The stew was wonderful. Harry was an excellent cook, and he'd combined chicken and curry and an assortment of vegetables into a melange of flavors so exquisite, Alex forgot her current obsession for a few moments. "You're as creative a cook as you are a painter. This is fabulous," she said, smiling.

"Everything's fabulous when you're here."

"Harry, you know how I feel about that."

"I won't ask you to do anything you don't want to do, Alex. I just like having you here. I wish you'd come over more often."

"Maybe I will if we can be friends."

"If you want to be friends, we'll be friends," he said in a very grown-up way. "But if you ever want to be more than friends"-he smiled-"keep me in mind."

She gazed at him fondly. "You're adorable."

"I know. You've told me so. And I'm thinking when you get tired of Ranelagh, maybe you'll come and see me again."

Was he prescient? She schooled her face to conceal her shock. "I'll keep that in mind," she said, keeping her voice carefully neutral.

"Make sure you do, because I'll always be here. I love you, Alex, even if you don't love me. And not just because you've helped me with my career." He smiled again. "I didn't even know painters had careers. I thought you painted because you had to."

"Talented people like you paint because they have to. Others wouldn't even know what you mean by that compulsion. You're so good, Harry, I want you to have everything you deserve. And I'll help you in any way lean."

"Except you won't marry me."

She couldn't help but smile. "You'd be tired of me within a month. I'm bossy and demanding, and when you saw me in the morning, you'd realize how old I really was."

"I have seen you in the morning, and you're beautiful. And you're only ten years older than I. That's not so much." His spirits were high because she hadn't said no and she hadn't left and he was never so happy as when he was with her. "And think… you like the way I cook. Wait until you try my plum tart with crème anglaise."

How could she refuse plum tart? She couldn't any more than she could refuse Harry's invitation to sketch with him that afternoon when he had a live model coming to his studio. "I know how much you like to draw from life," he went on to explain, "so when this man at the market said he'd pose anytime I wanted if I helped him with his watercolors, I wasn't about to argue. He's from Syria-Damascus, I think."

"You're spoiling me." She smiled at him, her mood much improved after Beecher's fine wine, which she drank with the plum tart and crème anglaise.

"I want to spoil you. I want to do everything for you. I'd carry you everywhere if you'd let me."

The difference between Harry's devotion and Sam's profligate self-indulgence was profound. She wondered how she could be so irrational as to choose casual sex over ardent feeling.

But there it was. Without explanation or reason.

She couldn't get Sam out of her mind even while this young man was pouring his heart out to her.

Taking herself to task, she forced away her thoughts from the infamous viscount and concentrated on Harry's conversation.

"You always wanted to paint an exotic locale. Why don't we have Larry pose in desert garb. I had Chloe bring over some of the props from her studio."

"How is Chloe?" She was the painter Addison's beautiful daughter and had shown considerable interest in Harry.

"Chloe? Fine, I suppose. I didn't notice. Look what she brought us." And he went on to exhibit enthusiastically a full array of desert robes and weapons.

The model arrived soon thereafter. Harry introduced the young man, stumbling over his name.

"Just call me Ben," the model said kindly. "Everyone does." The handsome man bowed over Alex's hand with great courtesy and grace.

They briefly discussed Ben's homeland, how he'd come to London with the scholars who had been investigating Petra, how he'd been their guide, and once they decided on an appropriate robe and weapons, the afternoon of sketching began.


The work turned out to be just what Alex needed to take her mind from her unwanted fascination with Sam. For those hours while she and Harry worked busily, she didn't once think of him. Not until they began losing the sun did she even take note of the time.

She'd finished a pastel and a small oil study, both preliminary sketches possibly useful in a larger canvas.

Harry had concentrated on a portrait study in oil and had captured Ben's face with such vivid realism, the two-dimensional medium had taken on a sculptural quality.

Ben was pleased with the likenesses. While Alex rested, Harry gave the young model his watercolor lesson. She found herself in good humor; she always was when she was working. As she watched Harry help with the watercolor, she marveled at his talent. His hand moved with such sureness. He was kind and considerate in his instructions, always pointing out Ben's strengths rather than his weaknesses, generously offering praise. Harry really was a very nice young man, she thought warmly. She was glad she'd come to see him.

This very productive afternoon reminded her of what was truly important in her life. Not sex, nor transient pleasure, but her painting and charities, family and friends like Harry. She had so much to bring her satisfaction. While Sam had been a pleasant interlude, she needed to be sensible about their relationship. Passion alone wasn't enough for personal fulfillment, nor could she afford to let her infatuation overwhelm her life. More important, she refused to be so susceptible to his or any man's charm.

When she left, she thanked Harry with genuine warmth. "I so enjoyed myself today. I forget how pleasant it is to work with someone else."

"Come over and paint with me anytime." He smiled, then took her hand and shook it. "You see how well mannered I can be. I didn't try to kiss you once."

"I noticed," she replied, smiling too. "I appreciate your restraint."

He ran his fingers through his long, fair hair and then gently swung his arms and grinned. "Anytime you're in the mood, though, just let me know. I'm always available."

"I'll keep it in mind."

"I just thought I'd mention it…"

"I might take you up on your offer sometime."

"Ben's coming over again on Monday-if you'd like to join us."

"Maybe I will." With a wave and a lighter heart, she left.

Chapter Twenty-four

Once she was back in her studio, the memories came flooding back, and practical considerations gave way to emotion. Sam had stood right there, or lounged in that chair, kissed her there and there and there. No matter where she looked, she was reminded of him. She dreaded going into her bedroom, where the searing images would be all too intense.

She tried to paint for a time, but the unfinished garden landscape only escalated the level of her unease, the sunlit scene giving rise to lush memories of the wild, thrilling rapture they'd shared. She finally threw her brushes down, turned the canvas around, shut the door to the garden, and poured herself a brandy.

Slumped in a chair, her drink untouched at her side, she bemoaned the emotional turmoil that had plagued her since meeting Sam. It wasn't fair, she thought, that he'd entered her life and disrupted her hard-won contentment, nor, she reflected more bitterly, that he'd so easily changed her mind last night.

What really wasn't fair was that he could as easily change any woman's mind. For a jealous moment, she wished him and all his paramours to the devil.

Cooler counsel surfaced a moment later, and she reminded herself that she had been fully aware of his reputation before she embarked on that first fateful carriage ride. And his seduction last night had been delectable and enchanting as usual. So much as she'd like to blame him, she had no one to blame but herself.

Not a particularly consoling thought, nor one that brought her any measure of peace.

Damn him and his irresistible allure.


When Rosalind walked into Alex's studio that evening, Alex's mood hadn't improved. She'd actually drunk two brandies in an effort to mitigate the worst of her temper, canceled two appointments, tried to nap without success, dusted her entire studio, after which she made a note to increase her maid's wages or throw out some of the porcelain and artifacts littering her shelves and tables. And now she was seriously thinking about going to see Harry-as a diversion to her black mood.

"See Harry later," Rosalind suggested, standing in the doorway of the dust-free studio. "Right now you have to dress. Have you forgotten we're expected at Caroline's for dinner?"

Alex didn't move from her Empire chaise, her gaze, if not sullen, decidedly morose. "I'm not going."

Rosalind settled into a chair in a rustle of pale blue silk, her matching pale blue gaze direct. "Ranelagh's not worth it," she said briskly.

A flash of surprise crossed Alex's face. "Is it that obvious?"

Leaning forward in a twinkle of sapphire ear drops, Rosalind patted Alex's hand. "He's the divine and glorious Ranelagh, darling. What did you expect?"

"Perhaps I didn't realize the full extent of his deification," Alex muttered.

"His godlike attributes are well known to anyone interested in dalliance. You've just never concerned yourself with amour before. If you want my advice, I'd suggest you get up, get dressed, go out tonight, and forget Ranelagh."

"Because he's sure to forget me, you mean."

Rosalind lifted one bare shoulder. "How blunt do you wish me to be?" And when Alex didn't answer, she said, "He leaves them all. But it's not as though you're looking for more." Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Are you?"