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  “It’s on exhibit as well? You’ve seen it?”

  “I have. It’s quite an interesting likeness. She’s captured something. But then, I expect you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

  Bridge felt a flash of panic, then gave himself a mental shake. He had nothing to apologize for; he was old enough to decide when and where to pose in the nude. Still, he hadn’t anticipated not only his family seeing him in all his naked splendor, but the entire city of Boston, from the sound of it.

  ‘‘You liked the portrait?”

  “It wouldn’t be my choice of poses for a formal sitting, but I do like it, yes. Mother tried to purchase it from Mrs. Gilchrist, but she was very firm on its not being for sale. Not at any price.”

  “Mother tried to buy the portrait Fallon painted of me?”

  “Face it, Montague. Despite the way you often act, you’re not getting any younger. We all thought it would be a nice addition to the family portraits.”

  Bridge gave his head a shake and wondered about his hearing. His mother, attempting to purchase his nude portrait, and not to remove it from public scrutiny but as some sort of family legacy?

  He rose to his feet. “It doesn’t seem right that I’m the last person in town to see Fallon’s exhibit.”

  “I thought you might feel that way. There is a reception this evening with the artist in attendance. Invitation only. Dress is formal.” Marabell rummaged through her reticule. “I took the liberty of securing you an invitation.”

  Bridge crossed the room to give his sister a hug. “You are a most insightful and amazing woman.”

  “I know that. I admit to having had my doubts when I first heard about you with her. But as I thought about it afterwards, I drew the conclusion that an older, more mature woman is exactly the steady influence you would benefit most from.”

  “Hang the steady influence. I’m in love with the woman.”

  His sister shrugged. “That, my dear brother, is most pathetically obvious. And seeing you through her eyes, as she painted you, I would wager the feeling to be quite mutual.”

  Those words gave him courage as he made his way that evening through the crowded reception lobby of the Athenaeum. Party protocol seemed to have abandoned him. He had once been the master of effortless, mindless chatter with near strangers. Tonight, all he cared about was seeing Fallon.

  He stopped a waiter who circled the room with a full tray of champagne, held the man’s arm while he drained one glass in a single swallow, then exchanged it for a full one.

  “Thank you, my good man,” he said.

  “Very good, sir.” The waiter was a study in poker face, but Bridge sensed his disapproval. Once, such silent censure wouldn’t have merited even a notice. When had he started caring what other people thought of him? When he had started caring what Fallon thought. Hers was the only opinion that mattered.

  He made his way through the black-suited men and rainbow-hue-gowned women, and wondered what Fallon was wearing. Hopefully not black, still pretending to be in mourning. Was she even there yet? And how would she feel when she saw him? He wondered how she had been since that memorable evening when she’d invaded his chamber, his very own fantasy come to life.

  He paused at the base of the curving marble staircase and gripped the glossy white handrail. Her exhibit was on the second floor. His legs felt unbelievably heavy as he made the climb.

  “Bridge, my man.”

  Bridge paused at the top of the stairs. Too late now; he’d been spotted by a former classmate. Naively, he’d hoped to make his way unnoticed to his portrait.

  “Hello, Giles.” The two men shook hands.

  “I must say, you’re looking in fine form. Not quite as comely as your likeness in the other room, but well, none-the-less. I take it you and the artist are, shall we say, intimately acquainted?”

  In spite of himself, Bridge felt a slow heat creep up from under the tight collar of his formal shirt.

  “We had several sittings,” he said, carefully.

  “So I should wager. Well, I won’t keep you. See you at the club sometime soon?”

  “I expect so.”

  The chamber showcasing Fallon’s exhibit was even more crowded than the entrance lobby. Bridge sipped his champagne as he inspected Fallon’s new work. The paintings were wild and earthy in their boldness. He could almost feel the pelting rain on his face in one. Another all but blinded him with the beauty of the sunset.

  “Damn good, isn’t she?” said a chap next to him.

  “She always was, but in these, she has definitely found her own style,” Bridge agreed.

  “I tried to buy this one but I was too late. The entire show is sold out.” The man looked at Bridge directly. “Say, you’re the chap. Still Man in Motion.”

  "“I beg your pardon?”

  “The painting. The one the artist refuses to sell. Fair likeness, I might add.”

  “Indeed.” Bridge cleared his throat. He hadn’t thought it would bother him, but the knowledge that every person in the room had seen him captured in an unclothed state was a trifle unsettling. “I should go have a gander. If you’ll excuse me.”

  “But of course. It’s over on the far wall.”

  With great trepidation, Bridge made his way through the room. He took a breath. This was it. The crowd parted. He faced his future . . . And froze in astonishment.

  It was Fallon’s likeness of him, and yet it was not.

  He laughed aloud, then stepped closer to inspect the piece more fully. “You minx,” he said admiringly under his breath.

  For Fallon had painted him fully clothed. True, his shirt was unbuttoned, his chest partially revealed. He was wearing casual trousers and riding boots. He looked relaxed and happy, sprawled comfortably across the settee as if he’d just come in and flopped down before the woman he loved. And then he smelled her, the same scent that haunted his sleepless nights.

  “Well, what do you think?”

  He turned. She was real. All shimmery in an emerald evening gown, diamonds in her ears and circling her throat. He ached all over just from the sight of her. “I think the artist is the most amazingly talented woman I have ever met. As well as the most beautiful.”

  Fallon smiled, and the glow in her eyes transformed her face into a beacon. Bridge caught his breath. Could his sister be right? Could Fallon love him even half as much as he loved her?

  “Not only are you a gifted artist, I must thank you for having saved my reputation.”

  “Truth be told, I wasn’t entirely sure it was worth saving,” Fallon murmured.

  “I fully expected to find myself spread-eagled in all my naked glory for the devouring eyes of Boston to cackle over,” he said.

  “I’m sure many of the ladies present would have preferred the original version of the portrait.”

  “And the artist herself?”

  Fallon cocked her head. “I’m not sure. There is something rather evocative in this one. One can’t help but wonder how long it will be until someone comes along and peels your garments from your body. Perhaps I’ll do a series. In the next one you shall be clad only in your trousers, your shirt a rumpled scrap of silk on the floor. And so on.”

  “Only if I get to pose.”

  “That won’t be necessary. I have you fully committed to memory,” Fallon murmured. “What did you think of the rest of the exhibit?”

  “I think you made a stunning choice, leaving behind the vases of flowers and bowls of fruit. You have touched something primal that the general populace can appreciate.”

  Fallon gave a rueful smile. “Most people feel more comfortable with their emotions safely hanging over a fireplace.”

  “Is that it? You’re giving them a chance to feel, but in a safe medium?”

  “I believe that to be the main appeal, yes.”

  “And here I thought the attraction was the artist herself.” He took a breath. “You look incredible. Happy, accomplished.”

  “Thank you. You look well,
also. It was good to see you again, Bridge.”

  With that, she turned and started to walk away.

  And Bridge knew he couldn’t let her. He couldn’t leave his emotions safely tucked away someplace. All his life, he’d thought he was the king of chance-taking. Suddenly, faced with the most important moment of his life, he was afraid. He tried to speak, but nothing came out. He tried again. "Fallon.”

  She glided back toward him.

  This was her moment; her night of triumph. Did he risk spoiling the evening by pledging his suit? Yet, if he didn’t make a move now, he could well lose her for all time.

  “This series you’re proposing. Would it eventually show the Still Man in Motion with a companion?”

  “I’m not sure. I have difficulty envisioning you settling down with just one woman—and that’s the only way I could complete the series to my satisfaction.”

  His eyes searched hers. Did she mean what he thought she meant? He took a step forward, and captured one of her hands in his. “You’re wretchedly intimidating when you’re this successful and popular, madam artist.”

  “Rather like you, when we first met. Sexy and self-confident and quite, quite arrogant. What happened to that cocksure self-confidence?”

  “I had this amazing experience. A week outside of the usual parameters of life. A week of learning and sharing, as well as teaching.”

  “One can hardly remain unchanged after such an experience.”

  “Indeed.” Bridge wished she were not wearing evening gloves; wished he could feel her skin against his. “Thus, I stand before you humbled. My bravado has deserted me. What I feel is too important to dismiss with false confidence.”

  “Oh?”

  “You said before that our relationship was taboo. That people would disapprove, snigger about us behind our backs. You cared what people think. Do you still?”

  “Oh, that,” Fallon said. “That was simply an excuse.”

  “An excuse?”

  “To make it easy to let you go.”

  “I didn’t want you to let me go.”

  “I lacked the confidence to believe that, before.”

  “Do you believe me now?”

  “Persuade me.” There was a challenge in her eyes and in her smile.

  “Can we find someplace to be alone?”

  “I say we try.” She leaned over and whispered, “I should warn you, I seem to have omitted certain items of underclothing beneath this gown.”

  Bridge caught her tightly in his arms. “I love you, Fallon. Marry me. Make me the happiest man in Boston.”

  “All in good time. For now, I know of this private spot where we can be alone. It’s a tiny Juliet balcony with barely enough room for two. The moon is nearly full. I think it would be a romantic spot for a tryst.”

  “Say no more. Except . . .” He couldn’t exactly beg her to return his declaration of love. “I have missed you so much.”

  “I have missed you, as well.”

  She whisked him out a back exit and up a narrow, winding flight of steps, to the next floor and the promised balcony. He took a breath. Boston lay spread before them, moonlight glittering on the roofs and chimneys. He could smell the harbor in the distance. Closer at hand, he could smell Fallon. Her hair. Her skin. The very woman-essence of her.

  She came into his arms as if she had always been there, a perfect fit. Close to his heart. He stroked her hair. Even if she didn’t love him, if she at least agreed to be with him . . .

  She pulled off her gloves, rose onto tiptoe, and pressed a kiss to his lips. “You look so serious, Bridge.”

  He caught her hands in his and realized she no longer wore her dead husband’s ring.

  “I’m just realizing how lucky we are to have met. I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you.” He couldn’t stop himself from saying it aloud; it was time to face the potential rejection, to offer his heart on his sleeve.

  “I love you, too,” Fallon said. “I think I loved you the moment I set eyes on you. You were so alive and vital and sure of yourself—everything I wasn’t. I didn’t believe I had anything to offer, other than a week out of time.”

  “I don’t know when I realized how much I love you. Maybe not until you sent me away. I tried to find you, and couldn’t. That wretch Aurora wouldn’t tell me where you were.”

  “I’m here now.”

  “You’re famous now. The toast of Boston.”

  She smiled teasingly. “As long as that’s not the reason you claim to love me.”

  “I love you no matter who you are. No matter how others see you.”

  “I feel the same way toward you. I don’t care a whit if people talk. Let them whisper that I’ve bought myself a young stud. All that matters is that we be together.”

  “Can we go back to your studio soon?”

  “Why?”

  “I’m thinking of experimenting. I’d like to invent an edible paint, and want you to be my first portrait.”

  “You mean apply the paint to my skin?”

  “And slowly lick it off. Every delectable inch.” He felt her shiver in his arms. “But first, there’s a more pressing matter. I need to find out exactly what you have on beneath this frock.” He slowly tugged up the hem of her skirt. Fallon leaned against the railing, her eyes closed in rapture, moonlight bathing her face, as Bridge knelt before her . . . and discovered that there was, indeed, nothing to impede his adoration of her.

  A note awaited Fallon on her return to the country.

  Darling, wrote Aurora. I shall be out of touch for a while. An urgent situation requires my immediate attention. Much love to you and Bridgeman. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.

  Aurora

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  Dear Reader

  I enjoy reading all types of books as long as there is a happy ending. This lifelong wide range of reading has greatly influenced my own writing interests. Historical or contemporary, steamy or sweet, suspenseful or not, I have a lot more stories to tell.

  I hope you find something among my varied offerings to match your tastes and enhance your reader enjoyment. When you do, please brighten my day by leaving a short reader review on the platform of your choice. A line or two saying why you liked the book will help other readers with their choices.

  Note: My steamy titles are very sexually explicit, and not for everyone.

  Turn the page to read an excerpt from Unmasked, book 2 in my Secret Seductions series.

  UNMASKED - EXCERPT

  Copyright ©2019 Kathleen Lawless

  When the hot air balloon touched down on the manicured lawn of the estate, Aurora hiked up her skirt with one hand, balanced her champagne glass in the other hand, and scrambled over the edge of the passenger basket.

  Once both feet landed on firm ground she straightened her hat and jacket and smoothed her skirt, as if such an entrance was an everyday occurrence. Since she’d cleverly avoided spilling even a drop of champagne, she tossed back her head and downed the contents of her glass. She’d need the extra fortification before she tackled the infamous Grayson Thorne, lord and master of the domain she had just breached.

  The sound of applause momentarily caught her off guard, before she turned to her fan and made an exaggerated stage bow.

  “Nicely done.” The speaker was tall, broad of shoulder, and dark-haired. He appeared amused as he strolled toward her, a casual fluidity in his every step. Thorne? Or one of his henchmen?

  If he thought to intimidate her, he’d
need to do more than simply skim his eyes assessingly over her form. Except those dark, enigmatic eyes somehow managed to probe uncomfortably below the surface and ruffle her complacency. Why else would she suddenly feel as vulnerable as if she stood before him in her underpinnings, or less? As if he could see right through her well-rehearsed persona to the delicious secret longings that burned incessantly in her thoughts.

  Ridiculous.

  Impossible.

  Not even the man to whom she’d been married had the slightest idea of her restless cravings, her innermost fantasies and desires.

  CLICK HERE to get your copy of Unmasked.

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  Turn the page to see more books by Kathleen.

  Also by Kathleen Lawless

  Steamy Historical Romance Series: Secret Seductions

  TABOO

  UNMASKED

  Steamy Contemporary Romance

  INTIMATE STRANGERS

  Western Historical Romance

  GRACE’S FOLLY

  ANORA’S PRIDE

  CALLIE’S HONOR

  MADDY’S FUGITIVE

  Sweet Western Historical Romance Series: Seven Brides for Seven Brothers

  BRODY’S BRIDE

  BRADLEY’S BRIDE

  BRAYDON’S BRIDE

  BLAKE’S BRIDE

  BISHOP’S BRIDE

  Women’s Fiction

  FABULOUS AT FIFTY

  Romantic Suspense

  FINAL HEAT

  AFTERBURN

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Steamy or sweet, as long as there’s a romance, an alpha male or a cowboy Kathleen reads and writes them all