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was bare as Mikhail had captured her in her dash before the clock struck twelve. For a moment, Sydney thought she could almost see tears in the painted eyes.
    â€œYou like?”
    She jolted, then stood up quickly, still nestling the figurine in her hand. “Yes—I’m sorry.”
    â€œYou don’t have to be sorry for liking.” Mikhail rested a hip, now more conservatively covered in wheat-colored slacks, on the worktable. His hair had been brushed back and now curled damply nearly to his shoulders.
    Still flustered, she set the miniature back on the shelf. “I meant I should apologize for touching your work.”
    A smile tugged at his lips. It fascinated him that she could go from wide-eyed delight to frosty politeness in the blink of an eye. “Better to be touched than to sit apart, only to be admired. Don’t you think?”
    It was impossible to miss the implication in the tone of his voice, in the look in his eyes. “That would depend.”
    As she started by, he shifted, rose. His timing was perfect. She all but collided with him. “On what?”
    She didn’t flush or stiffen or retreat. She’d become accustomed to taking a stand. “On whether one chooses to be touched.”
    He grinned. “I thought we were talking about sculpture.”
    So, she thought on a careful breath, she’d walked into that one.“Yes, we were. Now, we really will be late. If you’re ready, Mr. Stanislaski—”
    â€œMikhail.” He lifted a hand casually to flick a finger at the sapphire drop at her ear. “It’s easier.” Before she could reply, his gaze came back and locked on hers. Trapped in that one long stare, she wasn’t certain she could remember her own name. “You smell like an English garden at teatime,” he murmured. “Very cool, very appealing. And just a little too formal.”
    It was too hot, she told herself. Much too hot and close. That was why she had difficulty breathing. It had nothing to do with him. Rather, she wouldn’t allow it to have anything to do with him. “You’re in my way.”
    â€œI know.” And for reasons he wasn’t entirely sure of, he intended to stay there. “You’re used to brushing people aside.”
    â€œI don’t see what that has to do with—”
    â€œAn observation,” he interrupted, amusing himself by toying with the ends of her hair. The texture was as rich as the color, he decided, pleased she had left it free for the evening. “Artists observe. You’ll find that some people don’t brush aside as quickly as others.” He heard her breath catch, ignored her defensive jerk as he cupped her chin in his hand. He’d been right about her skin—smooth as polished pearls. Patiently he turned her face from side to side. “Nearly perfect,” he decided. “Nearly perfect is better than perfect.”
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    â€œYour eyes are too big, and your mouth is just a bit wider than it should be.”
    Insulted, she slapped his hand away. It embarrassed and infuriated her that she’d actually expected a compliment. “My eyes and mouth are none of your business.”
    â€œVery much mine,” he corrected. “I’m doing your face.”
    When she frowned, a faint line etched between her brows. He liked it. “You’re doing what?”
    â€œYour face. In rosewood, I think. And with your hair down like this.”
    Again she pushed his hand away. “If you’re asking me to model for you, I’m afraid I’m not interested.”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter whether you are. I am.” He took her arm to lead her to the door.
    â€œIf you think I’m flattered—”
    â€œWhy should you be?” He opened the door, then stood just inside, studying her with apparent curiosity. “You were born with your face. You didn’t earn it. If I said you