He had done so much for her, again and again. Now, she would do the same for him. No matter what.

Perhaps she should have used a blank page to draw the now nearly forgotten vision from her dream, but she couldn’t resist looking through more of his sketches. And she saw that she wasn’t his only subject. She found sketch after sketch of a couple in their thirties. The similarity in the man’s jawline and mouth to Sebastian’s features tipped her off to their identities.

His parents.

Her heart raced as she studied the pictures carefully. Though obviously a good-looking man, there was also a weakness in his father’s face—a weakness there was no evidence of in Sebastian’s. His mother was pretty, but tired and worn. And yet, what came through was Sebastian’s love for them. It was in the details, the laugh lines at his mother’s mouth, the occasional hint of a smile in his father’s eyes and around his mouth despite the slightly slack skin.

“What are you doing?” Sebastian’s voice was like a slap out of the dark.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Sketchbooks slid off Charlie’s lap in her surprise, one falling open to the drawing from the night of the gala. Sebastian marched into the small room, filling it, overwhelming it, his face shadowed and his eyes dark. He’d pulled a pair of sweats over his lean hips, leaving his chest bare and beautiful. Her mouth went dry, from the sight of him as much as from the knowledge that she’d been snooping through his private sketchbooks.

“I woke up with an idea,” she explained. “I wanted to get it down before I forgot.” It was long forgotten now, and she didn’t even care, not when she’d discovered something more precious than diamonds. “I couldn’t find any paper in the bedroom, so I came in here.”

His features were hard, immobile, like a piece of metal she hadn’t yet welded into submission. “How long have you been looking through my things?” His voice was as hard as his face. It could break rocks.

Worse, it could break her. Right in two. Straight through the center of her heart. The heart she’d just given to him.

All the hurt she’d worked to push away rushed back. “I was only planning to take a blank piece to write some notes on, but then...” She waved a hand at the sketch still face-up on the floor. “I saw a drawing of myself. And I was—”

Before she could let him know how moved she was by his talent and the incredible emotion he’d captured in every single sketch, he grabbed the pads off the floor and the side table, then snatched the one she held right out of her hand.

“They’re not for public consumption.” He tossed the sketchbooks in the drawer of a small bureau against the wall.

“Public consumption?” The words burned her throat as they came out in a horrible echo.

“They’re private.”

It was pure instinct for Charlie to push past him and leave, to run as far and as fast as she could. Far enough for her to figure out how to weld the break in the heart he’d just ripped apart. But how could she forget what he’d said to her as they made love? I love you, Charlie. I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you. Never knew I could love like this. He’d told her he loved her. With his words, his body. Despite the way he’d lashed out at her, she truly believed his drawings revealed how much he loved her, over and over again with every single stroke of his pencil. But now, he was trying to push her away, trying to make sure she never asked him about these drawings.

Well, it was going to take a hell of a lot more than that to make her leave. She wouldn’t walk away from him.

But she would get him to tell her why he hid his beautiful art in a tiny room where no one would ever see it.

* * *

“Private.” Charlie spoke softly now, but her voice curled around his insides, her hurt tangible. “How would you feel if I never allowed anyone to see my work? If I refused to show it for public consumption?”

Sebastian clenched his fists on the dresser into which he’d thrown all his secret thoughts and feelings. He couldn’t believe what he’d just said to her. Especially when he knew firsthand how rough, angry words could hurt more than anything else.

“I’m sorry, Charlie.” He straightened, turned, feeling like his bones were cracking. “So damned sorry. I didn’t mean it. Not any of it.” He’d screwed up again, despite the vow he’d made to himself only hours ago to do anything for her.

“I should have asked instead of prying.” Her hand on his arm was so soft, so warm, so strong, the faint scent of his loving still clinging to her. “Your sketches are beautiful, Sebastian. I wish you’d shown them to me. You should be proud. They’re not just drawings you do in your spare time. They’re works of art.”

“You’re the work of art,” he said to the carpet beneath his feet. He couldn’t even gaze at the perfection in her face that he hadn’t been able to capture.

She pressed her fingers into his arm, urging him to look at her. “Don’t shrug me off.” She held his gaze for a long moment, her eyes darkly serious. “You’re a very talented artist. Very.”

He respected her artistic vision more than that of anyone he’d ever met, yet somehow she had a blind spot for him, even after she’d seen all his imperfections. Not only in his drawing skills, but also in the way he’d failed her mother. He’d promised he would fix things and he hadn’t. He wanted to shove the thoughts and feelings away, back inside the dark, secret place where he’d kept them for so long. But with Charlie...

Sebastian had never been able to hold back with her.

“I’m not an artist.” The truth felt like razor blades on his tongue, but he made himself go on. “There are so many mistakes. I can’t capture exactly what I see. I can’t figure out how to make the drawings perfect no matter how hard I try.”

“You made me beautiful even though I’m not perfect.” She reached up to touch the tiny frown line between her eyes. “I suppose I could have a doctor stick a needle into me to get rid of this, but if you ask me, perfection doesn’t have nearly as much character as real.”

“God, no, don’t ever let a doctor with a needle near your face.” He gently slid a finger over the same mark. “I love that line. It shows your concentration, your dedication.”

“And your drawings show so much about you, Sebastian. How you see people.”

“They show the imperfection in my own abilities.”

Closer now, her heat shot toward him like the pilot arc of one of her machines. He wanted to bury himself in her warmth.

“Sebastian.” She ran her thumb over his lip as she said his name, her voice warm and husky. “Your drawings made me feel beautiful and cared for. And understood.”

“Putting my pencil on the paper usually helps me figure people out. I’m simply analyzing people. I’m not an artist. Not like you.”

“You are.” She paused for a moment before adding, “The drawings of your parents are beautiful too. I feel as though I’ve met them now. Does drawing them help you remember them?”

He shook his head, fast, almost violently. “No, I’d remember everything, even without the sketches.” Especially all his failures with them. “I guess I’ve never given up trying to figure out what I could have done for them.”

An even deeper understanding lit her eyes. Then she pressed against him, rising on her toes to whisper, “Have all your drawings helped you figure me out?” She curled her arms around his neck.

“Not yet.” His answer was muffled in her hair. “But I’m working on it.”

“Maybe you just need to put a few more hours in, only this time instead of using pencil and paper, you could draw on my skin with your fingers.”

His hands were already on her, burrowing beneath the shirt she’d borrowed, shoving it off her shoulders. “I can draw with my tongue as well.”