“It’s no good,” she said again.
He held her, looking down into her tormented eyes. “I can see that you don’t believe me,” he told her quietly. “But let’s get another opinion, one you will trust.”
She searched his face as if desperately wanting to believe he wasn’t lying to her, but not quite daring to hope. “Whose?”
“Destiny’s,” he suggested. “You trusted her to be unbiased about my work.”
“Not at first,” she said.
“But enough to believe her when she said those old wall panels were decent,” he reminded her.
She sighed and he could feel her muscles relaxing.
“Okay,” she said eventually. “But only when it’s finished. Will you let me take a picture or two?”
He could understand why she wanted it to be the best it could possibly be, but he wasn’t sure that waiting was wise. She could suffer another one of these attacks of inadequacy and ruin it.
“Will you promise me that you won’t damage it?”
“Yes,” she said, meeting his gaze evenly. “I promise.”
“No matter how discouraged you get?”
“Yes,” she repeated, this time with a trace of impatience.
“Okay, then. I’ll bring you some snapshots of me. You have till Christmas. In fact, if you want to make Destiny extraordinarily happy, you could give it to her as a gift. I never would sit still for her to paint me.”
But Kathleen was already shaking her head. “No, if it turns out that it’s any good at all, I want to keep it.”
“To prove that you are an artist, after all?” he asked.
“No,” she said, her expression solemn. “Because it’s of the man who cared enough to give me back my love of painting.”
Chapter Ten
Standing in her office with paints scattered around, her own painting on an easel for the first time in years and Ben’s assurances still ringing in her ears, Kathleen felt her heart fill with joy and something else she refused to identify because it felt too much like love.
She didn’t want to love this man, didn’t want to be swayed by tubes of oil paints and a few blank canvases, so she wouldn’t be, she decided. It didn’t have to matter that he’d gone to such extremes to give her back the joy of holding a brush in her hand. It didn’t have to mean that on some level he understood her better than she understood herself.
In fact, in the morning when she saw her work again, she might very well decide once more to hate him for getting her hopes up.
She faced Ben and caught the surreptitious glances he was casting toward the painting.
“Admiring yourself?” she asked.
He gave her a wry look. “Hardly. I’m admiring your brush strokes. You have an interesting technique, not quite Impressionistic, but close.”
She laughed at that. “I’m definitely no Renoir.”
“Few artists are,” he agreed. “But you’re good, Kathleen. Damn good.”
She drank in the compliment, even as she tried to deny its validity. “Come on, Ben. Don’t go overboard. You’ve won. I’ll finish the painting, but if you’re expecting something on a par with the great masters when I’m done, you’re doomed to disappointment.”
“You could never disappoint me,” he said with quiet certainty.
She started to offer another protest but the words died on her lips. How could she argue with such sincerity? Why would she even want to? Instead, she merely said, “Please, can’t we change the subject?”
He seemed about to argue, but then he said, “Okay, I’ll drop it for now. Get your coat. I’m taking you to dinner.”
“Why don’t I cook?” she said instead.
He regarded her with a hopeful expression. “Is your cooking anything at all like your baking?”
She laughed. “It’s not half-bad. A lot depends on what’s in the refrigerator. I just shopped this morning so I think I can do something decent tonight. How do you feel about grilled lamb chops, baby red bliss potatoes and steamed vegetables?”
He sighed with undisguised pleasure. “And for dessert?”
“I left you a half-dozen raspberry tarts this morning,” she protested. “Isn’t that enough sweets for one day?”
“No such thing,” he insisted. “Besides, I only ate one. I’m saving the rest, along with the extra muffins and the remainder of the blueberry pie.”
She chuckled. “Maybe you should go home for dessert.”
He shook his head. “I’d rather watch you make something from scratch.”
“So you can steal my secret for flaky dough?”