Country Roads(12)

“That was meant to be a joke.” Paul’s wry voice broke into her reverie.

She jumped and turned back to him. “I know. I was thinking about something else.”

“Nothing good, from your expression.” He was spinning a spoon back and forth through the fingers of his right hand.

“Are you nervous?”

“No. Should I be?” The spoon continued to twirl as though it had a life of its own.

“Well, it’s just that you’re fiddling with that spoon.” She gestured toward his hand.

Frowning, he looked down and placed the spoon on the table, lining it up with the knife beside it.

“You didn’t even realize you were doing it, did you?”

He shrugged. “It’s a habit I should have broken by now.” He unfolded his napkin onto his lap. “So, shall I drop you at Claire’s house after lunch? She ought to be home by then.”

“At Claire’s house?”

“She invited you to spend the night with her.”

“She did?”

“As we were leaving the gallery.”

“I was distracted.” By his hand warming her skin through the gauze of her blouse. Her eyes were drawn to his long, elegant fingers now lying still on the table.

“What’s the verdict, now that you know about the invitation?”

Julia gnawed at her lip. Her original plan had been to head back to her home immediately after hearing what Claire had to say about the paintings. She had worked hard to cover her tracks, because she hadn’t wanted Carlos to know she didn’t trust his opinion of her work. Now she needed to regroup.

On one hand, it was exhilarating to be free of the protective cocoon her uncle had built around her. A cocoon she no longer needed, according to her doctors. On the other, she was ignorant of the way the art world worked. Her instincts told her to trust Claire, but then, she had trusted Carlos too. The thought of making what Claire termed “a big splash” held as much terror as excitement.

She looked at the man across the table from her, his gray eyes sharp with intelligence. Maybe she should stay here and hire him in all seriousness to help her through the situation. God knew, she was having a hard time thinking clearly for herself.

“I’m starting to feel like a bug pinned to a board,” Paul said, lifting an eyebrow.

“I guess you’ve never had your portrait painted.” She stalled as she considered her crazy idea. “That’s how an artist looks at a subject.”

“The town budget doesn’t run to portraits of past mayors.”

She chuckled halfheartedly as Mrs. Bostic returned with their drinks in tall glasses sweating with moisture. “You’d make a good subject, you know. You have a strong bone structure.”

“Tall, dark, and handsome. That’s me.” He said it as though it was a line he’d used before but didn’t really believe. She began to grasp his smooth patter covered a withdrawal from the conversation.

“Better than that. Tall, dark, and intriguing.” She spoke without thinking because she was still focused on her inner debate.

But she had snagged his attention again. His gaze settled on her and sharpened. “So you want to know me better?”

“It’s professional,” she sidestepped lamely. “As a painter, I find you interesting.”

It was true as far as it went.

He laughed and shook his head. “That’s a first.”

The white flash of his teeth against his olive skin and the husky maleness of his laugh tipped the scales of her decision. She would stay here for a few days. Since she would have to tell Carlos she had been here, she no longer needed to cover her tracks and could use her credit card. A change of scene might be good for her. And it would allow her to postpone the painful confrontation with her uncle a little longer.

“Let me guess. You’re wondering what to say to your uncle when you get home,” Paul said.

“How did you know?”

“Let’s just say I wouldn’t put you on the witness stand if you were guilty.”

She frowned. “I’ve never needed to hide anything before.” Most of her life, she had let her parents and then her uncle enfold her in their protective care while she focused on exploring her ability to create art. Except for her stint at art school in Greensboro, she’d never lived more than five miles from the house she grew up in, nestled in the mountains of western North Carolina. Even at school, she’d been so focused on excelling and so embarrassed by her public seizure that she’d isolated herself from her fellow students for the two years she stayed there.

She glanced back at the view. Sanctuary wasn’t exactly a bustling metropolis, but it was filled with places and people she’d never seen before. And Paul Taggart lived in it.