The Theft (Thornton 2)

"Please, come in." She began the charade, gesturing towards the long expanse of windows. "I've had this area cleared so that you might work with as much light as possible."

"Excellent." Scanning the area, André nodded his enthusiasm, then collected his materials and crossed over to the designated site. "This spot is ideal."

"I'm glad." With apparent self-consciousness, Noelle glanced down at herself, smoothed the folds of her rich violet day dress. "I hope this gown is suitable. I tried to choose something colorful, hoping it would make your job easier."

In the process of assembling his easel, André paused. "My job is already unspeakably easy," he told her huskily. "In fact, so easy it's absurd to think I'll actually be receiving money for doing it." A provocative wink. "But we won't tell that to Mr. Baricci."

"Of course not." Noelle gave him a sunny smile. "Now, where would you like me to sit?"

André pointed to an empty space directly across from the windows. "Have your lady's maid fetch a high stool and set it there when she comes in. That will give me just the right amount of sunlight to do you justice. And don't worry. I won't allow you to endure even the slightest bit of discomfort. We'll take frequent breaks so you won't become stiff or fidgety."

He crossed over, caught Noelle's chin between his fingers and angled her head from side to side. "Astonishing," he murmured. "Your eyes are like glowing sapphires. They must surely bum to ashes every man you gaze upon. And your skin…" His knuckles brushed her cheek. "Pale, delicate—flawless. All crowned by a halo of shimmering black silk." He lifted strands of her hair, let them trail between his tapered fingers. "Exquisite."

"Thank you." Noelle managed to insert just enough breathlessness in her tone to sound sincere. Actually, she found the overt flattery nauseating. "I'll send for a footman to bring the chair." She paused, delivering what she knew André would find to be his coup of the day. "With regard to my lady's maid, she won't be chaperoning us after all. I convinced Papa that it would be too difficult for you to concentrate on your craft, to express yourself freely, with Grace looming over you." An exasperated sigh. "She's loyal but too overbearing for words."

Sure enough, André's entire face lit up.

"Thank you, chérie," he murmured. "That was very thoughtful of you. And you're right. We'll get far more accomplished with no one else present. Just the two of us—and the magic we'll make celebrating your beauty."

"Well, not quite the two of us," Noelle amended with an impish grin. "We will have one spectator who refuses to be ousted."

A puzzled frown. "And who would that be?"

"My cat." Noelle gestured towards the ledge, where Tempest lay sprawled on her side, sleeping in a patch of sunlight.

André followed her gesture, and chuckled, his frown evaporating as if by magic. "I think I can block out the distraction of a dozing cat. So long as it doesn't meow plaintively throughout our session."

"There's no threat of that," Noelle replied. "Tempest has never done anything plaintive in her life."

"Good. Then for all intents and purposes, we're alone." André hovered over her for a moment, his charismatic presence a close and palpable entity, and Noelle wondered how many women he'd charmed into bed with that overwhelming presence, together with that sensual accent and deep, caressing stare.

* * *

Lying silently beneath the ledge's overhang, Ashford was wondering much the same thing. Just listening to Sardo's attempted seduction of Noelle made rage pump through his veins—he who stayed calm under the most adverse of circumstances. Then again, why should he be surprised by the vehemence of his reaction? Noelle constantly elicited unprecedented emotional reactions from him; it seemed only natural that fierce and unreasonable jealousy be one of them.

Damn, he wanted to choke Sardo with his bare hands—and the bastard had scarcely touched her.

Ashford clenched his teeth, purposefully tamping down on his fury. He'd best regain control—and fast. This seduction scheme Baricci had arranged was only going to get more intense as time went on—until Sardo got the assurances and the information he wanted.

Or until Noelle learned what she wanted to know, then expedited the painting of this portrait and ensured its eagerly awaited conclusion—a conclusion that entailed the ousting of André Sardo.

And the capture of Franco Baricci.

Steeling himself for what was to come, Ashford crept forward a few knee-lengths, until Tempest's tail was practically touching his nose and he dared go no further for fear of detection. He peeked around the edge of the sofa, able to catch a glimpse of the scene unfolding before him.

Sardo was mixing his paints and setting his palette, and Noelle was settling herself on the newly delivered stool.

"I've always been in great awe of artists," Noelle confessed, draping the skirts of her gown out around her. "Since I can't draw a straight line, I find it a miracle that others can capture color and essence, even emotion, on paper and canvas."

"It's a gift," Sardo answered and then paused, raising his palette knife and staring at it broodingly. "And sometimes a curse."

"How so?"

Sardo's chin came up, and he turned his dark gaze on Noelle. "When I'm haunted by a vision, I can't rest until I've re-created it. I'm a prisoner to the voices inside my head that command me to put pencil to pad or brush to canvas." He resumed scraping paints onto his palette.

"That's fascinating." Noelle folded her hands in her lap. "Do you ever become so attached to a particular work that you refuse to sell it?"

"Occasionally, yes. Some of my paintings become so entrenched in my soul that selling them would be like cutting out a part of me." A corner of his mouth lifted. "Why? Are you afraid I'll decide to keep your portrait rather than delivering it to Mr. Baricci?"