Fearless (The Story of Samantha Smith #1) (16 page)

I couldn’t argue that these women weren’t beautiful. But there were so many of them. Did his entire life revolve around naked, unobtainably beautiful women? Women he’d slept with? Because the painting I was staring at was clearly Paisley, his rollerblader friend with the perfect body.

“Is this your trophy room?” I blurted. I slapped my hand to my mouth. Why had I said that? I sounded like a jealous bitch.

“Would it bother you if it was?” He asked slyly.

What he did with his free time wasn’t any of my business, no matter how much it annoyed me to know he spent it with all these perfect women. “No, I—I’m being rude. Sorry.”
 

“That’s okay. Doesn’t bother me.”

I walked to another painting. My anger rose. This really was a trophy room. The half-finished painting in front of me was of Tiffany. Nude. I wanted to hate it. But I couldn’t. The painting in no way resembled the Ice Queen Bitch I’d witnessed outside. She looked elegant, even demure. “Is this…?”

“What I was doing with Tiffany? Yeah.”

I looked at the easel. It was surrounded by various items: a palette covered in messy smears of mixed paint, brushes soaking in jars, a waste basket full of paint-stained paper towels. “You were painting her?”

“Not
on
her,” he winked. “On the canvas.”

I ignored the innuendo. “It’s amazing. She looks so…vulnerable.”

“She is. Beneath her bullshit and her money.”

“It’s really good,” I said sincerely.

“Thank you,” he said humbly.

That was a surprise. I had expected his cockiness, some sort of gloat-worthy response. Not humility.

“I try to paint what lies beneath people’s facades. Their core self, when they’re not trying to project their usual image.”

“You just want them to take their clothes off,” I joked sarcastically.

“It goes beyond that. Do you feel different when you’re wearing makeup versus no makeup?”

“Well, less so since I moved to San Diego. I see a lot less makeup here than in D.C. But I know what you mean. Back east, a woman without makeup is only half dressed.”

“Exactly. It’s part of your public identity. Few people ever walk out in public stripped of all artifice. When I paint a subject in the nude, there is very little for them to hide behind. You’d be surprised by the transformation most people go through when they pose for me.”

Okay, there was a lot more to Christos than I imagined. He had depth, compassion, and he was a natural with the kids at the library. And yes, I admit it, I had jumped to conclusions when I’d assumed he and Tiffany were having sex earlier. He had probably been painting her, like he said.

I looked at the unfinished painting again. It was so real. I reached out to it and almost ran my fingers over it, as if I would feel her skin, and not the paint and canvas.
 

“Be careful, it’s still wet. It’ll take several days to dry, and a couple more sittings to complete.”

I lowered my hand. “She looks so different. Like she’s not a bitch.”

“She isn’t, when no one else is around.”

Why did hearing that make me suddenly jealous? Like Tiffany and Christos shared some kind of secret intimacy that he and I did not? Did she see into him like he saw into her? I didn’t know. But if she did, that meant she had access to him in a way that I did not. Which meant she was in a position to take Christos away from me. Not Adonis. She could have
him
. But I really didn’t want Tiffany stealing Christos.
I
wanted him.
 

No, I didn’t.
 

Yes, I did.

Christos stepped toward me and gently cupped my chin with his hand. He turned my face until I was staring into his eyes.
 

OMFG.

I nearly drowned in the blue oceans behind his dark lashes. My breath stopped in my throat. Gulp. He glanced at my lips. He was so unbelievably handsome. My mouth quivered. The gigantic studio had become entirely too small for the two of us.

I glanced at the Tiffany painting. Was it staring at us? No, she was looking downward. Why was I looking at the Tiffany painting?
 

My eyes slid back to Christos’ sapphires. I fell into them. My whole body started to shake. Was it fear? Desire? Both?

A look of tremendous compassion settled onto Christos’ features. Something that had been locked shut deep inside me began to open for the first time in years. Warmth spread from my abdomen out to my entire body. I wanted to fall into his arms.

He gently brushed a stray lock of hair that had fallen from my ponytail and tucked it behind my ear. “When I look at you, I see a young woman frightened of her own beauty.”
 

Gag. Frightened? Yes. Beautiful? No. Total poseur pickup artist. Whatever had begun to open inside me slammed shut. I hated it when guys fed me lines. Still, he held me powerless in his grasp.

“Most women maximize their beauty. You minimize yours, like you’re avoiding it.” His eyes penetrated me.

He was right about one thing. I was avoiding a whole hell of a lot. On a daily basis.

Tease.

His hand slid down my cheek and along the curve of my neck, leaving a trail of warmth, yet I shivered. He ran his thumb delicately across the ridge of my clavicle, out to my shoulder. A pleasure of lightning raced up the back of my neck, then bounced down my spine to my pelvis.

I literally jumped.

I pulled free of his mesmerizing touch, and hurried over to the next painting, trying to escape. My heart hammered and the cyclone in my stomach spun the butterflies out of control, sending them straight to Oz.

“I can tell that you’re hiding something inside,” he said softly.

I felt his deep voice drilling past my defenses. I whipped around and stared him down.

Taylor.

“
Something that has wounded you deeply.”
 

Stop! Emergency brakes! I did the only thing I could think of. I threw buckets of sarcasm at the problem. Not only did Christos have laser beam Superman eyes, he had X-ray vision too.
 

I needed to head him off at the pass, or I was going to collapse and shatter into a thousand pieces when I hit the floor. “Who writes your pickup lines for you? Do you have a full time staff? You’re not wearing an earpiece while Cyrano feeds you dialogue, are you?”

“Did I hit a nerve?” he asked, bemused.

“Hardly. You sound so corny, I can’t take you seriously.”

He eyed me shrewdly while draping his arm over the easel with the Tiffany painting. Like he had his arm around her. Like he owned her. Suddenly, that didn’t bother me so much anymore. He could have her.

“I think it’s time for a change of venue. You ready?” he asked suggestively.

“What?” For a second, from the way he was hanging on the Tiffany painting, I thought he meant he wanted to paint
me
nude. I was so not going to do that. “I don’t think so,” I scoffed.

He frowned. “The kids? They’re waiting for us at the library.”

“Oh! That.” Oops. “Yeah, okay.”

We walked outside, and down the hill to the library. I was still shaken by Christos’ probing questions. But the moment we walked into the room full of kids and crayons, their glee trampled my anxiety instantly. Their joy was nuclear.
 

When we finished with them, Christos and I walked back to his house. He showed me some of the finer points of figure drawing on a drawing pad in the studio, using a selection of charcoal pencils. Although Professor Childress was always helpful in Life Drawing class, Christos had a way of making everything so obvious. His drawings were amazing, and effortless.

After he explained some new drawing concepts, he modeled for me, so I could practice what he’d just taught me. I was disappointed that he was fully clothed, but he did all these wacky, clownish poses. I laughed so much, it was hard to focus on the drawing. It was totally fun. Whenever it was just me and Christos, things always were.

We took a break after a couple hours and had a snack. Tortilla chips and fresh guacamole. Made by Christos.

He dipped a chip in the bowl and loaded it with a mountain of guac. “You did some great drawings today. You learn fast.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You’re picking up the idea behind gesture drawing nicely. You’ve got an eye for it.”

“Thanks.”

“I think good gesture is a hallmark of artists with real talent.”

“Oh?”

“You have real talent.” He smiled at me.

I blushed, and ate a chip.

“Now you just need to work at it.”

Professor Childress had told me the same thing. Maybe it
was
true. I smiled at Christos sheepishly.

We went back to his studio for another hour, until Christos said it was time to go.

Despite all the competition hanging around his studio in the form of his trophy paintings (I couldn’t help thinking of them that way), I didn’t want to leave. I felt like I was in Rembrandt’s studio and the master was giving me private lessons.

Outside, I lingered at my VW in the driveway. I gazed into his smoldering eyes through his thick lashes, hypnotized. Again.

“Hey,” he said, “Jake’s throwing a Halloween party tonight. You wanna come with? I’m sure Mads will be there.”

I cocked my hip. I couldn’t believe she hadn’t told me! I would have to lecture her about it later. “You know about Mads and Jake?”

“He hasn’t shut up about her since we met you guys at the nude beach.”

“Those two are perfect for each other,” I smiled.

“Look, I’ve got a ton of work before the party. You want me to pick you up?”

I eyed his motorcycle cautiously. “I can drive.”

“What, you don’t want to ride The Duke?”

I shrugged my shoulders. Had he named his motorcycle? Such a guy.

“All right. We’ll take my car. Where do you live?”

I gave him my address.

“I’ll pick you up at eight.”

Was this a date? No, I was getting way ahead of myself. Again. “Maybe you should have my phone number? In case there’s a change in plans?” I couldn’t believe I was asking him to ask
me
for my phone number. Wasn’t it supposed to be the other way around?

He smirked and pulled out his phone. We swapped numbers. I had Christos’ phone number! I refused to jump for joy.

So I melted instead, and not from the warm weather. I was going to be nothing but a puddle in about ten seconds.

“Something wrong? You look woozy.”

“I’m good,” I choked.

He smiled. “All right, I’m heading back inside. Pick you up at eight.”

Chapter 12

When I got home, I was brimming over with excitement about my awesome day with Christos. I wanted to call Madison and share all the details with her. I also needed to read her the riot act for concealing state secrets about Jake’s party that night. I was in such a good mood.

I was about to dial Madison when my phone belled. It was my parents. There went my mood. It deflated into cautious optimism.

“Hello?”

“Sam?” My mom Linda said tentatively.

“Hey, Mom.” I was super excited about my exploration into art, and the things Professor Childress and Christos had both told me about my talent and my progress. But I would have to work up to it and frame it just right, otherwise my parents would freak and tear my optimism to shreds.

“How are you?” I heard my mom pull the receiver away from her mouth and holler, “Bill! Pick up! She finally answered her phone!”

I heard another line in the house click open. Yes, my parents still had a land line in the house with several phones. I tried to get them to use Skype so we could video chat, but they always managed to find an excuse for not opening up an account. I told them it was free, but always the same story about needing to upgrade the computer. Whatever.

“Sam! How are you! How’s college?”

“Great, Dad.”

“How’s the accounting going? I bet you’ve got all A’s.”

“Yeah.” Or something like that. I wasn’t entirely sure about Fundamentals of Accounting. It wasn’t exactly heating up my panties. Life Drawing, on the other hand…

“That’s great news!” my mom said. “I always knew you would be a whiz at it. You’re so good with numbers.”

“You’re laying the groundwork for a dependable career, darling,” my dad said. “There will always be a need for accountants. It’s the safest path. You’ll be assured a job for the rest of your life. I know you will excel in business, Sam.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

I rolled my eyes. I swear I’d had this exact conversation, or pieces of it, with
myself
about a hundred thousand times since I’d started classes at SDU.

I realized at that moment, that my parents’ middle-class belief system was firmly entrenched in my own head. It was a rampant virus that had taken hold of my brain. Or maybe some sort of creepy symbiotic thing. It wasn’t killing me, but it fed off of me and ate away my courage and sense of adventure on a daily basis.

I wanted to cry. I never dreamed of being an accountant when I was a little girl. Who ever did? But I’m sure my parents were right. Accountants
could
always find work. I sighed.

The problem was that my parents were solidly middle class. My family wasn’t so poor that all we had was our love for each other, or so rich that all we had was our money. Instead, we had a little bit of love and a little bit of money. But never enough of either. What we did have in surplus was a cautious sense of responsibility toward both. Great.

My family was so busy doing the right thing, we forgot to love each other passionately. But all the responsibility in the world didn’t make the bills go away, and it sure never felt like love to me. We had the worst of both worlds.

“How are your other classes?” Mom asked.

“Fine.” I pinched the bridge of my nose, holding back tears.
 

“What are you taking again, besides the accounting?” Dad asked.

“Sociology and American History.” I didn’t want to talk to them about art anymore. I was pretty sure they would spoil it somehow, no matter what I said. Then I wouldn’t be able to hold back the tears. I hated crying in front of my parents. They were always quick to offer good advice. Cold, logical, useful advice. Silly me for wanting more.