A true artist sees beyound a woman's skin,
    into her heart.

eBook ISBN
978-1-60174-073-1/1-60174-073-5

How to market a daughter...

Impersonally he repositioned my arms and legs until he was satisfied. All the while he muttered to himself. "...show the line of thigh...tempting but untouchable...the aching vulnerability of youth...magnificent poitrine...ivory's not the right word either...how to catch that color...incredible mouth...taste like sun-warmed raspberries..."

Something about his voice, his half-heard words, caused a small fluttering of the midriff-creatures.

He posed me sideways on the chair, my left arm resting on its back, my hand dangling. My right arm stretched back to the edge of the seat and supported me. My head was thrown back, my eyes directed at the juncture of wall and ceiling behind his easel. Holding the pose would be a strain. Remembering the silly twit appellation, I resolved to do so until I collapsed from sheer exhaustion.

"Raise your skirt."

"I beg your pardon." Without thinking I turned my head to stare at him.

"Damn it, girl, I told you not to move."

Quickly I resumed the pose. Surely I had heard wrongly.

"Chin a bit higher. There, that's it. Now, raise your skirt. Show a bit of ankle."

I ignored him. How dare he!

He sketched in silence for several minutes. Suddenly he threw his charcoal stick to the floor and strode to where I sat. His big hand grasped my hem and pulled it above my knee.

"Sir!" Mattie cried, "Unhand my mistress!"

He turned to glower at her. "Sit down!" he thundered. "It's not your place to interfere between me and my subject. If I want to strip her naked, I will."