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Imagine it, and so she refused to think about it. She would do what she had to do when the time came. Until

then, she wouldn’t waste the hours she had with him mourning the future.

“I want to paint you.”

Mikki jumped and made a little “squee” sound.

Eyes still closed, his chest vibrated with his low laughter. She smacked his belly. “I thought you were asleep.”

“I cannot possibly sleep with you touching me like that,” he said.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize . . .” She started to pull her hand back, and he caught her wrist.

“I do not mind.” He let loose her wrist and smiled when she continued to trace a soft path over his stomach.

“I still want to paint you.”

“You already sketched me.”

“Yes, but I want to paint you, too. Just as you are now. I want your image on the walls of my bedchamber.”

He didn’t say “so I can remember you when you’re old and/or dead,” but Mikki’s mind shouted the words in

her head, along with words that whispered that he might need the painting to remind him of her much sooner

than either of them expected. She pushed down her morbid thoughts, but suddenly she wanted desperately for

him to paint her—for him to capture even just a piece of what they had so he would remember . . .

“Would you do it tonight? Now?” she asked.

Asterius opened his eyes and studied her. “Yes,” he said slowly. “I will paint your portrait tonight.”

Mikki watched as he left their bed and began gathering bowls and brushes from niches that had been carved

Into the walls of the cave and lighting more torches until the bedroom was alive with warmth and light. He

hadn’t bothered to get dressed beyond the linen wrap he’d slung haphazardly around his hips. She was struck

again by the raw power and untamed beauty of his body. He was beast, man, and god, all mixed together to

form a miracle, and there was only one thing she wanted more than to spend her life by his side.

When he had readied the paints and had a brush in his hand, she sat up and smiled at him. “Okay, how do you

want me to pose?”

He walked over to the sleeping pallet and gently pressed her back so she was lying on her side as she had

been when he’d been beside her. He spread her hair out around her so it made a copper veil on the creamcolored

pelt. He positioned her hands so one was draped over her head and the other lay, palm down, on the

pallet next to her, as if she hadven±Ђ† just caressed him. Then he pulled the blanket that had been covering

her from her waist down off her, leaving her naked. She raised an eyebrow at him.

His lips tilted up. “Are you cold?”

“If I am, will you warm me up?”

His laugh rumbled between them. “When I am finished. For right now, just lie still and close your eyes.” He

went back to the clay pots and brushes.

“Do I have to close my eyes? I’d rather watch you.”

He looked over his shoulder at her. “It will forever be a surprise to me that you enjoy looking at me.”

“I like to do more than look.” She smiled seductively.

“Do not move,” he chided, but his smile was clearly indulgent.

He began painting, working with bold, fast strokes, which he painted right over the top of the Tulsa Rose

Garden scene, causing the garden to be cast in the background, as if he was superimposing one view of reality

over another.

“Can I talk to you while you do that, or do you need to concentrate?” Mikki whispered, a little awed by the

beautiful, glistening version of her that was taking form.

“You may talk. I may not answer, though. Sometimes I forget where I am when I paint.”

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“In my old world they call that The Zone. I read an article on it once. It happens to artists and authors and

athletes. Something about brain endorphins. It’s supposed to mean you’re doing something right if you can

find The Zone.”

Asterius grunted.

“Do you always get in The Zone when you paint?” she asked.

“Yes. Usually.” He squinted as he studied her and then turned back to the cave wall and drew the long,

curving line of her waist, hip and leg.

She watched him paint and thought about his talent and the beauty he seemed to so easily create, even though

he had, for centuries, been an outcast. Please, Gii, keep your word. Then she pulled her mind from the

handmaiden’s promise, afraid Asterius would study her face too closely and be able to read her melancholy

thoughts.

She needed to think of him instead. As he was then—as he had been earlier—passionate, tender, loving and

full of surprises like the exquisite paintings he could produce. Which reminded her . . .

“Asterius, who is the woman you drew on the wall of the front room?”

His hand stilled mid-stroke. Without looking at her he said, “It is Pasiphea, my mother.”

“I thought so,” she said. And she had. Asterius wasn’t adding her picture to his wall as he would a trophy. He

wouldn’t do that—he wouldn’t even think that way. “She’s very beautiful.”

“That pa±Ђ† is how I remember her.”

Mikki wanted to ask him to please remember her as beautiful, too. To please forget her faults and the pain of

their parting after she was gone. To just remember how much they loved. But she knew she couldn’t. All she

could do was to hope that when the time came he would forgive her for being mortal. Mikki closed her eyes,

afraid if she kept looking at him she would blurt out what she was thinking—admit everything and beg him to

help her find another way out of this mess.

Somehow, Mikki slept. She only knew it because the next time she opened her eyes the room was much

dimmer and Asterius was sleeping beside her. She lay there for a few moments, listening to him take deep,

regular breaths. Then, tentatively, she eased up from their bed. Quietly, she wrapped herself in a length of

chiton she’d discarded earlier. She didn’t look at the wall until she had the material fastened at her shoulder.

Then she stared, pressing her hand to her mouth to stop her gasp. He had made her look like a goddess! Her

painted image was sleeping, with a slight upturn to her lips, as if she had been having a lovely dream. Her skin

looked touchable, her body lush and inviting. And he hadn’t painted her lying on his pallet. He’d painted her

sleeping on a bed of rose petals—specifically, Mikado rose petals.

She turned back to the bed and looked at him, wishing she could wake him up and make love to him. But she

couldn’t take the chance. She had to check on the roses. If my instincts are wrong, she promised herself, I’ll

come back and wake him up and make love to him all morning. Without looking at him again, Mikki padded

on bare, silent feet from the room.

The sun hadn’t risen yet, but the eastern sky was starting to turn from night’s black to a gray that would soon

welcome dawn. The grass was cold and damp under her bare feet as she followed the path around the base of

the cliff to the stairs that would lead her up past the hot springs baths, around to her balcony, and then down

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