Veronica Castile inherits an antique shop from her grandmother. She plans to remodel part of it into an art gallery with a friend of hers. A painting on the ceiling in the office area of the shop has taken on a life of its own. It controls her, even while she thinks she controls it. She’s not sure she is willing to give up the great sex instigated by whatever powers fuel the fresco on her ceiling, but will it destroy her if she doesn’t? Can she destroy it?
Jerrod didn’t ride in on a white steed, but is he there to rescue her? Or, just the fuel added to the fresco’s pleasure plot?
Jerrod couldn’t help but feel a rush of heat as he caught sight of Veronica Castile loading something into the trunk of the gold Buick. He always did like his women with some meat on their bones, not the anorexic twigs that seemed to have the market on television, movies, and catalogues. No, he liked Renaissance women, and a little older, a little more seasoned than the ones that wanted him. Veronica was the perfect mix of both. He caught himself wondering how she would feel in his arms.
How her breasts would feel without the trappings of clothes and bra. His heart nearly forgot to beat when Paul Mittas asked him to oversee the renovation project she had planned for the Forslund Antique Shop. He couldn’t quite figure out how to get around to asking her for a date. Maybe now he wouldn’t have to wonder, it could happen in the process of this project. He slid out of the truck, his palms sweating. Why am I nervous? She’s just another customer. Yeah right! And those fantasies that haunt my nights are adolescent leftover from a sexually awakening youth. To calm his nerves and dry the sweat of anticipation from his palms, he ran a hand through his hair and tried to detect if his deodorant was keeping up with his hormones.
“Morning, Ms Castile,” he said extending his hand and trying for his most charming smile.
“Good morning, Mr. Stone. Ah, can I convince you to call me Ronnie, or Veronica if Ronnie is too informal?”
Jerrod laughed and his laugh rippled through her insides like a flock of tiny hummingbirds fluttering from her stomach to her throat. She cleared her throat to stop the flutter.