He knew just what he wanted, she mused. And got it.

She wished she had more than lip gloss and blotting papers in her purse—and the jewelry he’d envisioned.

She whirled around when the door opened.

“Here’s your wine.”

“You should knock.”

“Why? The dress is right,” he continued over her puff of breath. “Just right. I need more on your eyes—smoky, sultry—and darker lips.”

“I don’t have makeup with me.”

“There’s plenty over there.” He gestured to a cabinet with a dozen drawers. “Didn’t you look?”

“I don’t open drawers that don’t belong to me.”

“You’re probably one of five people in the world who can say that and mean it. Look now, use whatever you need.”

She opened the first drawer, and her eyes popped. Eye shadows, eye pencils, liners—liquid, powder, cream, mascaras—with disposable wands for same. Everything arranged according to type, color palettes.

She opened the next—foundations, blushers, bronzers, brushes and more brushes.

“My God, Julie would weep with joy and rapture.”

She opened more. Lipsticks, lip gloss, lip liners, lip dyes.

“I’ve had various sisters fill it out for me.”

“You could open your own boutique.”

She found jewelry in other drawers, earrings, pendants, chains, bracelets. “Shiny.”

He moved beside her, pawed through. “Try this, and these, and, yeah—try that.”

Like playing dress-up, she decided, and got into the swing.

Hell, maybe she could pull it off.

She selected bronzer, blush, considered her eye palette, then frowned at him. “Are you just going to stand there and watch?”

“For now.”

With a shrug, she turned to the mirror, began to play.

“Should I apologize for my father?”

Her eyes met his in the glass. “No. He’ll have to do that for himself. I won’t hold my breath.”

“I won’t offer excuses for him either. He can be a hard man under the best of circumstances. These are far from the best. But he had no right, none, to treat you the way he did. You should’ve come out to find me.”

“And what, tell you, boo-hoo, your daddy hurt my feelings? His house, and clearly he didn’t want me there. What man would want a woman he sees as a scheming, gold-digging, opportunistic piranha around his son?”

“No excuses,” Ash said again. “He was wrong in every possible way.”

She blended shadows, studied the effect. “You fought with him.”

“I wouldn’t say we ‘fought.’ We laid out our opposing viewpoints, very clearly.”

“I don’t want to be a wedge between you and your father. Now especially, all of you need family.”

“If you’re a wedge, he put you there. He’ll have to deal with that. You should’ve come and told me.”

She swept color over her cheeks. “I fight my own battles.”

“It wasn’t just yours. Come out when you’re done. I’m going to set up.”

She stopped long enough to pick up the wine, take a sip because now she was just pissed off again, feeling what she’d felt when she walked out of that big, beautiful house in Connecticut.

Still, she could consider the whole matter tabled now. He knew, she knew, they knew, and that was that.

There were much more important things, much more immediate problems to deal with than the fact that his father held her in utter contempt.

“You’re not going to sleep with his father,” she muttered while she fussed with eyeliner. “You’re not helping his father figure out what to do about a Fabergé egg and murder.”

What happened was between her and Ashton—period.

She finished the makeup, decided she’d done a very decent job.

And for her own pleasure, did a spin.

The reflection made her laugh, so she picked up her wine, carried it out. When Ash turned from his easel, she lifted her skirts, gave them a flirty shake.

“Well?”

He stared, those eyes looking over, and in and through. “Almost perfect.”

“Almost?”

“The necklace is wrong.”

She pouted as she lifted the pendant. “I kind of like it.”

“It’s wrong, but it doesn’t matter at this point. Over by the windows again. The light’s gone, but I can make do for this.”

He’d taken off his jacket, his tie, rolled up the sleeves of his shirt.

“You’re not going to paint in that, are you? Shouldn’t you have a smock or something?”

“Smocks are for little girls in meadows. I’m not painting today. Tonight,” he corrected. “Finish the wine or put it down.”

“You’re very bossy in artist mode.” But she set down the glass.

“Twirl. Arms up, eyes on me.”

She obeyed. Actually, it was fun. The dress, the flounces, made her feel sexy, and powerful with it. She held, twirled again when he told her, and tried to imagine herself under a full white moon in front of the gold flames of a campfire.

“Again, keep your chin up. The men watch you, want you. Let them want. Make them want. On me. Eyes on me.”

She spun until the room spun with her, held her arms up until they began to ache—and still his pencil worked, worked, worked.

“I’ve got maybe one more twirl in me before I fall on my face.”

“It’s all right. Take a break.”

“Yay.” She went straight to the wine, took a long sip this time. “And another yay.”

She took it with her as she crossed to him. And all she managed was, “Oh.”

She looked fresh and fiery and feminine all at once. He’d drawn her with her hair flying, the skirts swirling, her body turned at the hips, one leg flashing out of frothing flounces.

Her eyes looked straight out of the canvas, confident, amused and sultry.

“It’s amazing,” she murmured.

“Needs work.” He tossed his pencil down. “But it’s a good start.” He looked at her again, that same intensity she felt straight through to her spine. “I’m starving. We’ll order in.”

“I could eat.”

“You change, I’ll order. What do you want?”