Loving Grace (5 page)

“You’ve done that.”

He shrugged. “To some, but not you, I
think.”

“Not at all. I didn’t mean—”

“I’m challenged,” he cut her off
thoughtfully, “by the fact that you see a perfect reflection rather
than the essence—”

“I said I know little of art.” Grace winced,
wanting to sink through the floor. “I’m not really into it, but I
think your work is beautiful.”

He smiled again, shaking his head, looking
into her eyes.

“What?” She had to ask. “I’m really sorry.
Excuse me.” She stepped around him, wanting to leave, to
cringe...and hide out...for the next year.

His hand came out and lightly detained her by
a hold on her arm. “Would you model for me?”

Grace almost dropped the glass. So hard did
she clutch the stem, she thought she’d snap it in two.
“Uh..I...Uh...” Oh, shit! She couldn’t think.

He set the wineglass on a small ledge and
reached in his pocket. Handing her a card. “I pay well.”

She took it, her hand trembling and her
stomach in knots. “I’m not exactly right for… for what you do.”

He disagreed then asked smoothly, “What is
your name?”

She lied again, her mind darting in every
direction while she thought of one. “Jane,” she said, and then
looked at his shirt. “Blackstone.”

“Jane...” He frowned slightly and moved his
gaze over her face.

She quipped, “Plain old Jane.”

He smiled, but his eyes still looked
puzzled.

Grace knew she had to make her escape before
she created more disaster. “I’m flattered, truly but...”

“I’ll expect you Saturday. Early morning. All
right?” He nodded and walked away before she agreed.

Grace fled. She collected her coat and left,
sucking in the cold air and noticing her trembling hands while she
opened the car door. She rested her head on the top of the steering
wheel while her stomach twisted and her mind reeled. She’d come
here without a plan, spurred by some uncharacteristic, warped
curiosity. And damned if she hadn’t made a fool of herself in spite
of efforts to blend in. Not with some art connoisseur—no—but with
Noel Hawthorn himself.

Grace drove home and went straight to a hot
shower. She scrubbed and then wrapped her hair in a towel. With her
robe tied loosely around her, she sat on her bed in the dark and
wondered if she should go see a shrink. She admitted her intent had
been to watch Noel, to spy, to see the woman who’d hired her
brother, true. However, real truth be known, it was Hawthorn she
cared most to see in the flesh. The voice, the image, the man who
seemed to be popping up in her life, by voice, by name...

His work. It was beyond her vocabulary to
describe, and she’d been obtuse enough to say just the opposite to
his face. Beautiful hardly scratched the surface. She was mortified
that one word, which he probably heard from every art ignorant
person, was the only one she’d hit on and used in her strained
state.

She crawled under the covers and lay there,
seeing his face, his bedroom eyes. Why would he possibly want to
paint someone like her? Even dressed up, wearing makeup, she knew
her face and form didn’t compare to those paintings, in spite of
what he said. Nor could any mental nuance or whatever, create
something with brown hair and brown eyes and winter skin...Hell.
Skin...The man couldn’t have seen much except her neck and...

Grace groaned and rolled to her stomach. She
should just forget it; just put him and the night out of her mind.
It was a big city, and they wouldn’t run into each other,
considering his crowd and hers. They were strangers, would remain
so unless she sought him out. She could mark the whole thing down
as some weird episode in her life, and get back to planning the
rest of her time off.

Yeah, she should leave the city. This would
be the perfect time to take off and find a beach somewhere. She
should just pack up and erase the whole thing from her mind.

Chapter Six

Grace made it three whole days. She read
brochures and decided a weekend on the Caribbean would build a
memory that could last a long time. Not to mention that it was
exotic, daring, and something out of the ordinary for her.

But Thursday she sat in her car outside
Noel’s loft, a warehouse type of building that looked industrial
from the outside. The models that came by were attractive and
dressed in hip clothing. She found it hard to believe the man was
faithful to his girlfriend and not sleeping with them because he’d
lied about the good-looking part, they were very attractive.

That evening she sat in the back lot of the
art gallery, cold because she couldn’t run the heater and still
calling herself crazy. She absently watched the paintings,
apparently sold ones, being brought out in crates and put into a
green security truck. Grace missed seeing Noel leave, because after
observing the armed security guard lock up, she was puzzled when
Elisa and Bryce walked around the back lot.

Having parked out of the arc of the lights,
Grace had a good view of them when Bryce unlocked the door and they
went in. Chewing her lip, looking around, Grace grabbed up one of
the small cameras and exited her car.

She’d worn her trench coat and black clothing
with her hair tucked under a black felt cap. She looked around as
she walked to the door, amazed they left it cracked open and that
the two had gone in after the guard left.

Grace eased the door wide enough to slip
through. It was dark. A pool of light several feet away illuminated
the couple’s location amid crates and wrap, talking in low tones.
She began to snap pictures, gratified that the fans and heaters,
which apparently kept the building temperature-controlled, also
masked the clicking sounds. She carefully walked closer, reading
something in the body language of the couple. Bryce seemed awfully
comfortable with touching the woman’s shoulder, her hand, and they
stood so close...

They turned and Elisa motioned to him, then
lifted one of the crate tops and placed it on a steel table,
running their hands over the padded underside. Holding her breath,
Grace took a few more photos, not knowing exactly why, but simply
feeling a tension at the back of her neck that compelled her to do
so.

She moved to just a foot from the pool of
light to get a closer shot, when a sound from the other room
reached the couple.

Grace lowered the camera, pressed back
against a shelf. The couple jumped, looked at each other, and then
hastily began to whisper as they gestured toward the door. Grace
held her breath and took off, nearly on her tiptoes toward the dark
exit. Panic clawed at her until she was dashing across the parking
lot.

~ * ~

Friday morning she made a trip to her
brother’s apartment and spent the day developing prints in his
darkroom. She stood holding them sometime around midnight, frowning
and worrying her lip.

Saturday morning, Grace had the prints at her
place, lying on the bed while she dressed. She’d gotten up at five
and re-streaked her brown hair with the golden blonde. She wiggled
into low-riding trousers having used the magazine as guide, and put
a temporary tattoo of a butterfly on her spine, where it would show
after she pulled on the short sweater. She grunted and reached to
adjust the thong she’d never worn before, thinking she might have
bought the wrong size, and wondering how long it would take to get
used to the feel of one in her butt crack. She buttoned the sweater
over a push-up bra and decided the shrunk-look was going to take
just as much getting used to.

Her hand quaked as she applied make up in the
bathroom. The best she could pull off was some taupe shadow and
mascara, a hint of gloss. She had used mousse on her hair,
scrunching, fluffing, and trying to give it a wind-blown look.
Standing in vinyl black boots with four-inch heels, she groaned.
She had stuck to the fashion guide, but she was not used to seeing
herself like this.

Grace left. She had Noel’s card and a hidden
camera on the lapel of her coat, a thigh length wool one the shop
girl had insisted was retro-sixties.

Sleet made the road hazardous. Traffic
crawled at the usual snail’s pace. It was so cold she didn’t get
the heater warm until she was in the parking lot by the loft. She
rubbed lotion on her cold hands; scared out of her mind he’d expect
her to get naked and still not sure she hadn’t had a breakdown
weeks ago.

Time was ticking. Grace left the car and
walked to the building, up the heavy grid stairs she’d seen the
models use, and stared at the buzzer for five minutes before
pushing it.

The huge door slid to the side, revealing the
gaping interior. She stepped through and heard the door rumble
closed behind her. Grace looked up, seeing massive pipes, steel
braces and lighting. As she walked, she took in varied images and
was mostly aware of the massive space, the different color
plastered walls and groups of items like stage sets, some lit by
large over-head illumination, others mood-enhanced with color
filters over the lights.

Grace paused, having reached what was
obviously a working/living area. A black steel curtain served to
section off the space beyond the man standing at the easel. There
was a rumpled bed, an oriental style wardrobe, mirror, and several
feet from that was the kitchen/dining space. Another glass blocked
section she assumed was a large bathing/dressing area since it was
the only one with a door.

But standing a mere two feet from behind
Noel—a shirtless, barefoot, Noel—Grace took a suspended moment to
admire the physique, the disheveled, long hair, the tanned, cut
sculpture of his torso. She wondered how faded jeans with torn
pockets and ragged hems could look so sexy.

“You walk very quietly.” He hadn’t turned and
was still applying brush to canvas as he’d spoken. “Make yourself
comfortable...Jane. There is coffee, pastry on the table to the
right.”

Grace looked toward the foldout table with a
large coffeepot atop it and a platter of pastry. The surface was
also holding a full wine rack with glasses, which was likely, last
night’s dinner from a Chinese restaurant.

She took off her coat, feeling like a sneak
when she clicked a photo of him before placing it on a studio
chair. Shaking inside too badly to consume caffeine, she lifted one
of the water bottles from a stainless steel tray.

Having no idea if he was averse to her
looking over his shoulder, Grace walked past him, leaving three
feet of distance between them, to the long Egyptian sofa that
reminded her of an old west bordello. Still, flanked by two large
green leather chairs with tarnished brads and wide feet, it seemed
to fit.

While she was sipping water, her gaze went
over his bare feet and up to what she could see that wasn’t blocked
by the easel and canvas. When she reached his face, he wasn’t
painting at all, but merely watching her.

Grace swallowed hard, lowered the bottle, and
smiled lamely.

He stared a few seconds more before putting
the brushes in a jar of mineral spirits. Then he stepped around the
easel, wiping his paint-smudged hands on the legs of his jeans.

Grace’s eyes dipped. Yes indeed, they went
right to the low riding waistband and skimmed slow, over a taut
abdomen, a ridge of black hair, honed skin, and muscle, dark
nipples, wide shoulders...

Jesus, he looked good.

“Come...Jane.”

His smooth tone drew her eyes upward. She
stood, aware he’d been waiting for her to look at him. She used the
time it took to follow him to a dark setting to cool her flushed
cheeks. He flipped a switch and immediately light flooded the
space.

A jungle. Grace heard the sounds grow louder;
tropical birds, mysterious calls and a low drum beat. Had it been
faster it would have matched her heart. His eyes were on her, over
her, warm chocolate brown, with an expression that was somewhere
between pensive and intense.

Wondering if he saw the pulse beat in her
throat or heard the quickening of her breath, Grace wet her dry
lips. Being this close to him was nearly overwhelming.

He walked around the set, moving things,
shifting them. Before waving her over and sitting her on a stump.
Frowning, he murmured, “Relax. Not so stiffly.” He walked around
her several times.

When his hand touched her hair, she jumped,
and then closed her eyes, willing herself to relax... yeah, right,
Grace.

Moments seemed to stretch out while she sat
with eyes closed, feeling his occasional touch on her arm, her
shoulder, her cheek. She opened them feeling his hand pick up her
foot.

Oh God. He was on his knees, unzipping the
boots, taking them off, setting them aside. He glanced up and their
gaze held.

“Relax.”

“I am.”

His lips curved into a smile. He reached up,
moved her hands off her thighs and shook them a bit by the wrist,
and then touched her chin with warm, strong, artistic fingers.
“Next time, leave the cosmetics off. I always start with a blank
canvas.”

“I can wash it off.”

He stood and nodded. “That way.”

The floor was cold concrete. She tried not to
walk fast but rushed nonetheless to the bathroom. The space was
huge, well laid out. Grace was scrubbing her face when he stepped
through the door.

“Wash your hair.”

“Pardon?” She paused, bent over at the chrome
sink.

“Is it too cold in here?”

“Other than the floor, no.” She picked up a
white towel and pressed it to her face, thankful to have it covered
for a moment to collect herself. He was warm, close, big, and in
the room. The sound of his voice amplified in a way that spread
chills over her skin.

“I’ll do it.”

Grace lost her moment to protest. In
confusion, she found herself led to what she thought was a utility
sink with a sprayer. Mentally groaning at his nudge, her head bent.
He stood too close, touching her side, his groin at her hip. The
warm spray hit her scalp before his fingers were lathering the
shampoo.