Tribute by Nora Roberts Page A

was more potent, her lips more generous, her body more supple. It was as if he’d painted this first kiss in the brightest, boldest colors in his palette.
    And even they weren’t deep enough.
    She was a ride on a dragon, a flight through space, a dive into the deep waters of an enchanted sea.
    His hands swept up from her shoulders to her face, then into her hair to tug the band tying it back. He eased away to see her with her hair tumbled, to see her eyes, her face before he drew her back again.
    But she pressed a hand to his chest. “Better not.” She let out a careful breath. “I’ve already hit my quota of mistakes for this decade.”
    “That didn’t feel like a mistake to me.”
    “Maybe, maybe not. I have to think about it.”
    He ran his hands down to her elbows and back up as he watched her. “That’s really a damn shame.”
    “It is.” She took another breath. “It absolutely is. But . . .”
    At her light nudge, he stepped back. “Here’s what I need to know. There’s persistence, there’s pacing and there’s pains in the ass. I’m wondering which category you’d consider it if I wander over to your place now and then or invite you over here, with the full intention of trying to get you naked.”
    The dog made an odd gurgling sound from under the chair, and Cilla watched one of those bulging eyes open. As if he waited for the answer, too.
    “You haven’t come close to the third yet, but I’ll let you know if you do.”
    She sidestepped. “But I’m going to take a rain check on that offer of food and nudity. I’ve got a porch—veranda—to finish tomorrow.”
    “Oh, that tired old excuse.”
    She laughed, went down the steps before she changed her mind. “I do appreciate the Corona, the ear and being hit on.”
    “Come back anytime for any or all of the above.”
    He leaned on the rail as she walked across the road, returned the wave she sent him when she reached the open gates. And he bent and picked up the little stretchy band of blue he’d tugged out of her hair.
     
     
    FORD DEBATED GIVING her some time, some space. Then decided the hell with that. His latest novel was on his editor’s desk, and before he dove too deeply into Brid, he wanted some visual aids. Plus, since Cilla didn’t appear to be put off by the persistent, he intended to be just that.
    After he rolled out of bed at what he considered the civilized hour of ten, checked the backyard to see that Spock was already up and chasing his ghost cats, he took his coffee outside and watched her work on her front veranda.
    He considered he could get some very decent shots of her, in action, with his long lens. But decided that edged over into the murky area of creepy. Instead, he poured himself a bowl of Cheerios and ate them standing up, studying her.
    The body was great. Long, lean, lanky and on the athletic side rather than willowy and slight. Cass would be fit, he decided, but instinctively conceal her . . . attributes. Brid, well, she’d be right out there.
    The hair, that deep blond like shadowed sunlight, he decided. An easy transition there, too. Cass would habitually keep hers restrained; Brid’s would fly and flow. Then the face. He wished he could see Cilla’s now, but it was blocked by the brim of the ball cap she wore as she worked. He had no problem conjuring it in his mind, the shape, the angles, the tones. It would be a face Cass played down, one made quiet and intellectual by the glasses, the lack of makeup.
    Beauty restrained, just like her hair.
    But Brid, for Brid, the beauty would be bold, luminous. Not simply released but wild with it.
    Time to get started.
    Inside, he packed up his satchel again, hung his camera around his neck by its strap. He considered another token, and shoved an apple into the bag.
    The sound of her nail gun peppered the air like muffled gunshots. And made Ford think of battles. Brid would never use a gun—much too crass, too ordinary. But how would she defend herself against