Snowy Mountain Nights. Lindsay Evans

mother draws, too,” he continued in his low and compelling voice. “And don’t tell her I said this, but your work is much more interesting, more fluid.” He flipped back to the sketch of the snowboarder. Of himself. “I admire the way you capture the image in a personal way. You’re there with the subject instead of just watching. The intimacy is very seductive.”

      Was he playing with her? Didn’t he know he was talking about himself? But he turned to the sketches of the mountain that she’d begun to fill in with long strokes of the pencil. Craggy slopes, white snow, a feathering of trees. The wide and low-hanging sky that kissed the mountaintop just so. “It’s like you’re a nature sprite sitting in the cloud here.” He tapped the page at a cloud she had half drawn. “Watching this world that you love.”

      Heat touched her cheeks at his suggestive and unexpected comments. She didn’t know what to say, so she didn’t say anything.

      She looked away from the sketchbook in Garrison’s hands, the white paper held between fingers that were an odd mix of rugged and refined. They were almost a working man’s hands, but the way he handled her work, even through the thin leather gloves, was like a curator touching something delicate and easily damaged. A contradiction she didn’t want to notice but was helpless not to. It made him even more interesting than she had first thought. Now he was more than his dangerously sexy looks, more than the unpleasant history between them. She forced her gaze away from his hands.

      “It’s just a hobby,” she said finally, training her eyes on the vast mountain view spread out before her. The thick clouds tumbling through the skies promised another bout of snow.

      “Somehow I doubt that. Talent like this has to be more than a hobby.” He nodded toward the sketch pad. “Do you do this for a living?”

      She flinched when Garrison carefully replaced the sketch pad on the rock next to her. Reyna smelled him as he leaned behind her, the tang of his aftershave, sweat and sunscreen overwhelming her senses. She closed her eyes briefly to savor the scent of him, then snapped them open when she realized what she was doing.

      What did he just ask her? She drew a steadying breath. “I’m a tattoo artist, so I guess I do. People occasionally ask me to do original sketches and portraits for their body art.”

      “Really?” He glanced over her body as if he could see under her clothes to any ink she may or may not have beneath them. “Tattoos?”

      “Yes. Tattoos.” Reyna stiffened, preparing for another of Garrison’s judgmental looks.

      She rarely told people what she did for a living. Unless they came into the studio where she worked, people never assumed Reyna was any more than she appeared: a slightly boring, nice girl. Not that being a tattoo artist exempted her from being boring. Once people found out her job, men in particular, they only wanted to know one thing. Or maybe two. And they always assumed she had some hidden pain kink or was a bad girl looking for a bad boy.

      “How unique,” Garrison said. “I’m sure your work is some of the most beautiful in the city.”

      She warmed again at his compliment. And at his unexpected reaction to her job. It was such a very different reaction from the one she’d gotten from her ex-husband, someone who had known her for most of her adult life. With Garrison’s thoughtful silence, she drifted into the past to the one and only time she’d been in the same place with Ian after the divorce.

      One night, he had wandered into her tattoo studio from off the busy nighttime street. Reyna was in her zone, the buzz of the needle vibrating between her fingers as she sat on a chair working on the large trail of red poppies a pale-skinned client wanted down her spine.

      The bell above the door rang, announcing that someone had walked in, but she didn’t pay much attention since she was already occupied. A hum of excitement began in the shop. Then she heard Ian’s voice and couldn’t stop herself from freezing up in automatic rejection of him being in her space.

      He walked in like a big TV star, attracting the attention of everyone in the shop, signing autographs and pretending not to see her. But eventually, he hadn’t been able to help himself and walked over to her sectioned-off area.

      Ian jerked his chin in her direction. “I bet you’re into bondage and all kinds of sick garbage now. You want a man to tie you up and make you bleed?”

      Reyna continued her work, even when she felt her client’s body tense with interest at Ian’s proximity. She’d had months of practice keeping herself centered and calm. He drifted into her field of vision, but she acted as if he wasn’t there.

      Among other things, he called her a pain slut, ready for torture and blood at the hands of a lover. She focused on the tattoo gun in her hand, the red poppies taking shape beneath the needle.

      Her nonresponsiveness worked perfectly. He never came by the studio again.

      Reyna returned from her reverie to find Garrison watching her closely with his usual unreadable expression.

      “Tattooing is not my passion,” she said for want of some sort of barrier between them. “But it’s an amazing thing to walk around the city sometimes and see a client with my work on their body.”

      “I can only imagine how satisfying that would be.” Garrison looked down the mountain, and Reyna followed his gaze.

      Snow and fresh powder, nothing but cold white for miles. His hobby, or passion. Another surprise between them.

      “You should go,” she said. “Don’t waste this. It won’t last long.”

      She didn’t know if she was talking about the snow or the weekend or life.

      “You’re right,” Garrison said. “Nothing really lasts, does it?” His intent eyes settled on her again. “All the more reason to enjoy it while you can instead of looking ahead to its end.”

      Her mouth curled into a smile. “You can think of it that way, yes.”

      He nodded as if he’d decided something. “I’ll be seeing you again, Ms. Allen.”

      She watched him click back onto his snowboard, pull on his thick gloves and mask and lower his goggles. He seemed alien and untouchable against the landscape that was all sunlight, the cheerful dip of the evergreens, a clear blue sky. All around she heard the joyful shouts of people enjoying themselves in the snow.

      “Until then.” She dipped her head in his direction.

      He scudded down the mountain, kicking up snow in his wake, the movement of his dark shape on the bright snow pulling an aching cord in her belly. She drew in a breath at the warm feeling. No. She did not want this.

      It was one thing to find him attractive. It was another entirely to find herself actually attracted to him. The subtle humor in his long-lashed eyes. His masculine scent. The fact that he wasn’t as boring and arrogant as she expected. Reyna swallowed thickly, and she watched him fly away from her. She had a feeling she was about to get herself in trouble.

      * * *

      Reyna spent another couple of hours sketching and enjoying her semi-isolation before her friends came back and dragged her from her mountain perch for sledding and impromptu drinks with some men they’d met on the slopes. Ahmed Clark was not among these eligible bachelors, but Bridget was happy enough.

      Later on, in the cabin and under the influence of the hot toddies Louisa made, her friends tried to go back to the subject of Garrison Richards. But Reyna steered them toward something else. Louisa smirked, her look telling Reyna that she couldn’t avoid her feelings for the lawyer, or her discussion of them, for too much longer. But whatever respite she had, Reyna would gladly take. Garrison made her feel too uneasy, overheated and uncomfortable for her to talk about him just yet. Even to her closest friends.

      They stayed up until late, talking about life and love and everything in between. At a little past three in the morning, the women all pled exhaustion, even Bridget. Reyna, however, was still wide awake. She didn’t need much sleep, and working at the tattoo studio, which was