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CHAPTER1
MILES
My heart in a frenzy, I turn away from the painting to look at the striking red-haired woman in a flowy green dress and black flats. Immersed in Degas’sDance Class, she doesn’t notice me standing beside her. She leans in to look at the portrait before her, flaming hair bouncing on her shoulders. My gaze roams her pale skin enhanced by the dress, showing off perfectly-curved breasts and slightly fleshed-out hips.
Oh, fuck. I’m already gone for this girl.
My nose tingles as I catch a whiff of bergamot and citrus. Close up, her skin is creamy and flawless.
“The painter of dancing girls.”
Startled, she jerks and curves her body in my direction to look at me inquisitively. The neatly trimmed brows, piercing jade green eyes, pert nose, and pouty lips gracing her oval face have my dick pulsing in appreciation. To call her gorgeous would be an understatement. The dusting of freckles on her nose makes her even more captivating.
If I were an artist, I would take delight in capturing her perfection.
Her lips part, and my gaze is transfixed there for a moment before lifting to the lush green of her eyes. My breath catches, and a roil of heat seeps into my muscles. We stare at each other until I clear my throat.
“My apologies. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
Her face relaxes into a cordial smile before she looks away without uttering a word. I open my mouth to say something, but I clamp it shut and gawk at her.
What in the world is wrong with me?
For the first time in a long while, I’m lost for words. A little unnerved, I stare at the painting of ballet dancers in their tutus waiting for their turn to perform.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” I question lightly.
“Yes,” is all I get back. Her voice is like silk gliding across my skin.
I want to hear more of it.
“Have you ever wondered why he chose to paint ballerinas as his muse while his contemporaries were into landscapes and the like?”
She shrugs. “You mean other than women bathers?”
Do I detect a slight accent? Possibly French?
“I think he found the female body intriguing.”
She curves her brows. “Yet history has it that he was a misogynistic recluse.”
“Well, he was a very talented artist.” I lean closer and point. “See the way he captures the movement of the girls and the flowing of their gowns?”
“Yes, but their positions are quite ungainly and asymmetrical.”
I step back, amused.
“Are you an art critic?”
“No. More of an art enthusiast.” She smiles and turns away. “Please excuse me.”
There’s no way I’m letting this girl leave.
“I’m Miles.”
She glances at my outstretched hand before almost reluctantly placing her soft palm in it. “Giselle.”
At her touch, the low simmer in my core turns molten. I search her face to see if she felt it, too.
