about her.
But that wouldn’t happen. It couldn’t.
Mitch turned away from the window and stalked out of the room. He knew who he was, knew where he came from.
He also knew where he was going, and nothing would stop him from getting there. Not Rachel and her rustling petticoats. Not his own want for her.
He was here to do a job. That was all. He had a plan—a plan he’d made long ago—and he’d stick to it. He’d have what he wanted in this life. And nothing, not even Rachel Branford and her rustling petticoats, would stop him.
A strange sensation zipped up Rachel’s spine seconds before she heard the brush of shoes against the grass. She knew—somehow, she knew—who approached.
“Good morning.”
Mitch’s rich voice floated over her. She turned to find him standing a few feet away, gazing at her intently. So intently that for an instant she forgot how completely unprepared she was to see anyone—especially him—at this early hour.
When she’d looked out her window and seen the spectacular sunrise, she’d thrown on a day dress, no corset or petticoats. She twisted her hair into a careless knot, grabbed her art supplies and hurried outside. She’d kicked off her slippers to feel the grass against her toes and set to work trying to capture the sunrise.
She wasn’t fit to be seen by anyone. It simply wasn’t done.
Yet he looked so handsome standing there. From her seat on her little stool, he seemed even taller. The color of his suit and the necktie he wore complimented his hair, his eyes.
Eyes that, for a moment, seemed to see straight through her and know that her heart beat a little faster at the sight of him.
Determinedly, Rachel turned back to her easel. “I have only a few minutes to scrutinize the sunrise,” she told him, dabbing at her sketchbook with her brush.
He stepped closer and positioned himself beside her. His nearness sent a rush through her, producing a wiggly trail of paint across the paper.
“Is that supposed to be the sun?” he asked, leaning down, squinting at her work.
“Yes.” Rachel picked up more paint with her brush and swept it across the paper.
He leaned in a little farther until his face was even with hers. “Your sun looks like a circle.”
“I’m not painting the actual sun. I’m capturing its colors.” Rachel put down her brush and sighed. “Or trying to. What I need is a spectacular shade of pink, but I’m not finding it this morning.”
“You’re quitting?” Mitch asked.
“Yes, for now.” Rachel rose from the stool.
“Can I see your other paintings?” Mitch asked.
“No,” she said, holding the sketchbook closer. Occasionally, she showed her work to others, but never the things she’d put in this particular book.
“Why not?”
She backed up a little. “It’s…personal.”
“I was in a museum once,” Mitch said, easing a little closer. “There were pictures of naked people all over the place. Is that what you’ve got in your book? Naked people?”
“Are you offering to model?” she asked.
Rachel gasped. Her eyes widened. Goodness, had she actually said that aloud? Heat rushed up her neck and fanned across her cheeks. She saw Mitch draw in a quick breath and his gaze dip—and not to the sketchbook she clutched below her bosom.
How embarrassing. How humiliating. Rachel wanted to melt into the ground and disappear. How could she have said that aloud—how could she have even thought it?
Then Mitch reached out and cupped her chin. He lifted it until her gaze met his.
“Now there’s a spectacular shade of pink,” he said softly, rubbing his thumb over her cheek.
Her embarrassment fled. He’d done that before, turned her emotions with a look, a word…now with a touch.
Mitch leaned down and kissed her. He splayed his fingers across her cheek and touched his lips to hers. Rachel gasped as he settled his mouth over hers and moved with exquisite slowness.
He lifted his head and gazed into her eyes.
“You’re a bit pink now yourself,” she whispered.
“Shall I model for you?”
She smiled gently, caught up completely in this private moment with him. “Is that covered in the exorbitant fee I’m paying you?”
He grinned. “No extra charge.”
She looked at him for a few seconds, as if considering his offer, then shook her head. “I’m afraid that simply isn’t done.”
“My offer stands.”
“How very generous of you.”
He studied her and for an instant Rachel thought he might kiss her again. Instead, he backed up a step.
“I’d better get inside and earn my fee,” he told her.
Rachel watched as he headed toward the house, her head spinning slightly. Good gracious, what had just happened?
And how would she ever be able to ask Mitch the question that meant so much to her—without thinking of their kiss?
How the hell was he supposed to stay away from the woman when even the sound of her voice drew his attention? Sent his imagination reeling? Ratcheted up his desire?
Mitch pushed himself out of the desk chair and paced across the study. He’d been here since breakfast trying to work, trying to concentrate, trying to keep thoughts of Rachel out of his mind, and he’d failed miserably.
He’d tried to keep his body under control, but had failed miserably at that, too.
He’d kissed her. This morning in the yard he’d leaned down, put his mouth on hers and kissed her. Then he’d offered to model nude for her painting.
Mitch shook his head. Good God, what was wrong with him? He had to get Rachel out of his mind.
That was proving more difficult as the day passed.
Earlier, her friend had arrived and the two of them had been in the sitting room down the hall ever since. Whatever the two were discussing must have been important—to them, anyway. Mitch had heard nothing but giggling, gasping and a steady low murmur, all of which kept reminding him of how sweet Rachel’s kiss had been, kept him from concentrating on his work.
He paced to the door and gazed down the hall. He couldn’t see inside. What was Rachel wearing? he wondered. The same yellow thing she’d had on this morning when he’d looked out his bedchamber window and seen her painting at her easel? Had she changed clothing?
He hoped so. If he walked in on her now and saw her dressed as she’d been this morning—obviously without the armor of under things women wore—he didn’t know how he’d control himself.
Still, he wondered what sort of clothing she might have changed into. If he walked past the doorway, glanced inside he could—
Mitch drew himself up and pushed the thought from his mind. What the hell was wrong with him? Determinedly, he stalked back to his desk.
A few minutes later, the voices of the women grew louder. A cloud of the most delicate scent floated into the study. Mitch looked up as Rachel and Claudia walked past his doorway, heading toward the foyer.
Blue. She had on blue. A fresh wave of desire surged through Mitch. He leaned sideways, watching her drift down the hallway until he nearly fell out of his chair. He caught himself in time but sent a stack of ledgers tumbling onto the floor.
“Damn