is. Designer water's an enormous industry, and with pollution and urban development it's only going to get bigger."
He continued to smile. "I didn't ask to rile you. I was just wondering." He turned the sketchbook toward her. "I like this one."
She set her rag aside and shrugged. It was a drawing of him, in the pub holding his concertina, a half-finished beer on the table. "You should. I certainly flattered you."
"It was kind of you." He set the book aside. "I've someone coming by shortly to look at the yearling, so I can't ask you in for tea. Will you come tonight, for dinner instead?"
"To dinner?" When he rose, she took an automatic step in retreat.
"You could come early. Half six, so I could show you about first." A new light came into his eyes, one of dangerous amusement as he caught her hand. "Why are you walking backward?"
"I'm not." Or she wasn't now that he had hold of her. "I'm thinking. Brianna might have plans."
"Brie's a flexible woman." A light tug on the hand brought Shannon a step closer. "Come, spend the evening with me. You're not afraid of the two of us being alone?"
"Of course not." That would be ridiculous. "I don't know if you can cook."
"Come find out."
Dinner, she reminded herself. It was just dinner. In any case she was curious about him, how he lived. "All right. I'll come by."
"Good." With one hand still holding hers, he cupped the back of her head, inched her closer. Her nerves were already sizzling when she remembered to lift a protesting hand to his chest.
"Murphy-"
"I'm only going to kiss you," he murmured.
There was no only about it. His eyes stayed open, aware, alive on hers as his mouth lowered. They were the last thing she saw, that vivid, stunning blue, before she went deaf, dumb, and blind.
It was barely a whisper of a touch at first, a light brush of mouth to mouth. He was holding her as if they might slide into a dance at any instant. She thought she might sway, so soft and sweet was that first meeting of lips.
Then they left hers, surprising a sigh out of her as he took his mouth on a slow, luxurious journey of her face. The quiet exploration-her cheeks, her temples, her eyelids-weakened her knees. The trembling started there, and moved up so that she was breathless when his mouth covered hers a second time.
Deeper now, slowly. Her lips parted, and the welcome sounded in her throat. Her hand slid up to his shoulder, gripped, then went limp. She could smell horses and grass, and something like lightning in the air.
He'd come back, was all she could think before her head went swimming into dreams.
She was everything he'd wanted. To hold her like this, to feel her tremble with the same need that shook inside him was beyond glorious. Her mouth seemed to have been fashioned to meld with his, and the tastes he found there were dark, mysterious, and ripe.
It was enough, somehow it was enough, to hold back, to suffer the gnawing teeth of a less patient need. He could see how it would be, feel how it would be, to lie down in the warm grass with her, to pin her beneath him, body to body and flesh to flesh. How she would move under and against him, willing and eager and fluid. And at last, at long last, to bury himself inside her.
But this time her mouth was enough. He let himself linger, and savor and possess, drawing away gently, and with the promise of more.
His hands wanted to shake. To soothe them, he skimmed them over her face and into her hair. Her cheeks were flushed, making her, to his eye, even lovelier. How could he have forgotten how slim she was, like a willow, or how much truth and beauty could shine from her eyes.
His hand paused in her hair, and his brows drew together as image shifted over image.
"Your hair was longer then, and your cheeks were wet from rain."
Her head was spinning, actually spinning. She had always believed that was a ridiculous romantic cliche. But she had to put a hand to her temple to steady herself. "What?"
"Another time we met here." He smiled again. It was easy for him to accept such things as visions and magic, just as he could accept that his heart had been lost long before that first lovely taste of her. "I've wanted to kiss you for a long time."
"We haven't known each other a long time."
"We have. Shall I do it again, and remind you?"
"I don't think so." No matter how foolish it made her feel, she held up a hand to stop him. "That was a little more potent that I'd expected, and I think we'd both be better off ... pacing ourselves."