Yet another good reason why she shouldn’t get involved with him. She would constantly be worrying about him, and frankly, she had enough to worry about without adding him to the mix.

Not that he was trying to get involved with her. She had to remember that, too.

Prepared to reprimand him yet again, Sara went up the stairs and through the wide open door of his apartment. She sincerely hoped he had just pulled it open in anticipation of her entrance and that he hadn’t been home all day with the front door gaping open. Though she would bite her tongue before she said something to him about the door and sounded like a nag. Driving the point home about dangling in the window was one thing, but add the locked door issue on top of that and she’d sound like a freak.

Which maybe she was.

But all thoughts of stern consternation fled her mind when Gabriel held up his sketchbook in front of her.

She felt her mouth drop. Actually was aware of her jaw descending and her mouth flapping open.

It was her. He had drawn her, beautifully. With clean lines and a raw sort of honesty, and appreciation.

She saw how he had seen her from the window, relaxed, but still pensive. Warm in the sun. Legs spread.

Good God.

“It’s . . . lovely. You’re very, very talented.” And she was going to have to revise her opinion of his lack of interest in her. The drawing was alive, and the artist was attracted to the subject. She could see that. Feel it. Unless he had done that just for effect. But she didn’t believe it. He had perceived her pose as sensual, her posture as making love to the sunshine, accepting it, wanting it.

“Thanks.” He glanced at the sketch, a satisfied smile on his face, pencil tucked behind his ear. “Like I said, I was inspired.”

“Why did you ever stop drawing?” Sara reached out and tipped the book back to her, so they could both see it. It was highly flattering, very gratifying to see herself on paper. “If you did this in just a few minutes, I can’t imagine what you could do with paint and a week.”

Gabriel glanced down at her, his arm, leg, body close to her. She could smell his aftershave, and the oddly innocent odor of baby shampoo, and she realized that individually there were pieces of Gabriel that she really liked, appreciated, was attracted to. Sometimes, put all together, she wasn’t entirely sure what she was looking at, but studied in sections, she saw nothing but aspects that pleased her.

“There’s a reason I gave it up, Sara. Drawing, painting, playing the piano . . . they all require emotion. Vulnerability. Exposing a piece of me.” His thumb slid over the page, rushing over the top of her hair in pencil.

She shivered, feeling again that flood of desire he inspired.