Oliver was down below and laughing, his skinny little body clad only in wet drawers. He was on top of the big rock and Gareth Lockheart, hip-deep in the pool and bare-chested, was calling out something in an unmistakably taunting masculine tone.

Oliver responded by leaping off the rock and clasping his knees with his arms, sending a great gout of water over his spectator.

Serena clutched her throat, where her breath had become stuck, her eyes flickering wildly.

But Oliver burst out of the water like some manner of fish, his characteristic, “Huzzah!” clearly audible.

The two males consulted one another, shook hands, as if completing some deal, and her almost nude employer turned in her direction and waded toward shore.

She swallowed as he emerged from the water, the fine linen he favored as translucent as a dragonfly’s wing.

“Oh. My.”

Serena had learned her art at the foot of a country sculptor who had no patience for the delicate sensibilities of his city equivalents. When he’d trained her in anatomy, he’d had every kind of body type as a model. Women, men, young, old—she’d seen dozens of bodies. But never had she seen one quite like Gareth Lockheart’s. She’d seen his torso in the window night after night, but she’d not seen the rest of him.

Narrow, powerful hips attached to legs that would have done a statue of Atlas proud. He moved with the athletic grace she’d admired in him more than once but could now fully appreciate. He slid a hand down the front of his drawers to pull the clinging fabric from his private parts, whose dimensions were quite impressive even considering the effect of the cold water.

He climbed the big rock, his actions affording her an excellent view of his backside, which her hands had so briefly caressed.

He strode to the end of the rock, said something to Oliver that made him laugh, and then launched himself into the air, making a splash that caused her son to hoot with joy.

Serena realized she was smiling so hard her face hurt. She unclasped her cloak and dropped it to the ground before sitting, and then she took out her sketchpad.

***

Gareth’s jewels had contracted up into his body. The water was beyond cold and he’d been mad to let the boy talk him into it. Even with all their diving and splashing his goose-pimples had goose-pimples. But he had to admit—as they both lay on the grassy bank letting the pale but surprisingly warm sun dry their bodies—that he felt a sense of peace he’d never experienced before.

“Mr. Lockheart?”

He turned his head and shaded his eyes with one hand. “Yes?”

“Did you go away to school when you were a boy?”

Gareth considered his question, and how honest he should be in his answer. A child should not know that a thing like orphanages existed—and certainly not the nightmarish things that often occurred in them—but also, he deserved to know some of the truth.