... he studied the room. Soft, deep cushions, bright, bold colors.
He decided the choices meant she had a deep-rooted sensual side.
He liked to think that. The room was spacious, and she'd furnished it sparingly.
The sofa was big and plush enough for sleeping, but there was only
a wide upholstered chair and two tables to keep it company.
Yet she'd covered the walls with art. Prints, posters, pen-and-ink sketches.
They were of places rather than people, and many of the scenes he recognized.
The narrow streets of Rome, the wild cliffs of western Ireland, the classy little cafes of Paris.
Sea Swept
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Her bedroom, he'd noted, was different from the rest of the apartment. Here she hadn't gone for the practical, for the streamlined.
The bed itself was a wide pool covered in soft rose sheets and a slick satin duvet in rich bronze.
The headboard was a romantic arch of wrought iron, curvy and frivolous and plumped now with a dozen fat, colorful pillows. The dresser he pegged as an antique, a heavy old piece of mahogany refinished to a rosy gleam.
It was covered with pretty little bottles and bowls and a silver-backed brush. The mirror over it was a long oval. There was a mahogany lady's vanity with a skirted stool and glinting brass handles.
For some reason he'd always found that particular type of furniture incredibly sexy.
A copper urn was filled with tall, fussy flowers, the walls were crowded with art, and the windows framed in the same rich bronze as the spread.
This, he thought idly, was Anna's room. The rest of the apartment was still Miz Spinelli's.
The practical and the sensual. Both suited her.
Sea Swept
