Free River's Edge (Unlikely Gentlemen, Book 1) by Gem Sivad Page B

was very aware of the way his thigh brushed her hip as they sat side-by-side. No words came from her mouth when she opened it. She stood, crossing the area until she faced him over the cook fire.
     
    *
    Edge liked her voice. The husky quality of it would have made a hymnal reading sound seductive. But he had to admit, even limited as his experience was, her behavior didn’t tally with what he knew about proper ladies. Of course, he couldn’t imagine any such as them bringing him fresh bread at dawn, either.
    He regretted the loss of intimacy when she stood and paced to the other side of the cookstove. It had been awhile since he’d been near a woman and her femaleness pleased him mightily.
    He snorted mentally, understanding his role of lackey to her lady of the manor. “The reason for your visit,” he prodded her again.
    “I would like to hire you,” she answered, facing him.
    “I don’t sell my gun skills anymore.” His enjoyment in her company fled, leaving his tone cold and grim when he answered.
    “Well that’s certainly good news, since I’d rather sketch you alive.”
    “You want to sketch me?” he asked, feeling stupid as if he’d missed part of the conversation. He scratched his whiskers, absently noting the scruffy feeling of them under his fingers while he tried to get a fix on how the conversation had jumped from sense to nonsense.
    “I’m an artist.” She said it as a fact, clasping her hands in front of her, watching him intently. “The first day we almost met, when I was in the willow tree, I was sketching.”
    “Well now, that’s real interesting—”
    “I make considerable money at it,” she said, cutting him off and gesturing at her bicycle. “Just as we in the West are indulging in the new conveniences offered in the East, Eastern art collectors have developed an appetite for all things Western. You are the perfect image of a cowboy. I would like to sketch you. I will pay you to be my model.”
    Well hell. He figured any picture Miss Prescott drew of him at the moment would have a dumb-struck look on his face. He didn’t answer and she prepared to leave, gathering the now empty basket and tying it behind the bicycle seat. Apparently she’d suddenly discovered she had other business.
    “Think about it. Let me know. You were an excellent subject.” Abruptly she mounted her bicycle. Straddling the mechanical contraption she’d ridden in on, Miss Prescott leaned toward him. “I’m very serious. I would like to sketch you again.”
    “Would that be with or without my clothes?” he drawled.
    When she didn’t answer and pushed off, her feet finding the pedals to travel home, he thought he might have scared her. Not so. She was grinning when she shouted her message over her shoulder.
    “Both. If you’re interested, be at the willow tree tomorrow.” And away she went, riding her two-wheeled carriage like a queen.
    She pedaled faster, putting distance between them. He was glad she didn’t look back because he knew he’d lost the battle with his jaw, his mouth gaped wide open as he watched her ride back down the dirt trail.
    “I need to tie a handkerchief around my head to keep my jaw from dropping when she’s around,” he muttered.
     
    *
    She’d done it. Cheeks blazing from both wind and embarrassment, River pedaled furiously away from the man standing behind her. It astonished her how fiercely she wanted him to be her model. Excitement sizzled through her veins, powering the forward thrust of the bicycle as she sped toward her namesake.
    River, River, River… Leash your emotions. Her mother’s often said words surfaced, reminding her to quell her excesses. Out of sight of the Grayson ranch yard, she slowed. Her fingers tingled and she guided her bicycle with one hand, flexing the other, testing its readiness as she planned the picture she would draw the next day.
    She hadn’t exaggerated. Edge was the epitome of what Easterners thought a cowboy should be, and River