Rebel Waltz Read Free Page B

romantic nature and the cosy architecture of the cottage.
    In good repair, the little house was nestled among the trees, peeping like a shy maiden from behind her fan. It had been Banner's “pretend” house as a child, and as she'd grown she had made it her sanctuary. It contained a singlebedroom—the bed kept ready in case she chose to sleep there—and one large open area that Banner had made into a workroom. The bathroom had been built a few years ago and was the only modern part of the structure.
    Banner stood on tiptoe to find the key resting above the doorjamb, then unlocked the door, replaced the key, and went inside. She left the door open out of habit, secure in the knowledge that no one ever disturbed her here.
    In the main room of the cottage, she quickly removed the ringlet-dressed wig she wore and hung it rather comically over a bust of her grandfather, which had been one of her few early attempts to sculpt. She ran her fingers through her own short raven curls, massaging her scalp absently as she stared at the half- finished painting on the easel in the center of the room. She longed to sit down and frown at her work in earnest, but lacked the time and was reluctant to crush the silk gown.
    So she just stood, rubbing a scalp that was itching from its confinement by the wig, andglared at her portrait. Why, she wondered, did it look so awfully damned much like Rory Stewart? That was what had brought her out here to stare even though she'd little time for it. She'd started on the thing days ago, and had intended merely to portray a Southern gentleman, to paint him entirely from her own mind.
    Dammit, it looked like Rory Stewart!
    Thick, sun- lightened blond hair—and she didn't even like blond men. Level gray eyes. A lean, strong face with compelling bone structure. Crooked smile. Proud tilt to his head. Only the attire was different; this man was dressed in the well-cut, long-tailed coat and ruffled shirt of the Southern beau out to break hearts—
    “That wig's a crime.”
    Banner turned so quickly that she nearly lost her balance, staring toward the door and thinking, Damn—it really is him.
    Rory had changed into the costume provided by Clairmont, and not only did it fit him perfectly, it also suited him perfectly. From the smooth crown of his thick blond hair to themirror reflection of his black boots, he was the personification of a Southern gentleman.
    “What?” she managed to ask, then realized that she was still massaging her head. Quickly, she let her hands drop.
    “I said that wig's a crime,” he repeated patiently, studying the thick curls that lent her small head a deceptively fragile look.
    Banner considered resurrecting her hostility, but abandoned the notion. There would be time for animosity, she decided, after he bought Jasmine Hall—if he bought it. She therefore obviously startled him with a sunny smile. “The wig itches,” she confided solemnly.
    Rory blinked, torn between the instant pleasure of her smile and an uneasy suspicion about her change in attitude. “I hope you don't mind,” he said rather abruptly. “I saw you from my window and wondered where you were going.” He glanced around, then added carefully, “I don't want to intrude.”
    She wondered briefly at his odd tone, then dismissed it. “This is where I work,” she explained.
    “Do you paint professionally?” he asked, looking at all the canvases propped against the walls.
    “It's more of a hobby, really. I'm not good enough to be a pro.”
    Rory stared at her for an incredulous moment, then went over to one particularly thick stack of canvases, went down on one knee, and began looking through them. When he finally rose to his feet, he turned to stare at her again. He realized in some surprise that she honestly had no idea of just how good she was.
    “Has Jake seen these?” he asked.
    Banner shrugged. “I haven't shown him anything but sketches in a long time. Why?”
    “Because they're brilliant,” Rory