Stroke of Genius Read Online Free Page A

this,” Grace muttered, feeling both anxious and foolish at the same time. While Nate cautioned her against speaking to anyone, he must haunt holes like this every day. “If he can do it, I can do it.”
    She pushed deeper into the alley. Shopkeepers were opening on either side of the narrow way. A tobacconist and a chandler squabbled over the limited display space. A sorry excuse for a milliner displayed a dozen ridiculous hats.
    Grace kept her head down as she plowed ahead, conscious of the weight of eyes on her from behind curtained windows as she passed. She never tolerated small spaces well. If she’d been the excitable sort, she’d have swooned with relief when she finally reached the arched door with a chisel and hammer swinging from its nameplate. Nate pulled it open and bade her enter with a comical little bow.
    “I brung her, Mr. Hawke,” he called out and then dashed around in front of her to find his master. “She’s here.”
    “So I see. And right on time, too.” Crispin appeared at the far end of the arched stone foyer and ruffled the lad’s hair good-naturedly. “Off to the workshop with you, Nate. You’ve some polishing to do, I’ll warrant.”
    Crispin was wearing an open-collared shirt, which reached his knees, topped by a leather apron. Serviceable trousers, plain shoes and the walking stick completed his attire. His hair was clubbed back and bound into a queue with a leather thong, accentuating his strong features.
    He’d been the picture of sartorial elegance when he called at her home. Now he might as well be naked, so far as Polite Society was concerned.
    How dare he expose her to gossip! No gentleman appeared before a lady without his jacket, unless he was the lady’s husband.
    “Mr. Hawke,” she said in a clipped tone. “Are you in the habit of greeting all your clients in such a shameful state of undress?”
    “Undress?” He snorted and held his hands out while he executed a slow turn. “Kindly tell me, Grace, is more of me exposed now than when we first met?”
    The breadth of his shoulders was more impressive beneath the gauzy fabric. She could clearly make outthe girth of his biceps, but admitting it would make her cheeks heat even more.
    “No?” he said with a grin. “Well, perhaps it’s just wishful thinking on your part.”
    “Mr. Hawke!”
    “Grace,” he returned smoothly. “Now that we have remembered each other’s names, perhaps we can get down to business. In my studio, I dress simply to spare my wardrobe. Sculpting is a messy activity, as so many pleasurable things in life are.”
    He let the innuendo dangle for a few heartbeats. Grace wondered again about that desperately wicked activity called swiving.
    “Be grateful I’m wearing as much as I am,” he said. “Sometimes, when the weather turns warm, I dismiss the day help and make do with the apron alone.”
    Grace drew a sharp breath at the thought of him with only the rectangle of leather draped across his lap. Not exactly a fig leaf, but deucedly close! His chuckle made her want to kick herself. She had to stop letting him see he could provoke her.
    “Then it is my great good fortune that spring is unseasonably cool this year,” she said as Claudette helped her out of her pelisse.
    He frowned.
    “Is something amiss?” Her barb had struck home! She mentally danced a small circle in glee.
    “Yes,” he said with a sigh. “How am I to sculpt your hands if you’re covered to the wrists?”
    She hadn’t thought of that. She’d worn the long-sleeved gown in deference to the stiff breeze.
    “Most people prefer the forearms be included when I do their hands. I suppose I could do just one hand, palm up,” he suggested, “but we don’t want your father using the piece as an ash catcher for his cigars, do we?”
    “My father does not smoke cigars,” she said icily. Horace Makepeace smoked a pipe, but that was beside the point. Did he think Bostonians so backward, they’d use a Crispin Hawke