This Heart of Mine (Chicago Stars #5)(77)

Her fingers twitched in her lap as a rush of energy shot through her. She needed her sewing basket and her box of fabrics. She needed them now. If she had them—if she had them right now!—she could find the path that would unlock who she was. She jumped up from the chair. "I have to go."

He'd been completely absorbed in his work, and for a moment he didn't seem to comprehend what she'd said. Then something that almost looked like pain twisted those craggy features. "Oh, God, you can't."

"Please. I'm not being difficult. I have to—I'll come right back. I just need to get something from my car."

He stepped away from the canvas. Left a smudge on his forehead as he shoved a hand through his hair. "I'll get it for you."

"There's a basket in my trunk. No, I need the box that's with it. I need—We'll go together."

They ran across the catwalk, both of them on fire to get this done so they could return to what was essential. Her breath came in little gasps as she raced down the steps. She looked for the purse that held her keys but couldn't find it.

"Why the hell did you lock your car!" he roared. "We're in the middle of godforsaken nowhere!"

"I live in L.A.!" she shouted back.

"Here!" He snatched the purse from beneath one of the tables and began rummaging through it.

"Give it to me!" She grabbed it away and dug herself.

"Hurry up!" He seized her at the elbow, shoved her toward the front door and down the steps. On the way she found the keys. She broke away from him and flicked the remote that opened the trunk.

She nearly sobbed with relief as she grabbed her sewing basket and pushed the box of fabrics at him. He barely glanced at it.

They fled inside again, rushed up the stairs, raced across the catwalk. By the time they got to the studio, they were both struggling to breathe, more from emotion than exertion. She collapsed into the chair. He rushed toward the canvas. They gazed at each other. And both of them smiled.

It was an exquisite moment. One of perfect communication. He hadn't questioned her urgency, hadn't shown the slightest disdain when he'd seen it was only a woman's sewing basket that had made her so frantic. Somehow he understood her need to create, just as she understood his.

Content, she bent to her work.

Gradually it grew dark outside. The studio's interior lights came on, each one exquisitely placed to provide illumination without shadow. Her scissors snipped. Her needle flew in the broad basting stitches that would hold the fabric together until she could get to her sewing machine. Seam met seam. Colors blended. Patterns overlapped.

His fingers brushed her neck. She hadn't realized he'd left his canvas. A streak of scarlet smeared his black silk shirt, and a smear of orange clung to his expensive slacks. His crisp, graying hair was rumpled, and more paint smudged his hairline.

Her skin prickled as he touched the top button on her gauzy, tangerine blouse. Gazing into her eyes, he slipped it free of its buttonhole. Then he opened the next one.

"Please," he said.

She didn't try to stop him, not even when he slipped one side of the blouse down. Not even when his square, paint-smeared fingers brushed the front clasp of her bra. Instead, she bent her head to her sewing and let him unfasten it.

Her breasts spilled free, so much heavier than they'd been when she was younger. She allowed him to arrange the gauzy fabric of her blouse as he wished. He slipped one sleeve down her arm until it caught at the crook. Then the other. Her breasts rested in the nest of fabric like plump hens.

His footsteps tapped the limestone floor as he returned to his canvas.

Bare-breasted, she kept to her sewing.

Earlier she'd believed that her quilt would be about nurture instead of seduction, but now the astonishing fact that she'd allowed him to do this told her the meaning was more complex. She'd thought the sexual part of her had died. Now the hot ache in her body made her understand this wasn't true. The quilt had just unlocked one secret of her new identity.

Without disturbing the drape of fabric at the crook of her arms, she dipped into the box at her side and found a soft piece of old velvet. It was a deep, sensual crimson shaded with darker hues. The color of dark opal basil. The secret color of a woman's body. Her fingers trembled as she rounded the corners. The fabric brushed her nipples as she worked it, making them tighten and bead. She dipped into the box again and found an even deeper hue to serve as the secret heart.

She would add tiny crystals of dew.

A muffled curse made her look up. Liam stared at her, perspiration glistening on the rugged planes of his face. His paint-streaked arms hung slack at his sides, and a brush lay at his feet where he'd dropped it. "I've painted a hundred nudes. This is the first time…" He shook his head, looking momentarily bewildered. "I can't do this."

A rush of shame filled her. Her quilt piece fell to the floor as she leaped up, grabbed her blouse, pulled it closed.

"No." He came toward her. "Oh, no, not that."

The fire in his eyes stunned her. His legs brushed her skirt, and he plunged his hands inside the blouse she'd just drawn closed. Gathering her breasts in his hands, he buried his face in the swells. She clutched his arms as his lips closed around a nipple.

Their explosion of passion should have been reserved for youth, but neither of them was young. She felt his hard, thick length. He reached for the waistband of her skirt. Sanity returned, and she pushed his hands away. She wanted him to see her naked as she'd once been, not as she was now.