So long as she never let her hair down ever again, there was a good chance no one would associate her with the pale-faced woman with her cascade of copper curls staring so trustingly from the painting. She lifted her gaze from her nude patent court shoes to take another quick squint at the portrait. Maybe it wasn’t such a disaster; Gethin had summed her up in colour and emotion rather than a precise physical resemblance. Anyway, no one had come rushing up thrusting a mic under her nose yet. In fact, since someone had stuck their head out of the mob clustering round the Vicar shouting that the model in Samba had been uncovered, the members of the press had all been too busy trying to submit their stories to notice her. And by the time he’s finished painting them, he’s sick of the sight of them. Isn’t that what Ruby had told her? It may be an intense relationship for a short time, but it’s only paint. Was that a bad thing? She considered how she felt about that night. How her body had tingled and ached, as if, for once in a long, long time, she was truly alive and her pulse rate took off just remembering.
