This, she was coming to see, was Sebastian’s power. How with one sentence, he’d opened her eyes after she’d shut them because she was letting fear and worries get the best of her.

“I should let you settle in, unpack your boxes, arrange your stuff, and make the place your own.”

He sounded like he didn’t really want to leave, and a deep desire for him to stay tingled inside her. She wanted to show him every piece and how it worked. The urge to keep him near—and to bring him much, much closer—was so strong that she had to retreat a pace so it didn’t spill over.

“It’s a long way back to your house from here.” The property covered acres of rolling hills, now brown and dry in the summer sun, and they’d reached the bungalow and outbuildings along a winding driveway leading from his helipad. His house was almost invisible beyond another rise at least a quarter of a mile above them. If this was what his guest bungalow and barn looked like, she could only imagine the opulence of his home. He’d said he hadn’t been born with money, and she wondered how he’d gotten used to all of this and how long that had taken. Would she ever feel like she fit in a place like this? In a limo or helicopter? Or would she only ever be truly comfortable in her ratty overalls and steel-toed boots? “Are you sure you don’t want to call your helicopter to fly you up?”

He barely stifled his laughter. “Are you begging for trouble?”

Yes. She wanted his brand of trouble. Badly. “You’re such a good sport I can’t help myself.” And she hadn’t yet stopped being surprised by that fact. “It’s fun to give you a bad time.”

“Bad?” The heat that radiated from him nearly jolted her farther back into the room. “Normally, I wouldn’t care for the sound of that. But with you, I like the way bad sounds.”

Oh God, her knees actually went weak at the thought of just how good she already knew it would be.

“Would you like to have dinner at my place tonight?”

She had no idea what was in the bungalow’s cupboards, though she suspected he’d had them fully stocked, along with the refrigerator. She could cook passable meals, though nothing like her mother’s. But the truth was that she’d rather be with him. And she had no urge whatsoever to lie to herself when the truth looked and smelled as good as he did. “I’m usually starving by six, if that will work for you.”

“Six is perfect.”

For one long moment after he said the word perfect, she couldn’t take her eyes off his lips, could barely resist the urge to devour him.

But she hadn’t been on his property an hour. And it was only a matter of days since he’d given her a six-figure check. Only remembering those two facts could have stopped her from giving in to the steamy air enveloping them.

Sebastian had told her he didn’t want her to think his desire for her art came with strings. When they finally did come together, Charlie didn’t want any of those material things in the way either. Just heat. Just desire.

And pleasure.

“Thank you for the helicopter flight here. For loaning me your truck. For the beautiful bungalow. And, most of all, for knowing just the right thing to say right when I needed it.”

His gorgeous mouth turned up into a smile that made her want to forget all about her decision to keep sex and art separate for a little while longer. “Until tonight.”

The two simple words falling from his lips sounded like a promise.

Or, better yet, a dare.

CHAPTER SIX

Thank goodness for the little sundress she’d thrown into her bag at the last second. Otherwise Charlie would have been totally underdressed for the terrace, the table setting, the view.

And, most of all, for Sebastian.

He was wearing slacks and a button-down shirt that molded perfectly to his chest. Whether executive style, casual, or something in between, he made her pulse sizzle. She could actually feel her blood’s rapid thrum through her veins.

She raised her wineglass. “Your house is amazing.”

A Spanish style, it was bordered with a breathtaking profusion of hydrangeas, azaleas, camellias, and rhododendrons. Inside, the floors were terrazzo tile inset with Spanish mosaics. The furniture suited, as if it had come from an old hacienda.

The table on the terrace was intimately small, his knee close to hers, his scent as delicious as the food and more intoxicating than the wine. They were seated on a cozy terrace on the side of the house, with a view of the rolling hills, the suburban towns sprawled below, the San Mateo Bridge, the waters of the Bay, and the outline of a distant San Francisco. As Sebastian tapped his glass to hers with a ting of crystal, she felt the echo of its ring inside her.

“I’m glad you like it. But I didn’t design it.”

People rarely designed their own homes. But for some reason Sebastian seemed to think this was a failing on his part, even though she was fairly certain he hadn’t trained as an architect. “Tell me about the art on your walls,” she asked him, partly because it was all exquisite, but even more because she hoped it might give her more insight into the man behind the perfect face and the always immaculate clothes.

“I choose things I like, things that catch my eye, regardless of how much anyone else thinks they’re worth.”

Monet. Degas. John Singer Sargent portraits. She was all but certain they were the real thing, rather than prints. But there were also oils, watercolors, drawings, etchings, and a great deal of photography. He had an eclectic collection of art all over the house—sculptures by a relatively new artist named Vicki Bennett, Haitian ceremonial masks, wooden marionettes from Thailand, Burmese tapestries, elaborately feathered and beaded Pueblo kachina dolls, scrimshaw carvings, Satsuma vases.

His collection made the fact that he’d chosen her to create the fountain statue even more important—as though he actually thought she might be up there with all these brilliantly talented artists. Sebastian definitely wasn’t a snob when it came to art. He clearly didn’t care what anyone thought about his choices. Only that he loved them.

Another point notched in his favor.

A knock came and when Sebastian said, “Come on over, Rory,” the waiter rolled a trolley through the open patio doors. Hmm, were they called waiters when you were in your own home? She honestly had no idea, and had never expected to find out. Just as she’d never expected to fly over the Bay Area in a helicopter.

Or earn a hundred grand for one of her sculptures. She honestly wasn’t sure when she’d finally believe her work was worth that much money...

Smoothly, Rory removed their empty plates, stacking them on the bottom tray of the trolley. Dinner had been brochettes of beef, tomatoes, and roasted red peppers on a bed of risotto, plus broccoli seasoned with pepper and lemon. Charlie’s eyes had practically rolled back in her head when she tasted the beef, and Sebastian seemed delighted by her enjoyment, his gaze fixed on her mouth. He hadn’t touched her, yet somehow she felt as if his hands were doing delicious things to her all the while. If a breeze hadn’t blown through, she might have had to fan herself.

“English trifle,” Rory announced, placing their bowls with a flourish.

“Oh my,” Charlie gasped. “That looks delicious.”

“Thank you, Rory,” Sebastian said. “You’ve outdone yourself tonight.”

Sebastian wasn’t just polite and complimentary with his staff. He was downright friendly and clearly didn’t expect to be called sir or Mr. Montgomery. Given how well he was paying Charlie, she suspected Rory wasn’t being stiffed, either.

“Did you make all of this incredible food, Rory?” When the man nodded, she nearly leapt out of her chair to hug him. “I haven’t eaten so well since my mother’s last Thanksgiving feast.”