Midnight Jewels

fiddle to a piece of eighteenth century pornography.
    There were so many excellent reasons for not letting Croft accompany her.
    He was still studying the watercolor scene when Mercy returned to the living room with the two glasses of brandy in her hand. He glanced at her assessingly as she moved to stand beside him. He looked as though he were choosing his words carefully.
    "I should warn you, I don't take criticism well," Mercy told him, handing him his brandy.
    "You're taking the wrong approach with your painting," he said very seriously.
    "It's just practice for my art class." She glanced idly down at the scene on the easel. "Seemed like a nice day to catch the view. Do you paint?"
    "I've studied watercolors."
    She sipped her drink. "That surprises me."
    "Does it? I found them very," he paused, "satisfying."
    "Why?" she asked with sudden interest.
    "Because on the surface the medium is very transparent. Very straightforward and obvious. There aren't multiple layers of paint to get in the way of the viewer, just a clean wash of color. Watercolor painting lets the artist create an impression with light. What could be clearer than light?"
    Mercy shook her head. "You said watercolor painting is that way on the surface. But I don't think it would have held your interest if there had been nothing more to it."
    "You're right. The transparent quality is fascinatingly complex when you study it. It reveals so much with so little. And that's where you're going wrong in your painting, Mercy. You're trying to put too much detail in your work. You're using a technique that depends on light as though it were pen and ink or oils."
    "Oddly enough, I didn't let you in here tonight to give me a lesson in painting."
    His mouth edged up at the corner. "No? Then why did you invite me in this evening?"
    She shied away from the blunt question, not wanting to admit the answer to herself, let alone to him. "Perhaps as a polite thank you for the pleasant day you gave me?"
    He considered that and then discarded it as an unacceptable reason. "Not good enough. There is a place for polite responses, but this isn't it."
    "Croft—"
    "Watch." He interrupted her to lean down and pick up a brush. He dampened the fine bristles in the little dish of water and stroked it across a pot of yellow. Then he combined the yellow with a touch of blue, creating a delicate green.
    Mercy watched. She couldn't help herself. He was thinning the paint out far too much for her taste, she decided. But then he drew the brush across the paper in a swift, sure stroke and she realized in amazement that he had just laid down the perfect shade of the sky at sunset over the cove. She would never have thought to use green to render that color and she would never have used such a restrained wash of paint to do the job. The result delighted her.
    "Beautiful," she whispered, entranced.
    He set down the brush. "I think," he said slowly, "that making love to you would be like painting with water-colors."
    Mercy went very still.
    Croft put his hand around the nape of her neck, using his thumb to lift her chin. His eyes were almost golden. "All color and light."
    His mouth came down on hers before Mercy could even think of moving.

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Chapter FOUR

    Mercy felt her responses leaping to life the instant he touched her. The sensation was wildly disorienting, unlike anything she had ever experienced in her life. His touch was, she thought fleetingly, exactly as she had dreamed it would be, a riot of color for her senses.
    The snifter in her hand trembled and then it was gone as Croft removed it from her fingers without lifting his mouth from hers. When both of his hands closed around her she caught her breath. His warmth and strength reached out to capture her and pull her into a glittering trap. All the fascination, the physical awareness and the deep, underlying compulsion to know Croft that had been unsettling her for the past two days swamped her now.
    She knew he was aware of her reaction. It made her feel vulnerable, and for a moment some of her wariness returned to initiate a losing struggle against the inevitable. Croft's hands tightened on her.
    "You want me," he said, his mouth brushing her own.
    "I've seen it in your eyes. You can't hide it from me. Your eyes are as clear as a watercolor to me. And I want you. I'll be careful with you. You have no reason to fear me, Mercy. I've told you before, you're safe with me. You know that, don't you?"
    Once again she believed him,