Chapter Eighteen
He loved her wild eclectic style, the crystal that dangled over the kitchen sink making rainbows with the sun, and the arty way she arranged the elements of her loft as though the arrangement itself was an artistic masterpiece. He couldn’t find one thing that didn’t amuse, arouse or inspire him.
“I love the light, the way it dances on your face,” he said, seeing her smile in reply.
He loved the Gauguin comforter, at least it looked like Gauguin with savage colors that carried throughout the loft. The lack of form was form of its own, the lack of specific style was style in itself, and not stodgy or fixed, but changeable. A clue to her psyche perhaps, that her environment was so reflective of her inner self—the same inner self he’d discovered with his strap, his will, an
