He cut off the rest of the sentence, but he didn’t need to finish it. Fiona could do that herself.
Now that he’d felt the reality, had touched the reality of her generous curves, he did not want her. The house of cards that had been desire and pleasure and closeness and a hope she should never have allowed, crumbled down.
Fiona tipped up her chin and told herself it didn’t matter. It absolutely, fiercely did not matter. ‘Goodnight, Brent.’
‘Goodnight. I’m—’
Sorry.
At least he didn’t say it.
With one last glance from a troubled green gaze, Brent walked away.
Chapter Six
REPEAT after me: I am a professional, I am a professional, I am a professional. I’m focused on my work, my career, my ‘five year plan’ and my goals for success…
Fiona attempted, yet again, for the umpteenth time, to figure out what was wrong with the feature plants in the painting she was working on. If she could feel settled or focused about anything at all, it might help her make a decent assessment of the problem.
And how could she feel settled when all of her was utterly distracted and had been since the night Brent had kissed her and walked away straight afterwards?
‘Stupid thing.’ She grabbed the open container of ochre paint from her work shelf.
Perhaps, if she blended a little white into it, she’d overcome the toning issue she had going on. If indeed the problem actually was a toning issue. The colour wasn’t right. That much she’d known from the start. She just wasn’t certain if that was the entire problem.
‘I shouldn’t call the painting names. I’m the problem, not it.’ She muttered the words, set the container on a small work table and set about mixing the white in.
Overall, this painting was not going well. That much she could say for sure, and that was a problem because the client expected to receive this artwork on Monday.
Brent was in the next room, working on something. Well, she assumed so. He’d had the door pushed across all morning so she couldn’t be certain of anything, really, but she doubted he was having the same difficulties concentrating as she was.
In fact, he seemed just fine ignoring what had happened between them after the Awards night dinner. All of it. The revelation of his autism. The meeting with his father. Their kiss. His regret and rejection after it. Maybe it had been a sympathy kiss—for her sake. She had been very upset on his behalf and he was a kind man.
The thought made her cringe because to her it had been anything but that.
But he’d backed away from it, had clearly been put off by it. What other conclusion could she draw?
Fiona gave her paint one last vigorous stir. She would simply have to get on with her work, that was all. Take a leaf from her boss’s book and only focus on the responsibilities they shared here. That was smart anyway. The only sensible thing to do, really, in the face of the fact that Brent didn’t…want her.
So there. That was decided. Fiona snatched up her newly blended paint, briefly admired the glossy consistency of it and swung about to carry it to her easel.
‘I need to go up into the mountains. This project—’
‘I’m going to just focus on work…Oomph.’
As their words crossed each other, Fiona came up against a solid wall of chest. Paint hit that chest in a broad, gooey blob, slopped over her hand and splashed its way down until drips hit the floor.
‘Oh, no.’ The paint container wobbled in her hand. Fiona got it upright, but that was pointless now.
‘I guess I should have knocked first or something.’ Brent spoke in a slightly dazed tone while his fingers rose to his chest.
‘It’s my fault. I should have been looking at what I was doing.’ Fiona’s hand rose, too. She brushed at the dinner-plate sized splodge soaking into his shirt, sticking it to the firm muscles of his chest.
And then she stilled as Brent’s fingers explored the paint, sliding back and forth through it, not to clear it off, but to get the full tactile experience of it.
The sight of that exploration was one of the most beautiful, sensual things Fiona had ever seen. Maybe he caught her staring because his fingers came to a standstill and very green eyes searched her gaze while heat coated his cheekbones.
Embarrassment, but why?
Because that’s his condition speaking.
‘You must think I’m strange—’
‘I’m sorry I stared. It was just that you looked so—’ She couldn’t complete the words. Couldn’t tell him that his expression had made her imagine his hands stroking her skin that way.
‘I…um…I’ve ruined your shirt.’ Her mouth pointed out the ridiculously obvious while the rest of her tried to catch its breath. ‘I was trying to fix a problem with this artwork. The colour change probably wouldn’t have fixed it, anyway. I need to see the particular seed pod that grows on the plants I’ve used in the painting. The trouble is they don’t go to seed pods until they’re quite mature. I won’t find what I need at any young plant nursery.’
Brent’s glance moved to the half finished painting. ‘What you have there looks…okay.’
‘Yes, and that’s the problem. Okay is synonymous with “average”. It isn’t good enough.’ Fiona frowned at the painting. ‘I need the real thing.’
He looked from her to the painting and back again. ‘If you can’t fix this it’s going to drive you crazy, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but how do you—?’
‘Know how that feels?’ He shook his head. ‘Because I’ve just spent all morning working on a project and not getting it where I need to because the one part of it that’s vital to the design I can’t perfect until I study rock formations in the mountains. And, as it happens, the rock formations I have in mind are the only place I know of where you’ll find your plants, complete with seed pods. It’s where I spotted the plants before I incorporated them into that landscape design in the first place. They aren’t normally stocked in nurseries. Linc sourced some young plants for me when I needed them.’
‘If you could get me a look at some…’ Without thinking about it, she took his hand in hers and used the base of his shirt to wipe as much of the paint off his fingers as she could. ‘I hope that shirt didn’t have sentimental value. I’ll replace it, of course.’ Her fingers worked at the buttons on the shirt. She got through three of them before he shackled her wrist.
‘Don’t—’ He broke off. ‘You’ll get it all over yourself.’
‘It’s too late to worry about that.’ It was too late to worry about a few things, Fiona realised, including the impact of revealing his chest to her gaze, even if she could only see a little of it. She dropped her glance so he wouldn’t see the expression in her eyes.
He probably liked petite women with dainty feet who didn’t have issues about plants, with or without seed pods on them…‘You should shower. There’ll be residue soaking through onto your skin. At least it’s not the most expensive brand of paint, but I’m sorry it got wasted.’
‘Don’t worry about that, and don’t worry about the shirt.’ Brent hesitated as he searched her face again. ‘You’ve been putting in long hours, trying to get this painting pulled together. I shouldn’t have asked you to produce something on