Chapter 12

I walked between the two dogs who sat like stone lions outside the pool house. The interior had been decorated as nicely as the main house. Music rolled quietly through the room. One side of the room had a sitting area, large screen television, and wet bar. The other side had been transformed into an artist’s studio, complete with canvas drop cloths, racks of painter’s supplies, and a collection of finished and unfinished paintings. The muddy, oily smell of paints filled the air.

Jude balanced on a stool and looked around his easel. “I’m just sharpening my pencils.”

I walked over to a collection of canvasses. There were several landscapes but most were paintings of people, both men and women. There was emotion in the faces that only a true artist could capture. They were nothing short of amazing. “You are really talented.”

“You think? Sometimes I question it. A lot of people can draw and paint.”

“True, but not many can capture the rawness of someone’s inner soul like you’ve done in these paintings.” I pulled out a canvas of a particularly pretty girl who was wearing a sheer as gossamer dress and staring out a window. “Like this girl, you can tell she’s had some crap happen in her life that has scarred her forever. You can see it in her eyes. Either that or she’s an exceptionally good model.”

He walked over and looked at the painting I held. “That’s Ginger. And you’re right. She’s had a shitty life.”

Jude looked up at my face. “Some people are easy to read. I can see every facet of their emotion in their expression, but you’re not like that.”

I smiled and replaced the painting into the pile. “Trust me, I’m not that complicated.”

“No? I guess we’ll find out. Follow me.”

We entered a small closet that was packed full with clothing and period costumes. He yanked out a peasant style dress and held it in front of me then shoved it back onto the rack. He did the same with several silky, sheer dresses but then grunted and returned them to the rack.

He looked me up and down. “The ripped jeans will work, but you need a different shirt.

I glanced down at my faded jeans that had both knees ripped out and a tear across the thigh. “I’m wearing these? I was kind of looking forward to one of these soft dresses.” I rubbed my hand along the row of dresses.

“They don’t suit you.” He walked to the end of the rack, pulled out a package, and ripped it open.

I stared down at it in utter disappointment. “But that is a man’s undershirt. That’s what I’m suited for, the prestigious wife-beater shirt?”

He looked up at me. “Who’s the artist here? You or me?”

“You, I guess, but I’m beginning to question your artistic intuition some.”

He handed me the shirt. “Bathroom is down that hallway.” He pointed around the corner.

I grabbed the shirt and plodded away.

“And lose the bra,” he called.

“Beginning to regret this whole thing,” I yelled back to him. The tank top covered enough that I didn’t feel too self conscious without a bra, but I still instinctually walked out with my arms crossed over my breasts.

Jude was sitting on his stool and looked up from his paints as I stepped around the corner. He laughed.

“Well, that makes me feel better,” I said angrily.

“Sorry. You look fine. It’s just that yesterday you laid out by the pool in a suit that rivaled two bandages, and today you’re shy about wearing a man’s undershirt.”

“And now I feel slutty for wearing the suit. This little endeavor is doing nothing for my self-confidence.”

“Nothing wrong with a little sluttiness,” he quipped.

“That’s it. I’m done.” I turned and headed back down the hall. I hadn’t even heard him move, but suddenly, he had hold of my arm.

“I’m just teasing you, Eden.” He pushed my hair back from my face, and the touch of his calloused fingertips lingered on my skin long after he’d dropped his hand. “You’re not slutty.” He stared at my face a long time. “You’re incredible,” he said quietly. And then in the dark, dimly lit hallway, his face leaned closer to mine and I thought a kiss would follow. But he held himself back. Or it was entirely possible that I’d just imagined the kiss because I truly wanted it. Then it dawned on me that the steely reserve I’d worked so hard to convince Finley of this morning was completely gone. My resolve to not fall for this guy was fading quickly.

He took my hand and led me to a stool he had placed ten feet away from his canvas. He patted the seat, and I climbed up on it. His fingers held my ankles longer than necessary as he slid the sandals off my feet. Then as if he’d already had the pose completely mapped out in his mind, he placed each foot on the bottom rung of the stool so that my thighs were apart and my bare knees peeked through the worn out jeans. He leaned back and looked at me as if he was assessing a piece of marble for a sculpture.

Then without warning, he grabbed the end of the undershirt and tugged it down so that my cleavage and the sides of my breasts were bared. Startled, I pulled back and his fingers lost their grasp. The shirt bounced back up.

He raised a dark eyebrow at me. “It’s still less skin than that bikini.”

“Fine,” I said, “but I may never forgive Finley for getting me that suit.”

He reached forward again and tugged on the shirt. The cool air of the room brushed my exposed skin as he took my hand. “Now hold it there and lean forward some.”

He leaned back again.

“Aren’t you supposed to squint past your thumb or something?”

He smiled but didn’t take his eyes off me. “I never have figured out why artists do that.”

His fingers took hold of my chin, and I sucked in a small breath. The near kiss or imagined near kiss in the hall had left me feeling unbalanced and vulnerable, and now I seemed to have little control over ridiculousness.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Uh huh.” I swallowed back a sudden case of nerves, and even after the last silly overreaction to his touch, I was completely unready for his next move.

His rough thumb reached up and dragged down lightly over my bottom lip. “Make sure to keep that pouty look you’re so good at.” His gaze never left my mouth as he spoke.

“I’m not pouty—”

He put up his hand. “Don’t move, don’t talk. This is perfect.” He strolled back to the sound system and glanced back at me. “I hope you don’t mind, I do my best work listening to Pearl Jam.” He turned up the music and then sat on his stool. For a few minutes, he fished around in his pencils and eventually chose one.

Then he lifted his green gaze for the first time since he’d sat at his canvas. His mouth opened slightly almost as if he was shocked to find me sitting there. His Adam’s apple moved up and down as he swallowed hard once and then began sketching strokes across the canvas. He glanced my way and then returned his attention to the drawing. Several times he shook his head as if frustrated with the lines he’d drawn.

Fifteen minutes in, I discovered that sitting in the same position for an extended time was more taxing than I would have thought. A cool breeze danced through an open window and across the room, moving a long strand of hair across my face. “What do I do?” I asked.

“Don’t move yet. I’m just finishing with your arms.”

“But it tickles.” I moved my nose up and down but the hair stayed put.

He placed down his pencil and walked across the floor toward me. The crackling energy I’d felt between us the night before when he’d stood over my bed returned now and grew with hot intensity as the space between us disappeared. I was not the only one noticing the sudden charge in the atmosphere between us. He stopped directly in front of me, and even with loud music bouncing off the walls, I could hear the unnaturally fast rhythm of his breathing.

He hesitated a moment and then his hand came up slowly and brushed the hair off my face. His fingertips had only grazed my cheek, but I felt the sensation of his touch through my entire body. He looked back at me as if he’d smoothed his hands over every inch of my skin. The air between us heated and what had started out as a casual session between an artist and his subject had somehow erupted into something completely different.