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Atremor coursed through Everett at the emotion in Callista's voice.

The connection of her hand in his caused his soul to swell to the extent that his skin felt as if it must stretch to accommodate the growth.

He still couldn't quite believe she'd voluntarily taken his hand.

He knew it had been an act of compassion.

It carried no romantic meaning. Yet now that the link had been forged, he doubted his ability to sever it.

"I don't feel the pain when I look at you."

Her lashes dipped over her eyes, and the pink in her cheeks darkened. Drat. He'd embarrassed her.

"I shouldn't have painted your likeness without permission. If you wish, you can take it with you today. Slice it to ribbons, hide it away in one of your trunks, set it afire."

Though, any of those would be a travesty.

"Gracious!" She craned her neck so that she could face him. "I could never destroy a piece of art in such a manner. Even if you did take liberties and paint me in too flattering a manner."

"Too flattering?" A surprised laugh coughed out of him. "My feeble efforts fall far short of doing you justice, Callista."

The moment her given name slipped from his lips, he froze.

He'd crossed a line, one that couldn't be uncrossed.

One that left him dangling from a high limb, his hand outstretched to her, with no guarantee that she wouldn't hack off the branch and send him careening to a bruising collision with reality.

She blinked like a startled doe for a moment, then ever so slowly, that shy smile of hers reappeared to play havoc with his stomach. "I like conversing with you as if we're friends. I'd like to think it's not far from the truth. Rather like you and Mr. Lightfoot."

Good grief. He hoped not. His feelings for Callista bore little likeness to his friendship with Lightfoot.

Yet he understood what she meant. Friendship, or any type of intimacy, between an employer and his employee created a natural imbalance in the relationship.

Mutual respect and trust had to take precedence over the bounds of employment for the relationship to work.

A trust he needed to be careful not to abuse.

"I do consider us friends, Miss Rosenfeld.

Though, I apologize for using your given name without permission.

I seem to be taking several liberties of late, don't I?

" He gave his head a small shake in self-abasement.

"Having you here in my studio, gazing upon my paintings, created an atmosphere of intimacy that made me forget myself.

Please forgive me if I have made you uncomfortable. "

Compassion lit her eyes, but something else sparked there too. Pleasure, perhaps? He hoped so. He really didn't want her pity.

She squeezed his hand, then brought her other palm around to cup his fingers from the outside as well. His heart banged against his breastbone.

"There's nothing to forgive." Her smile unknotted his gut.

"To be honest, I liked hearing my name. I've never been away from my father for such a length of time, and I miss the easy banter we always share.

And if you truly do consider us friends, then I see no harm in disposing with formality when we are in more intimate circumstances. "

"In that case, you must call me Everett as well."

Her lashes lowered. "Everett."

A tremor spread through him when she spoke his name, and he had to resist the urge to draw her into a true embrace. His feelings had raced past friendship in a blink of an eye and dived straight into something dangerously deeper.

"About the painting . . ." She turned to face the portrait once again, her hand finally slipping free of his.

"Consider it yours," he blurted. "Whatever you wish me to do with it, I shall."

Though, he really hoped she wouldn't vote for destroying it.

He'd not experienced joy in the act of painting since before his accident.

Catharsis, yes, but not joy. Not until he'd started painting her.

Yet, even if she asked him to set the portrait aflame, he'd not hesitate.

She'd awakened the joy of creation within him, and he'd not despise her gift with his own selfishness.

"You mentioned possibly painting a miniature for me to take home to my father.

Would you consider finishing this painting and allowing me to gift it to him?

He and I have birthdays only a few days apart, and we always celebrate them together by exchanging handmade gifts.

" A mischievous gleam entered her eyes, making it clear that some level of competitiveness was involved with this tradition.

"We're not allowed to spend any money, so creativity is our currency.

I'd thought to hand tool him a hat band from a scrap of blue leather left over from your binding project.

Papa's always loved the color blue. But I like the idea of presenting him with this even better.

" One of her fingers cautiously touched the edge of the canvas, as if she feared marring the artwork.

"It's technically handmade. Just not by me.

And since you are giving it to me, no rules would be violated regarding the financial restrictions. He'll be so surprised!"

Her delight was palpable, and it fueled his own.

So unlike his experience with birthdays in his past, days filled with expensive gifts and tepid enjoyment.

His favorite foods graced the table, yet he'd always been eager to quit the obligatory family dinner and head to the club with his friends.

Back in New York, he would have scoffed at the idea of handmade gifts.

But when Callista spoke of them, they suddenly seemed like the most valuable commodity on the planet.

Because of the love and thoughtfulness woven into the very fabric of the offerings.

"How soon is your father's birthday?"

"Next week, actually. But we made plans to celebrate after I finish the job, so there's no rush."

Next week? Which meant her birthday was also next week. He needed to talk to Mrs. Potter. Make plans. Handmade gifts. And maybe something extra . . . something to help him finish her portrait.

Who knew that sitting still could be so taxing?

Callista wrinkled her nose, wanting to scratch the itchy spot on the left side but not wanting to disturb whatever vision Everett had prepared.

He'd worked so hard to position her head just so, trying to match the face on the canvas.

When he'd shown her his studio two days ago, something had shifted between the two of them.

Up here, they were no longer employer and employee.

They were friends. Perhaps more than friends.

Heat rose to her cheeks as she recalled the feel of his gentle fingers positioning her chin at the desired angle and encouraging her to relax her shoulders.

All traces of the beast she'd met the first day of her arrival had vanished.

Yes, his scars were still there, but his demeanor had completely changed.

He spoke in cultured tones, his voice never raised.

He sought her gaze instead of avoiding it, and when he touched her, there was such tenderness in the contact that she felt as if she were a priceless treasure being treated with utmost care.

A soft masculine chuckle broke into her thoughts. "You can scratch if you need to. I won't lose my place."

She immediately took him up on the offer, groaning softly in satisfaction as her fingernail rubbed away the irritation.

"Shoulders," he said, amusement lacing his tone.

"Sorry." She'd sagged a little at the relief of being able to scratch and now hurried to reset her posture.

Never would she have guessed that she would have cause to sit for a portrait.

Such activities were reserved for the wealthy, not ordinary girls in worn-out clothes who bound books for a living.

Yet Everett had cajoled her into agreeing, insisting that it would help him finish the portrait in a timelier fashion if he could use her as a model for an hour a day.

So here she was, sitting in the light of an attic window while a man painted her likeness.

The situation should make her feel terribly self-conscious, and it did at some level, knowing his artist's eye surely spotted all her imperfections.

Yet he found ways to put her at ease while giving her a chance to observe him as he worked.

A privilege few enjoyed, and one she'd not squander.

Trust had sprouted between them and was growing at a remarkable rate.

Spending her midday breaks with him allowed them not only to work on the portrait but to talk.

They discussed favorite books and artistic interests, but they also spoke of families.

Yesterday, she'd told him about her mother and how she still felt her loss, and he'd spoken of his.

Of how her reaction to his injury had cut him deeply even as he acknowledged that he still missed her—missed the closeness they'd once shared.

Artist to artist, and mother to son. Callista had urged him to write to her, to take the first step toward mending the rift.

To forgive her for being weak and forgive himself for being harsh.

He'd promised to think about it, and she'd promised to pray—for him and for his mother.