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"I have no pencil. You will need to use this or nothing at all. Here." |
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He thrust the quill into her hand. She took it, feeling the ends of the feather tickle her fingers. She gripped the thing as she'd seen him hold it. Dipping it carefully into the ink bottle, she let the excess ink drip off, then scraped its tip at the edge of the bottle. |
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And then she put the tip to the paper. |
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A huge blot of ink smeared the page. |
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"Damn!" Mariah cried. She had to learn how to do this. Without Dictaphone, computer, even good old ballpoint pen, it was the only way to record her recollections of the screenplay. |
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She looked beseechingly at Thorn to find him staring at her, his head slightly cocked. "Most ladies of my former acquaintance do not speak such words so easily," he said. He didn't sound condemning. If anything, he seemed amused. |
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"I am not most ladies of your acquaintance, former or otherwise. Now, show me again what to do." |
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He stood and walked behind her. Once more, he placed her fingers on the quill, but this time he manipulated them with his own until he was apparently satisfied with her grip. And then his hand closed over hers. It was warm and rough, large enough to span hers and hold it steady as he drew it toward the ink bottle. |
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Mariah found it difficult to breathe. He was leaning over her, and their contact was not limited to the grasp of his hand. His firm chest was against her back, and she felt his breath stirring her hair. |
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Once again, she was aware of this man. Oh, how very aware, for she had not learned her lesson before. She had a sudden need to touch more of him. To have him touch more of her. |
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He twisted his hand to show her how to make the quill retain only the smallest amount of ink. She inhaled his masculine scent once more, but now it seemed to surround her, |
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