“I’m sorry.” She shook her head as she pushed off the settee and started toward the far corner of the room where her easel and canvas had been set up. “I should never have asked you. It’s certainly none of my business.”
No, it wasn’t. And yet telling her the truth had been so natural, which really was the strangest thing. “I don’t usually talk about her,” he said softly. “It was a long time ago.”
Bella bent at her knees and opened the valise at her feet. “Do you want to tell me about her?” she asked as she retrieved a palette and some paints from inside.
Did he want to tell Bella about Marina? Not even in the least. The last thing he wanted to do was tarnish Bella’s sweet innocence with hearing tales of Marina’s duplicitous nature. “No.”
Bella nodded as though she understood, though she couldn’t possibly. “Then we’ll just get started.” And she began to add some paint and mix some colors on her palette.
Greg simply watched her. The gentle sweep of her lashes against her cheeks, the crease of her brow as she focused on her work, the way she bit her bottom lip as she swirled the mixtures together on her palette…and the urge to kiss that abused lip washed over Greg. And if he was honest with himself, he’d like to do much more than just kiss her. He had no doubt, however, that Bella had no idea how seductive she was or how her very nearness affected him. But she did. She affected him quite a lot.
In another life, perhaps…
If things were different…
If he wasn’t so tarnished…
“Decide how you’d like to sit for the portrait, Greg,” she said, still focused on her paints.
“You don’t have something particular in mind?”
She did look over at him then, a gentle smile across her lips. “I’m not the one who is going to be sitting in the same spot for a few days. If I were you, I’d pick a comfortable position.”
“A few days?” he echoed, glad to have her attention once again focused solely on him instead of her palette. Dear God, what was wrong with him?
Bella giggled slightly. “You have never sat for a portrait before.”
“That obvious, is it?”
She shook her head. “It will take a few sittings, Greg. And you have to sit in the same position with the same expression so I can capture you perfectly.”
Part of him suspected she had already captured him, but not, of course, in the way she meant. He leaned back against the settee and regarded her again. “Well, by the time we’re through, I imagine we’ll have had so many conversations that we’ll easily be able to convince anyone of our betrothal.”
She blinked at him. “So many conversations?”
“Yes, while you’re painting me. We’ll most likely be able to address everything from our childhood sibling rivalries to what we each had for breakfast this morning.”
Bella’s pretty mouth fell slightly open. Then she shook her head. “You can’t talk to me, Greg. You’ll never keep the same expression on your face if you do.”
Yes, Greg knew that. But there was something so endearing in watching her explain it to him. “I can’t say anything?”
She shook her head once more. “Of course not.”
“Well, then you shall have to do all of the talking, then.”
“I-I’ll be painting.”
“Surely you can paint and talk at the same time,” he said. “You’ll have to keep me entertained somehow if I’m to sit in the same spot for days and am not able to speak.”
The prettiest pink stained her cheeks. “I hardly think I have anything that interesting to talk about for so long.”
That he doubted. “Come now. Tell me about you. Tell me how you started painting.” Honestly, there was so much he wished he knew about her. Her love of art was just a starting place.
The softest smile graced her lips and Greg felt it deep in his soul. “I watched my mother,” she said after a moment. “As a small child, I would sit in her studio and watch her work. The way she could take paint and canvas and create magic right before my eyes.”
He couldn’t help but smile at the image she painted in his mind. He could almost see the beautiful, dark-haired little girl she’d once been, completely captivated by her mother’s talent. “You miss her?”
The smile on Bella’s face faded away. “No.” She picked her palette back up and turned her focus once more on the blending of her colors again. “I miss who I thought she was. But the mother I thought she was would never have abandoned Elliott, Prissa and me.” She shook her head as she lifted her paintbrush to the canvas. “So I don’t miss her, not who she really is. I’m sure that sounds ridiculous.”