"A favorite memory..." A faraway glaze appeared in her eyes as her mind drifted. "Christmas, about a year after my dad died. My mother and I decorated the entire house with ribbons and bows and afterward she baked pumpkin spice cookies. For the first time, we weren't afraid of anyone finding fault with our efforts."

"You were afraid before?" he asked gently. "With your father?"

Her nod was reluctant, but it was a response and it was progress.

"I know you mentioned he called you names. Did he ever hurt you physically?"

"He didn't have to. His words did enough damage."

Beck took her hand and twined their fingers. "Sometimes that's worse. Physical damage heals. Inner wounds can fester."

She held on tight, and the ache returned to his chest. But he was used to it now. It was almost like an old friend. "You were hurt, too," she said, a statement rather than a question.

Oh, no, she didn't. They weren't talking about him. "Haven't you heard?" He smiled as he released her and gripped his knees. "I'm Superlover. Stronger-and harder-than steel."

She rolled her eyes. "You're also deflecting."

"No, I'm stating facts. Now, what's your favorite food?"

"Bacon. Isn't everyone's?"

"Your favorite drink?

"Lemonade. What about you?" she asked. "Your favorite memory of the farmhouse, I mean. And don't try to flirt or tease your way out of answering. I'll kick you out of my RV."

"Harsh, Harlow. Harsh. But okay, fine. I enjoyed finding a blueberry pie thief in my hallway." When she pointed to the door, he said, "I mean it. You looked both scared and determined, like you were defenseless, but you would kill to protect the pilfered dessert."

"I would have," she said, a smile teasing the corners of her mouth. A smile he wanted to taste.

"Bunny," he said, reaching out to finger the hem of her shorts, the need to touch her born from his most primitive instincts. "Have you thought long and hard about what position you'd like me in for the painting?"

Color bloomed in her cheeks, her breath catching in her throat. "Yes. You should be bent over the couch, your bottom red from a recent spanking."

"In to pain and punishment, are you? Good to know. Grab the supplies I sent over, and we'll get started," he said-and while she sputtered for a response, he began unb.u.t.toning his shirt.

ONCE AGAIN THERE was something different about Beck. Only, this change came from the opposite end of the spectrum, and it was making Harlow nervous. He was charming, more charming than usual, and he was clearly bent on seduction. Did she have the strength to resist?

"Wait," she said. "I've been thinking. I should paint you with your clothes on first. You know, to make you feel more comfortable."

"Trust me. I'm always comfortable naked."

I'll bet you are.

He popped open another b.u.t.ton. His nimble fingers had already worked halfway down the shirt, and what she saw of his chest captivated her. Well-defined pecs with a dusting of black hair that was golden at the tips. Tanned, unmarred skin. An eight-pack capable of intoxicating her after a single glance. He was altogether flawless and utterly divine.

His past lovers were probably equally flawless. Look at Tawny. Kimberly, whom he hadn't slept with but had considered dating. And then there was Harlow. Up top, she was like a patchwork quilt. "Don't you want to make sure I can get your upper proportions right before you trust me down below?"

A wicked sparkle in eyes now tilted with languid desire. "Do you think I'll be too big for the canvas?"

Kill me. Kill me now. "Just leave your pants on!"

He shrugged out of his shirt, saying, "You're sure?"

Not even a little, but she forced herself to nod.

He gave a heavy sigh, as if he were doing her a huge favor. "Very well. The pants stay on. For now."

"Sit on the couch," she instructed, pulling the easel, paints and brushes from the cabinet. Earlier she'd given him a list of everything she would need, and she'd had to make a split-second decision about acrylic paint or oil-based. In the end she'd opted for oil-based. Acrylic dried too fast, even when mixed with a r.e.t.a.r.der, making the blending of colors more difficult.

"I don't want to hurt your feelings by being truthful about how wrong you are," he said, "but even I know the bed will make a more visually appealing background."

The bed. He reclined on it, lounging against the pillows.

Tremors plagued her as she set up shop. "You'll have to be still."

"I can do anything you need me to do, lover." His voice had gone low and husky again, stroking over her with the power of a caress. "All you have to do is tell me, and it's done."

Her hand trembled even harder as she picked up her brush. "You're not supposed to flirt with staff."

"It'll be our secret," he said. "You've done portrait work before."

She began to etch his silhouette. "Yes. My mother was my favorite subject."

"What happened to the canvases? Because there weren't any in the house when I moved in. I would have seen them."

Why not tell him? "I burned them." Watched them smolder to ash.

He frowned, suddenly as serious as a heart attack. "Why?"

"I didn't like how I felt when I looked at them."

"I thought your mother was kind to you."

"She was, but every time I spotted her image, I remembered I never became the woman she expected me to be. I remembered the years I kept her bound to the house, and I just... I guess I decided to finally set her free."

"You loved her. And she loved you," he said, his voice weighted with an emotion she guessed was envy.

"Yes. Very much." Tears welled in her eyes, the lines on the canvas blurring. She paused for a moment, calmed herself with a few deep breaths, and continued. "What about your parents?"

He remained silent. Of course. He could prod into her life, but she had no business poking into his.

"Biological? Foster?" she prompted.

More silence.

"You know," she said, not trying to hide her irritation, "you insist I tell you all kinds of stuff about me, but you shut down anytime I question you. It's really not fair. I'm not going to do anything with the information but know you better."

Another minute pa.s.sed before he said, "My mom died when I was five. My dad p.a.w.ned me off on relatives for a while, and after I'd worn out my welcome, good ole Dad relinquished his rights to me."

"Oh, baby. I'm so sorry." Wait. I called him baby? The embarra.s.sing slip had come out so naturally it scared her.

Thankfully, Beck hadn't seemed to notice. He merely hiked up his shoulders and said, "It is what it is."

"No. I refuse to think that way. What happened clearly hurt you. What was shouldn't have been." He'd lost a parent, only to be rejected by the other one. Harlow couldn't imagine what she would have done if Momma had cast her away as soon as Dad was buried. "You deserved better."

Beck cleared his throat. "Artists work by inspiration," he said, steering the conversation in a different direction. "What's yours?"

She didn't protest the change, saying, "Pretty much everything."

"Tsk-tsk. Harlow told her first lie of the evening. I'll give you that one, but the next one will cost you."

"I didn't lie," she said, earnest. But...what will the next one cost me?

"If everything inspired you, you never would have stopped painting in the first place."

"I was too poor to buy the supplies."

"Poor or not, if you'd wanted to paint, you would have found a way."

He had a point. "Allow me to amend my statement." She traced her brush over the canvas, beginning to bring him to life with color. "Everything inspires me...when I'm feeling safe."

"Safe. Interesting word choice, considering you have a shirtless man in your bed."

As if I need the reminder. "Hmm," she muttered, unwilling to commit to an actual response. And for a heartbeat, maybe an eternity, she became utterly lost in her art... Lost in Beck. In his beauty and charisma. His carnality. It was there in his eyes, staring at her from the bed as well as the canvas. Soon she was panting as if running a brush through paint were somehow a physical workout. Her skin hot with fever, her limbs not just trembling but buzzing with electricity.

"You okay over there?" he asked. "You look a little flushed."

"I'm fine," she said, breathless. "Just fine."

"You lying again?"

"No."

"My Spidy senses tell me otherwise."

"You're Superlover, remember? You have X-ray vision, not overdeveloped senses. But what if I was lying? What would you do then?" The impish side of her had to know.

He shifted, resting at a higher incline, his legs open and bent at the knees, creating the perfect cradle for her. "Let me show you," he said and wagged a finger at her. "Come here."

Self-preservation forced her to reply, "No way."

"Come here," he insisted. "Please, Harlow."

Please...

Her limbs acted the traitor, moving without her brain's permission. She set down her brush and stepped out from behind the easel. When she was halfway across the room, she realized what was happening and stopped.

Suspicious, she asked, "What are you going to do to me?"

He smiled slowly. "Everything I've been dying to do."

Red alert! He clearly planned to give her a night of pleasure...only, true to form, he would end things in the morning.

"If you'd rather keep working, fine," he said. "Let my body be your canvas and your tongue the brush."

So blatant. Anger flared, a halogen lamp in the forest of her conflicted emotions. He really does want me. Me! But he will still discard me.

Would he fire her afterward?

Her nails dug into her palms. Was this the routine he used on every woman? Hook her with a little romance, line her up with a slight baring of his soul, then sink her by convincing her to touch him?

b.a.s.t.a.r.d! He needed to be taught a lesson.

Welcome to Miss Gla.s.s's cla.s.sroom.

"You know, Beckham," she said with a sunny smile, wishing she could think up a more original nickname-and maybe one that insulted rather than praised, "I can think of a few things I'd like you to do for me." As she finished the journey to his side, being sure to sway her hips, raw hunger gleamed in his eyes, the green flecks brighter than ever. It threw her, made her stumble.

This is a game to him... Of course it's just a game.

She sat at the edge of the bed and cupped his hand in hers. Tingles, heat. She ignored both.

He went still, the pulse in his neck quickening. She fought the urge to lean over and lick it-an urge she'd never before entertained. In high school, the hickey had been something of a specialty for her, but it had never been about pa.s.sion. She'd simply marked the guys as her property.

"Your hands are placed awkwardly," she said, getting back to business. "This is what you should always do with them." She folded one of his fingers, then another, another and another, leaving only one. The middle one. "Yes, that's right. I want you to go screw yourself!"

His gaze jerked up to hers and narrowed.

"I know what you're doing," she said. "You're lining me up to be your next one-and-done, and I won't stand for it."

"Now, now, dumpling. You're hurting my feelings."

"As if you actually have any feelings!" She slapped at his chest. "But guess what? I do. And you want to know what isn't nice? Using a girl for s.e.x and ignoring her afterward!"

When she drew back her elbow to deliver another strike, he caught her wrist. He didn't grin, he didn't smirk, just flashed raw desire at her. "You want the s.e.x, too. Admit it."

At least he'd dropped the pretense. "I admit to nothing."

"Back to that, are we?" He tugged her forward, at the same time swinging her around. She hit the mattress and bounced, Beck moving over her. "First, I wouldn't ignore you afterward. We'd remain friendly. Second, if I took these fingers," he said, waving them in her face, "even the one you seemed to favor, and tunneled them under your shorts...your panties...I'd find you wet. Wouldn't I."

The b.a.s.t.a.r.d didn't even pose it as a question.

"No!" You'd find me soaking. "Don't you dare do it. I... I want someone else."

"West?" He shook his head, adamant. "I know that's what you think, baby, but you're wrong. You want me."

She'd figured out she didn't really want West, thank you, but she wasn't going to give Beck the satisfaction of admitting the truth aloud. Well, not the full truth, anyway.