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Chapter One

The studio was filled with the rich odor of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden there came through the open door the heavy scent of lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn. The soft breeze, infused with scent, tickled
Rosemary Hall's neck, stirring the fine hairs on her nape.

It was certainly peculiar, she thought: this new awareness of feeling in her body. Even painting felt different. It was no longer just a preoccupation of mind and coordination, but a physical experience. The wetted brush was as sentient as her hand itself and when it touched the canvas her body stirred as though to come to life with each careful stroke.

And the daydreams she was having...oh, but at least those she could blink away. The dreams at night were the worst. They weren’t nightmares, no –
anything but, really – yet they left her deeply unsettled. Night after night she awoke in a feverish sweat,
her hips writhing on their own accord, the bed sheet balled in a coil and clenched between her legs. It was so…real.
Like he’d really been there.
Drenched in sweat she felt his phantom kisses linger on her cheeks. Wherever were those dreams coming from?
Rosemary wondered. She avoided the answer. This was no time to get carried away with lust, she thought, blushing as the word crossed her mind – a quick scurry across then back into her subconscious.

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