Sculpting Grace: A Light Romance Novel (Art of Grace Book 2) (6 page)

I wasn't sure what I'd expected; I imagined that maybe Onyx would only have the bare minimum, just a bed and a desk sitting, alone and small, in a corner. Something that echoed the emptiness of the rest of the warehouse interior.

Instead, I saw decorations that made me feel as though I'd stepped onto the showroom floor of a modern furniture store - or maybe into the lobby of a modern art museum! The concrete floor transitioned into dark wood, polished to a high sheen. Black cabinets ran up from the floor to bulkheads, their fronts covered in glass to add to the modern appearance. I saw a kitchen off to one side, with all the appliances in gleaming stainless steel and black marble counters. I briefly wondered if Onyx had shaped and carved those counters, before my gaze moved onward.

And then I spotted the bed, and I knew that I'd be fantasizing about this for days. The bed looked absolutely massive, at least a king size - if not even bigger! With white sheets on top of a black frame and headboard, it reminded me of a floating cloud, suspended in midair. Covered in a soft comforter and at least half a dozen pillows, I could just imagine myself sinking into that softness, maybe with Onyx beside me...

"Over here," Onyx called, and I dragged my eyes away from that gorgeous bed with a monumental effort.

He stood next to a desk, and I saw that his side of the warehouse had the kitchen at one end, the bed in the middle, and a living and study area at the other end. I walked around a black leather couch that looked untouched, past several black-and-white stained glass lamps, and over to a large desk that appeared to be made entirely of glass. Onyx stood behind it, holding a single sheet of paper.

"Had to do a lot of digging to find it, I see," I commented, wondering where the man even kept anything. The whole apartment seemed too sleek and sterile, like no one actually lived in it. Where were the half-empty coffee cups? The scattered coasters? Magazines, or books propped open on their pages to save the reader's place?

Onyx just shrugged. "I like to keep the place clean."

I reached out and took the sheet of paper from him. Sure enough, it had Dean Benjamin de St. James' name on it, along with an address that I recognized as being located somewhere on the north side of Davis. I folded the paper in half and tucked it into my purse, under my arm.

"Thanks," I said, but Onyx reached out to catch at my arm.

"I want to warn you about Dean," he said, stepping out from around the desk and leading me over to the big leather couch.

I let him plop me down next to him on the seat, feeling the cushion sink beneath me. The couch might have looked unused and new, but it still felt comfortable. "What about him?" I asked, trying to not let myself get too comfortable.

Onyx opened his mouth, but paused. I felt my eyebrows raise - was Onyx actually speechless? In all my encounters with the sexy artist, I'd never before seen him appear flummoxed and not sure of how to respond!

"He's... quite aggressive and grouchy," Onyx finally said, shaking his head. "He's very prickly to interact with, and can be quite particular about what he likes, or doesn't like. It makes him tough to be around."

"What decides whether he likes or doesn't like someone?" I asked.

He shrugged. "No way to really know. Even in the artistic community, people tend to tiptoe around him. Best not to set him off - once he blows up, he goes nuclear."

"Is that why he dropped off the map about six months ago?"

Onyx actually winced at that question! "No," he said shortly. "And don't ask, or you'll quickly end up on his bad side."

Great. This sounded like it was just getting better and better. "So I guess I'll just have to try and get right to the point and not let him find anything to dislike about me," I said, trying to fill my voice with more conviction than I actually felt.

Onyx smirked at me. "Honey, you just smile at him and lean forward while wearing a low-cut shirt, and he won't be able to find a single thing to dislike about you," he promised - and reached out, once again looping his arm around me.

Danger, danger! Part of my brain flashed to red alert - but the message didn't make it down to my body, which leaned in towards Onyx and let the warm weight of his arm settle around my shoulders. He did feel good - and although Carter had made a couple of advances towards me in the last few days, I'd declined them, not sure exactly whether I wanted to be rushing into anything.

"In fact," Onyx continued as he drew me closer, practically into his lap, "I'm finding you pretty irresistible right now."

"I'm not wearing a low-cut shirt," I pointed out, even as my breath caught in my throat from the feeling of Onyx's hands on my hips. His fingers slid up, pushing my shirt upwards and exposing my pale midriff. I couldn't help but gaze down at his chest, still bare after his work in the studio.

His smile widened, even as his hands crept further up my body. "We could change that. Give me a moment, and you won't be wearing a shirt at all."

Oh man. I felt my entire body stiffen at the mental picture of when I'd previously allowed Onyx to explore my body. The feeling of his hands on my chest, his thumbs setting my areolas aflame as they played with me, his mouth on mine, his body effortlessly pulling me up against his eager hardness...

"I, uh, I really ought to get going," I stammered out, suddenly struggling to escape his grasp. As amazing as it would be to let myself go mindless here, let him do what he clearly wanted to do with me, I had a job to accomplish. "I'll, um, I'll talk to you soon and tell you about how my encounter with de St. James went."

Onyx didn't try to hold me back, but he rose up to stand next to me. His chest was glistening slightly with residual sweat from his prior exertions, and I nearly bit my tongue off as I stared at his body's perfection. "I bet I could make you stay."

"Probably, yes," I babbled, "but really, I have to go. Next time!"

He sighed and took a step back, releasing me. "Next time."

God, I wanted him. The paper with de St. James' address in my purse, I fled from Onyx's studio before I gave in and let him continue seducing me. My heart pounded in my chest as I ran, and I tried to tell myself that, as amazing as it would be, I needed to get the job done first.

Still, every time I closed my eyes, I saw his bare chest, muscles standing out like he'd carved his own body as a study in perfection. I bit my lip as I left the warehouse. Why did all the men in my life need to push my buttons so much?

Chapter Seven

*

Half an hour later, I brought my truck to a stop outside of a large, modern-looking house in a residential neighborhood. Frowning, I looked at the numbers printed on the mailbox, and compared them to the address on the sheet of paper that I held against the steering column.

Yep. They matched. This, according at least to Onyx's records, was Dean Benjamin de St. James' house.

It did look like the kind of house where an artist would live, I had to admit. The house had very modern, rectangular lines, with a multi-level flat roof covered in rocks, oddly placed rectangular windows, and a couple of rectangular metal shapes extending out from the house, apparently only present for decorative purposes.

I parked my truck and climbed out, pausing for a moment to tilt the side mirror away from the truck so that I could examine my reflection. Despite still feeling off-balance and disheveled from the temptations of Onyx, I still looked alright in the mirror - especially once I tugged my shirt back down so that it firmly covered the top of my dress pants. I frowned for a moment as I looked at how my stomach bulged out a little - definitely no rock-hard supermodel abs here - but overall, I thought that I looked presentable.

For a moment, I remembered Onyx's advice and considered tugging my shirt's neck down a little. I didn't exactly have the most amazing assets to work with, however, and I gave up on trying to show off my slutty side. The only way I usually accomplished that goal was with a full closet of choices and a good amount of advance warning.

"Be calm, be cool, be smart," I told myself under my breath as I grabbed my purse out of my car and headed up the stone steps towards the house's front door. "You've got this, Becca. Just be professional, and you'll totally be able to handle this artist, no matter how grumpy he might be."

I wasn't sure if I fully believed my own words, but I reached the front door without turning and dashing back to my car. I drew in one last breath, let it out slowly, and then pushed the button next to the door.

After a moment of not hearing anything from inside, I frowned a little and pushed the button a second time. Was the doorbell working?

This time, leaning in to put my ear closer to the cherrywood door, I definitely heard the buzz from the doorbell echoing inside the house. A moment later, just as I started to reach for the button for a third time, I heard footsteps thumping towards the front entrance.

"Coming, dammit, I'm coming!" came a faint shout from inside the house. I had to fight to keep my frown from deepening. That already sounded dangerously grumpy.

A minute later, the deadbolt slid back with a rasping sound, and a wild man yanked the door open, staring out at me. "What?" he snarled, glaring hotly at me as I took an unconscious half-step backwards.

Dean Benjamin Preston de St. James looked like he'd let himself go a bit since the last picture of him was taken, I found myself thinking. He certainly didn't look anywhere near as cultured as his multi-part name suggested! His hair was wild and stuck out in all directions, jet black shot through with wide tufts of gray. His beard had the same colors and appeared similarly unkempt; my overall impression was of a half-unraveled cotton ball that someone had been using to smear shoe polish around.

From inside the circle of wild hair, a strong face glared out at me. Even his unkempt appearance wasn't enough to lessen the impact of de St. James' iron gray eyes, his eagle's beak of a nose, his stern mouth. The man looked patrician, although maybe like a town elder had been trapped in a cave for several days.

"What do you want?" he asked again, as I tried to pull my composure back together.

"Er..." Confidence, Becca! "Are you Dean Benjamin de St. James?" I asked, stepping forward and holding out my hand. "I'm Becca Grace, from the Halesford Gallery in downtown, and I was wondering if I could have a few minutes of your time?"

For a minute, I thought that de St. James might slam the door on me then and there, leaving me on his front stoop. I really didn't like the way that his eyes seemed to bulge slightly out of his head as he glared at me. Looking anywhere but his face, I realized that the man was dressed in a long, rather dirty brown bathrobe, knotted tightly around his waist and dropping all the way down to his ankles. Bare feet stuck out beneath the robe. I hoped desperately that he was actually wearing something, anything, beneath the garment.

The silence between us lasted several seconds, my heart dropping lower with each passing moment. But just as I thought that I was about to get the fastest and most direct rejection of my life, he finally sighed and broke eye contact.

"Fine. Come in," he grumbled, turning and walking away into his house.

Still uncertain about the less than warm welcome, I stepped up through the still-open doorway, into de St. James' house. "Great, thanks," I said, a note of uncertainty clear in my voice as I followed after the back of the retreating man.

As I entered the house, I looked around. Very quickly, I realized that despite the clean and elegant lines of the structure itself, de St. James didn't seem particularly interested in keeping up the house's interior. I'd expected to see elegance on the inside to match the outside, the place looking like an interior decorator's wet dream.

Instead, I felt like I'd stepped straight into an episode of Hoarders.

Drop cloths and tarps were spread everywhere, covering most of the floor. Areas of the floor that weren't covered with thick tarps instead had sheets of crunchy, wrinkled newspaper spread out over the surface; at no point did I catch a glimpse of the actual floor, and I wasn't even sure if I was walking on carpet, or just several layers of cloth or newspaper that lay between my feet and a more solid flooring material.

The drop cloths and tarps were held in place mostly by piles of stone and stacks of paint cans, many of the cans with their lids cracked open and dried paint forming an ersatz seal. The whole place smelled of paint fumes, and I tried to breathe shallowly through my mouth. If I had to stay here for long, I'd probably leave the house too buzzed and loopy to drive. Further splashes of paint marked the walls, seemingly at random. It looked like de St. James would test the color of the paint on the wall and then leave that splotch to dry.

Following after the man down the hallway, I glanced in the first room that we passed - and immediately regretted it. I guessed, from the arm of a couch sticking out from beneath the debris, that this room had once been a family or living room of some sort. Now, however, trash bags and more chunks of rubble practically filled the area, hiding any other furniture beneath a layer of, well, garbage.

de St. James was, I was quickly realizing, a very different type of sculpture artist than Onyx.

The man ahead of me, still hurrying along without a backward glance, disappeared from my view. I picked up my pace, trying to ignore how some of the floor coverings sucked slightly at my shoes, as if reluctant to let go. There, a doorway. I took a few more steps and came around the door, hoping that I'd find a better, cleaner area on the other side.