Bride by Day. Rebecca Winters

for me, let alone anyone else.”

      He gave a negligent shrug of his powerful shoulders. “Then I don’t see the problem. My childhood was spent in a room not much larger than a closet. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

      She clenched her teeth. “Did it ever occur to you that I’m not ready for company?”

      “I’m not company,” he retorted with maddening non chalance. “Come. Give me the key.”

      In the next instance he’d removed it from her rigid fingers and had opened the door, signaling that she should precede him.

      That brief contact of skin against skin sent a quickening through her body she’d never experienced before. The sensation electrified her, confusing her on too many levels.

      “Where shall I put this so you can get started?”

      The bland question indicated that he hadn’t been fazed by the brush of their fingers. She berated herself for reacting so foolishly, and marched over to the card table where she whisked away some orange peels, the visible remains of a breakfast hastily swallowed earlier that day.

      Without apology she muttered, “You can put it down here.”

      Of necessity, he had to follow in her footsteps, stepping over not only her hair dryer, but the spray-stained newspaper still spread on the floor.

      Last night she’d given her project a final protective coating, but because of the inclement weather, her apartment had felt more humid than usual. She was so afraid the collage wouldn’t dry out, she’d gotten up in the early hours of the morning to speed the process by using her hair dryer.

      “I’ll look for my hammer and chisel.”

      Along with most of her other art supplies, she’d put the tools from her sculpture class in the tiny linen cupboard next to the bathroom. But since her sophomore year, she’d stored a lot of dyes and acrylics there, as well. It took some doing to find what she needed, and she ended up putting everything on the floor to be cleaned up later.

      When she returned to the living room-cum-kitchen with her tools and put them on the card table, she found Mr. Kostopoulos perched on the arm of the couch studying the latest tablecloth she’d created. It was one to which she’d applied a hot wax design, then dyed, before draping across her secondhand couch to dry out.

      With nowhere to pace in her postage stamp dwelling, he’d had little alternative but to plant himself there, unless he’d wanted to remain standing.

      Suddenly she saw something clasped in his left hand. To her horror it turned out to be her rolling pin which she used for everything under the sun except cooking.

      For the first time since meeting him, she thought she detected a tiny flicker of mirth in the black recesses of his eyes. He held up the well-worn kitchen utensil whose roller contained so many dents it resembled the surface of the moon. “I presume you keep this handy in case of intruders.”

      She blinked. Until he’d mentioned it, she hadn’t thought of using her rolling pin as a weapon. “What a wonderful idea!”

      Her spontaneity must have amused him because his lips twitched ever so slightly, a feat she hadn’t thought possible.

      “Actually, I used it to create my collage.”

      In a level tone he murmured, “Go on.”

      “You want me to explain?”

      “Yes, Ms. Telford. I can’t remember the last time I was this entertained by another human being.”

      His comment could be taken in a variety of ways, all of them less than gratifying or complimentary.

      In another aside he added, “I’m fascinated to discover how this instrument contributed to the final product.”

      Did he even like the final product? He still hadn’t said a word about it.

      “If you really want to know, I’ll demonstrate.”

      Without meeting his penetrating gaze, she took the rolling pin from his hand, then tore off a corner of the newspaper lying on the floor.

      She could sense his body next to hers as she wadded the paper in her palm, then cleared a glass and some cutlery from her minuscule counter so she’d have room to work. Placing the little wad in the center, she began pressing it down with the roller. She ran over it this way, then that.

      “You have to do this about ten times until you achieve the desired crinkled effect. I did this to every piece of paper in the collage so that each one resembled an old man’s weathered face. Then I opened the paper and applied a hair spray meant to add lighter streaks to dull blond hair. Every tiny crease captured the glaze, gilding it, producing an all-over effect not unlike faience, a kind of fine porcelain with thousands of weblike lines.

      “After the piece dried, I cupped it in my palm, shaping it to resemble people or the Greek motif on the outside of your building. Then I curled the ends under, and dipped them in wallpaper paste before working the treated paper into the collage.

      “As you can see—” Her eyes darted to the canvas propped on the card table. “The spray enhanced every color, but more importantly, the overall impression should convince the viewer that he’s looking at a collage made of the most translucent bone china.” After a slight pause, “At least, it’s supposed to create that effect.”

      “Rest assured you achieved your goal. In fact, you achieved a great deal more than that,” came the cryptic comment. As he said the words, his dark gaze trapped her astonished one, sending a strange thrill of sensation chasing across her skin.

      Unused to the hairs standing on the back of her neck, she rushed over to the card table to begin her task.

      Out of the periphery, she watched him approach her only folding chair and examine the half dozen remnants of upholstery cloth she’d hand woven before he fingered various fishnet chains she’d designed. They were hanging from the ceiling in one corner of the room.

      While he was thus engrossed, she laid the canvas flat on the tabletop. Using her hip for leverage, she positioned it against the wall. Carefully she placed the edge of the chisel at the base of the window in the collage and started to tap the handle with the hammer.

      But she hadn’t counted on the card table jiggling under the pressure.

      It caused the canvas to slide, which in turn sent the sharp end of the chisel into the fleshy portion of her palm. Unknowingly she cried out as blood gushed all over her artwork.

      She had no idea anyone of Mr. Kostopoulos’s size could move as fast as he did. In a lightning gesture he’d pulled a snowy white handkerchief from his pocket and had grabbed her hand to stop the bleeding.

      Oblivious to the pain, her heart began to thud from the close proximity of their bodies. She heard him mutter another unrepeatable epithet. “The wound is too deep to close by itself. You’re going to need stitches and a tetanus shot.”

      “I’ll be all right,” she murmured breathily. For some reason, the sight of blood always made her feel faint. She had to fight the urge to cling to him and draw from his strength. “I don’t have any insurance and can’t afford a visit to the doctor.”

      “You think I’d let you pay when I was the one who forced the issue?” His scathing tone left her in little doubt he was taking full responsibility. “We’re leaving for my doctor now.”

      “But my collage! I’ve got to get the blood off it.”

      No sooner had she spoken those words than he relinquished his hold of her hand and took her canvas to the sink to run cold water over the soiled portion. Within seconds it looked like new again. In a deft movement, he propped it on the card table, much the same way she’d done the night before.

      Immediately his concerned gaze flicked to her injured hand where she pressed the handkerchief to apply pressure.

      “It’s to your