Driven to Distraction (Silhouette Desire S.) by Sheri Whitefeather, Dixie Browning

getting too caught up in the action. That wasn’t why he was here.
    He added a long squiggle of red across his mountain just because he’d always liked the color. It turned brown. “Well, shi—ucks,” he grumbled. “I know damned well I dipped my brush in red.”
    Janie laughed and pointed out that mixed together, the colors he’d used make mud.
    And then Maggie was there, peering over his shoulder to see how badly he’d embarrassed himself. He felt like covering it up, but he had too damn much pride.
    â€œOh, wow,” she breathed reverently. “You’re almost as good as I am. Does either of us really need to be here?”
    â€œI’m seriously startin’ to wonder,” Ben growled.
    Maggie felt like patting him on the head—or maybe somewhere more accessible. It made her feel better about her own charade to know that she and Suzy weren’t the only two in the room without a clue. Mr. Spainhour wasn’t bad, and the two ladies were actually pretty good, not that she was any real judge.
    But Ben Hunter was awful. Purely awful! For some reason, that delighted her.
    â€œI understand we’re going to have a student exhibit at the end of the week,” she said softly, leaning closer to Ben so that Perry the Paragon wouldn’t overhear. He was wandering from table to table, scattering his pearls of wisdom. “Word of advice,” she murmured. “If you enter this morning’s effort in any exhibit, sign somebody else’s name to it. That way nobody can hold you responsible.”
    He glowered at her, but midglower, his eyes warmed into a smile. “Yeah, it’s pretty ugly, isn’t it?”
    â€œI wouldn’t say it’s exactly ugly…but then, I was taught that if you couldn’t say something nice, it’s better not to say anything at all.”
    He turned to reexamine his morning’s workwhile Maggie stepped back to study the man himself. If ever a man looked out of his element it was Ben Hunter with his bristly jaw, his honey-colored eyes and a pair of shoulders that threatened to burst the seams of his shirt. Not that artists couldn’t be manly, but if Hunter had the slightest bit of artistic talent he was working hard not to let it show.
    He raked his fingers through his hair, causing it to flop back on his brow. “Warm up exercise,” he said gruffly. “I haven’t painted in a while, so if you don’t mind, I’ll take a few days to get back in practice.”
    Yeah, sure you will. She thought it, but knew better than to say it out loud. No point in issuing a direct challenge. For all she knew, he might be really good, only not in any style she recognized. It looked like someone had dumped a bowl of scrambled green eggs on his paper and then tromped through it with muddy boots.
    But then, her effort didn’t look much better.
    One of the women said something about the music, which was pretty cloying. “A little Vince Gill would suit me better,” Maggie said.
    â€œThat reminds me, I understand there’s dancing after dinner,” said the woman with the pink hair. “There’s a stack of old records, some of them 78s. Does anyone else remember those?”
    Dancing, with a dozen women and three men to go around? That ought to be interesting, Maggie mused. They talked about music for a few minutes, and then a thoughtful Maggie wandered back to her own table. Not for the first time, it occurred to her that somethingabout Ben Hunter didn’t quite ring true. An artist, he wasn’t. So why was he here?
    The man would bear watching, she thought, and for some idiotic reason, found herself smiling.

Four
    B y mutual consent everyone migrated to the side porch, where a tray of glasses and another pitcher of tea was waiting, compliments of Ann, who seemed to spend more time in peripheral duties than she did in class. Could there be another nonartist who, for reasons