“Conal, slow down. I’m not going anywhere.”
Ignoring her, he shoved open the door, pulled her in after him. “Stand by the window.”
But she was already moving in, eyes wide and delighted. “You’re an artist. This is wonderful. You sculpt.”
The single room was nearly as big as the main area of the cottage. And much more cramped. A worktable stood in the center, crowded with tools and hunks of stone, pots of clay. A half dozen sketch pads were tossed around. Shelves and smaller tables were jammed with examples of his work. Mystical, magical creatures that danced and flew.
A blue mermaid combed her hair on a rock. A white dragon breathed fire. Faeries no bigger than her thumb ringed in a circle with faces sly. A sorcerer nearly as tall as she, held his arms high and wept.
“They’re all so alive, so vivid.” She couldn’t help herself, she had to touch, and so she ran her finger down the rippling hair of the mermaid. “I’ve seen this before,” she murmured. “Not quite this, but the same feeling of it, but in bronze. At a gallery in New York.”
She looked over then where he was impatiently flipping through a sketch pad. “I’ve seen your work in New York. You must be famous.”
His answer was a grunt.
“I wanted to buy it—the mermaid. I was with my mother, and I couldn’t because she’d have reminded me I couldn’t afford the price. I went back the next day, because I couldn’t stop thinking about it, but it was already sold.”
“In front of the window, turn to me.”
“That was two years ago, and I’ve thought about her a dozen times since. Isn’t it amazing that she was yours?”
Muttering an oath, he strode to her, pulled her to the window. “Lift your head, like that. Hold it there. And be quiet.”
“Are you going to draw me?”
“No, I’m after building a boat here. Of course I’m drawing you. Now be quiet for one bloody minute.”
She shut her mouth, but couldn’t do anything about the grin that trembled on her lips. And that, he thought, was precisely what he wanted. Just that trace of humor, of energy, of personal delight.
He would do a clay model, he thought, and cast her in bronze. Something that gleamed gold and warmed to the touch. She wasn’t for stone or wood. He did three quick studies of her face, moving around her for a change of angle. Then he lowered his pad.
“I need the line of your body. Your shape. Take off your clothes.”
“Excuse me?”
“I have to see how you’re made. The clothes are in the way of you.”
“You want me to pose nude?”
With an effort, he brought himself back from his plans, met her eyes. “If this was a matter of sex, I wouldn’t have slept on that rock in the corner last night. You’ve my word I won’t touch you. But I have to see you.”
“If this was a matter of sex, I wouldn’t be so nervous. Okay.” She shut her eyes a minute, bolstered her courage. “I’m like a bowl of fruit,” she told herself and unbuttoned her shirt.
When she slipped it off, folded it, set it aside, Conal lifted a brow. “No, you’re like a woman. If I wanted a bowl of fruit, I’d get one.”
6
SHE was slim, leaning toward angular, and exactly right. Eyes narrowed, mind focused, he flipped up a fresh page and began.
“No, keep your head up,” he ordered, faintly irritated that she should be so exactly right. “Hold your arms back. Just a bit more. Palms down and flat. No, you’re not a flaming penguin, spread your fingers a little. Ah.”
It was then he noticed the faint flush spreading over her skin, the stiffness in her movements. Moron, he told himself and bit back a sigh. Of course she was nervous and embarrassed. And he’d done nothing to put her at ease.
He’d grown too used, he supposed, to professional models who undraped without a thought. She liked to talk, so he would let her talk.
“Tell me about these lessons of yours.”
“What?”
“The lessons. You said you’d taken a number of lessons on this and that. What was it you studied?”
She pressed her lips together, fought back the foolish urge to cross her arms over her breasts. “I thought you said I wasn’t supposed to talk.”
“Now I’m saying you can.”
She heard the exasperation, rolled her eyes. What was she, a mind reader? “I, ah, took art lessons.”
“Did you now? Turn to the right just a bit. And what did you learn from them?”
“That I’m not an artist.” She smiled a little. “I’m told I have a good eye for color and shapes and aesthetics, but no great skill with the execution.”