Following her in, he shut the door. "Just a feeling I have."
She was walking before him, her gait sure, almost brisk, and he wondered for a moment how many other men had followed her like this-wanting what he wanted.
The hall carpet was museum quality-he'd not had time to notice before-the pine paneling a lustrous honey color in the afternoon light, the paintings on the walls small landscapes and London scenes in the airy impressionist style he'd first seen at Durand-Ruel a few years earlier. So she wasn't Leighton's protegee in matters of style, he thought, strangely cheered by this revelation. When she was posing nude for the artist, he'd assumed other things. Not that artistic differences meant they couldn't sleep together. Nor did it mean he viewed Leighton as a rival if they did. When women were only transient amusements, rivalry wasn't an issue.
But if the viscount had been more perspicacious, he might have realized his consideration of the issue, however briefly, was in itself novel.
Alex's only debate at this point was whether she could restrain her urges sufficiently to appear the lady. "Please, pour yourself a drink. I'll be right back," she said half over her shoulder as she entered the main room of her studio. "The liquor table's over by the terrace door."
Coming to rest at the entrance to the large room, Sam took in the enormous space with a discerning gaze. As a collector of sorts, he'd been in numerous studios, and while Alex's was luxurious, it had a charming intimacy despite its size. Furniture was arranged in groupings on colorful carpets, vases of flowers were scattered about, the gas lamps had hand-painted shades, an occasional bit of clothing was draped over a piece of furniture. Her paintings were stacked everywhere, a large unfinished canvas of a summer garden was on her easel. Her talent was considerable. For a brief moment he didn't know if that further indication of her superior qualities offended him or not. He'd never known a woman so far removed from average.
"What do you think?"
Her voice came from behind him, and as he turned from the easel, he saw her in the doorway of what looked like a kitchen. "You're damned good."
"Is that a problem?"
He smiled. "Forgive me. My masculine biases are showing. Your technique is masterful. You're a woman of great talent."
"There, you see, Ranelagh. I'm broadening your horizons."
"Perhaps I can do the same for you," he replied pleasantly.
"Oh, you're definitely outside my normal scope."
"I meant you might have predisposed ideas as well."
"About you."
"About men."
"About men like you."
He grinned. "I rest my case."
She smiled back. "I forgot. You have charitable impulses as well."
"Among other things. I expect you have a life beyond the superficial too."
"Would you like to hear about it?"
His smile formed slowly. "I'd love to-in about an hour or so."
"And I'd love to tell you-in an hour or so."
"You can't be accused of being shy."
"If you wish shyness, you've come to the wrong place."
His gaze slowly surveyed her. "I think we're both in the right place," he said. "And I'm not really in the mood for a drink."
"So I should hurry."
"If you don't think me too demanding."
"There are moments when 'demanding' appeals, my lord," she said softly.
"I'll be sure to remember that," he said equally softly. "And your work is better than most I've seen in Paris. I just wanted to say that… now."
"Are you planning on leaving quickly?"
"Not at all. The way I feel, you might find it difficult to push me out the door."
"So I'm not alone in my rapacious lust."
He shook his head. "I'm there."
"But exceedingly polite."
His grin was boyish. "I'm trying."
"Don't you usually?"
"Nothing about this is usual, Miss Ionides. I hope you understand that."
"I didn't. I don't. I'm not sure I believe you, but thank you nonetheless for so charming a sentiment."
"If you're basing your perceptions of me on my reputation, I don't believe 'charming' is in the description anywhere."
"I find it charming, and in the end, my lord, that's all that matters."
"Please… my name's Sam."
"And mine is Alex."
"And now that we're suitably introduced… Alex," he said soft and low. "Might I help you off with your gown?"
"I didn't realize you were such a stickler for protocol," she declared.
"Hardly. I'd just prefer less talk and more…"
"Sex?"
"If you don't mind."
"If I minded… Sam… you wouldn't be here right now."
He opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and closed his mouth.
She chuckled, understanding the reason for his restraint. "How gallant you can be."
He tipped his head gently toward her. "I have my moments."
Her gaze traveled slowly down his well-formed body and settled on his obvious arousal. "Because of your erection."
"Do lady painters use that word?"
"This one does. And yours is very fine and the thought of feeling you inside me is tantalizing in the extreme."
Her words added dimension to his rigid length, and he found it necessary to take a small breath before speaking. "I'd suggest doing whatever it is you still wish to do quickly, or you're going to find yourself backed up against the wall and fucked standing up."
It was her turn to require the sustaining breath before speaking, the image he evoked intensifying the throbbing between her legs. "I'd prefer a bed the first time."
The implications in the words first time sent a heated rush through his senses. "Clothed or unclothed. You've about a minute to decide."
She moved from the doorway. "Unclothed," she said, and walking to a tapestry screen set in the corner of the studio, she added as she disappeared behind it, "Come and see me in a minute."
He rapidly counted to twenty and, impatient, followed her. Walking around the screen depicting Leda and the Swan against a vivid scarlet background-an appropriate subject in his current ramming-speed frame of mind-he came to an abrupt stop. The screen hid the entrance to her bedroom, and from the size of the bed dominating the small room, he'd say the lady he was about to fuck knew what she was doing. It wasn't the bed of a tyro, nor of a lady for that matter, if he subscribed to the conventional meaning of the word. The bed would be more appropriate in a seraglio, its headboard and canopy ornately carved and elaborately gilded, the entire structure swathed in diaphanous tulle and even though those silken draperies were white, it wasn't a virgin's bed.
"People tend to have that reaction to my bed."
"People?" A low, faint growl underscored the word.
"I have women friends too."
"And what the hell does that mean?"
"What would you like it to mean?"
He exhaled slowly. "You're enjoying yourself, aren't you?" She was partially undressed, standing to the left of the door, her gown at her feet, her chemise and drawers lace-trimmed silk and pristine white.
"You forget, I live outside the aristocratic world by choice."
"Not always. Not this afternoon at the races."
"Mostly I do," she corrected herself. "Because I wish to separate myself as much as possible from people who ask the kind of questions you just asked. And if I wish to have women friends who are more than friends, I will, as will I cultivate the kind of men friends I wish. I hope that's clear… Sam."
"As a bell… Alex."
"Then I'll meet you in bed."
It wasn't as though he made love only to deferential women. The range of females in his life ran the gamut. And he was the least likely man to demand submission. But this splendid woman, this image of incarnate femaleness, was so blatantly challenging, he found himself responding to her with a kind of brutish authority, as though some contest of wills were about to commence.
"If you don't mind," she said with a smile, taking note of the sudden rigidity of his stance.