Free Heiress by Janet Dailey Page A

more his excitement faded. For the last half-mile, he hadn't seen a single soul, not even a surf fisherman, She had told him he could find her here "most afternoons," but obviously not this one. Admittedly it was late, Dean thought as he squinted into the glare of the sun hovering low in the western sky. He wondered if maybe it was just as well that Caroline wasn't here. He'd be better off if he forgot all about her. Of course, he'd tried that, but he just hadn't been able to get her off his mind these last four days.
    More than once, Dean had questioned why, out of all the women he knew, he was constantly thinking about Caroline. Her looks were striking, but he could name any number of women who were more beautiful. And his marriage was basically a happy one. Sure, there were times when he wished he could talk to Babs about some of the things that troubled him, but that didn't change the way he felt toward his wife. That was just silly, lovable Babs, and he really didn't want her any other way.
    As he thought about Babs, Dean realized that he had no business being out here. He was about to turn the car around, when he saw Caroline about fifty yards ahead on the edge of the sand dunes. In that second he forgot everything: vows, loyalty, and convention. It was all gone, lost in the excitement of seeing her again.
    Intent on the canvas propped on her easel, Caroline didn't even look up when he stopped the car a few yards away and climbed out. Dean walked over to her slowly, taking advantage of the chance to gaze at her unobserved.
    Her hair was caught up in a ponytail secured with a string of red yarn, but the strong sea breeze had tugged several long, dark strands loose and now lashed them across her face—a face that was a study of concentration, her gray eyes narrowed, flicking their glance sharply from the canvas to the scene she was trying to capture, then back again, her dark eyebrows drawn together, and the line of her mouth pulled taut in determination, her full lips pressed firmly together. There was a paint smudge on her cheek, and another on the point of her chin.
    More paint was splattered on the man's plaid shirt she wore with the tails tied in a knot at her waist. The looseness of the shirt failed to hide the outline of her breasts, thanks to the breeze that shaped the cotton material to her body. A pair of snug capri pants was stretched over her full hips and emphasized her long, slender legs. She was barefoot, her toes half buried in the sand. Somehow Dean had guessed she would have beautiful feet.
    "The artist at work," he said.
    "I'll be finished here in just a. . . few. . . short. . . minutes." Each pause was filled with decisive strokes of the brush.
    "Do you mind if I look?"
    "Not at all," she replied, shrugging her indifference but not taking her concentration off the painting except to dab her brush in more paint from the palette she held in her left hand.
    Dean circled around to stand behind her left shoulder. Flames radiated from the canvas, a core of red-orange spreading to yellow-orange, then gold, and yellow-white to tan. Swirled in amidst them from both sides came shades of light blue and dark green. The fiery turbulence of the painting made such a visual impact that Dean didn't immediately see the image of a late-afternoon seascape with the waves reflecting the long trail of light cast by the setting sun.
    "It's very powerful," he said quietly.
    The Sun and the Sea, she called it as she paused to study it critically. "I like to take subjects that have been painted endlessly by artists and see if they still can move us."
    "I think you've succeeded." Dean didn't pretend to be an expert, but he was impressed with the sensation of intense heat and light that the painting evoked.
    "Maybe. Either way, I'm losing the sunlight effect on the water that I want." Smoothly, efficiently, she began cleaning up and stowing her paints and brushes away. "Care to join me for a drink?"
    "Sure."
    The summer house