couldn’t know who he was, and wasn’t presuming he was rich.
Not dressed the way he was.
Drake took the proffered hand gingerly, not remembering the last time he’d clasped another man’s hand. He touched other people rarely, not even during sex. Usually, he employed his hands to keep his torso up and away from the woman.
Harold Feinstein’s hand was soft, well-manicured, but the grip was surprisingly strong.
“Have a look around,” he urged. “No need to buy. A rt enriches us all, whether we own it or not.” Without seeming to study him, Feinstein had taken in the cheap clothes and pegged him as a window-shopper, but wasn’t bothered by it. Unusual in a man of commerce.
Drake’s eyes traversed the wall and Harold Feinstein turned amiably.
“Take my latest discovery,” he said, waving his free hand. “Grace Larsen. Remarkable eye for detail, amazing technical expertise, perfect brush strokes. Command of chiaroscuro in the etchings.
Quite remarkable.” The artist was a woman? Drake focused on the paintings. Man, woman, whoever the artist was, the work was extraordinary. And now that he was here, he could see that a side wall, invisible from the street, was covered with etchings and watercolors.
He stopped in front of an oil, a portrait of an old woman. She was stooped, graying, hair pulled back in a bun, face weatherbeaten from the sun, large hands gnarled from physical labor, dressed in a cheap cotton print dress. She looked as if she were just about to step down from the painting, drop to her knees and start scrubbing the floor.
Yet she was beautiful, because the artist saw her as beautiful. A specific woman, the very epitome of a female workhorse, the kind that held the world together with her labor. Drake had seen that woman in the thousands, toiling in fields around the world, sweeping the streets of Moscow.
A ll the sorrow and strength of the human race was right there, in her sloping shoulders and tired eyes.
Amazing.
The door behind him chimed as someone entered the gallery.
Feinstein straightened, his smile broadened. “And here’s the artist herself.” He looked at Drake, dressed in his poor clothes. “Take your time and enjoy the paintings,” he said gently.
Drake smelled her before he saw her. A fresh smell, like spring and sunshine, not a perfume.
Completely out of place in the fumes of midtown Manhattan. His first thought was, No woman can live up to that smell.
“Hello, Harold,” he heard a woman’s voice say behind him. “I brought some india-ink drawings. I thought you might like to look at them. And I finished the waterfront.
Stayed up all night to do it.” The voice was soft, utterly female, with a smile in it.
His second thought was, No woman can live up to that voice. The voice was soft, melodic, seeming to hit him like a note on a tuning fork, reverberating through him so strongly he actually had to concentrate on the words.
Drake turned—and stared.
His entire body froze. He found himself completely incapable of moving for a heartbeat—two—until he managed to shake himself from his paralysis by sheer force of will.
Something—some atavistic survival instinct dwelling deep in his DNA —made him turn away so she wouldn’t see him full face, but he had excellent peripheral vision and he watched intently as the woman—Grace—opened a big portfolio carrier and started laying out heavy sheets of paper, setting
them out precisely on a huge glass table. Then she brought out what looked like a spool of 10-inch-wide paper from her purse.
Goddamn. The woman was… exquisite.
DANGEROUS LOVER
Summerville, Washington
St. Jude Homeless Shelter
Christmas Eve
H e needed Caroline like he needed light and air.
More.
The tall, emaciated boy dressed in rags rose from his father’s lifeless body sprawled bonelessly on the icy, concrete floor of the shelter.
His father had been dying for a long time—most of his life, in fact. There
Not dressed the way he was.
Drake took the proffered hand gingerly, not remembering the last time he’d clasped another man’s hand. He touched other people rarely, not even during sex. Usually, he employed his hands to keep his torso up and away from the woman.
Harold Feinstein’s hand was soft, well-manicured, but the grip was surprisingly strong.
“Have a look around,” he urged. “No need to buy. A rt enriches us all, whether we own it or not.” Without seeming to study him, Feinstein had taken in the cheap clothes and pegged him as a window-shopper, but wasn’t bothered by it. Unusual in a man of commerce.
Drake’s eyes traversed the wall and Harold Feinstein turned amiably.
“Take my latest discovery,” he said, waving his free hand. “Grace Larsen. Remarkable eye for detail, amazing technical expertise, perfect brush strokes. Command of chiaroscuro in the etchings.
Quite remarkable.” The artist was a woman? Drake focused on the paintings. Man, woman, whoever the artist was, the work was extraordinary. And now that he was here, he could see that a side wall, invisible from the street, was covered with etchings and watercolors.
He stopped in front of an oil, a portrait of an old woman. She was stooped, graying, hair pulled back in a bun, face weatherbeaten from the sun, large hands gnarled from physical labor, dressed in a cheap cotton print dress. She looked as if she were just about to step down from the painting, drop to her knees and start scrubbing the floor.
Yet she was beautiful, because the artist saw her as beautiful. A specific woman, the very epitome of a female workhorse, the kind that held the world together with her labor. Drake had seen that woman in the thousands, toiling in fields around the world, sweeping the streets of Moscow.
A ll the sorrow and strength of the human race was right there, in her sloping shoulders and tired eyes.
Amazing.
The door behind him chimed as someone entered the gallery.
Feinstein straightened, his smile broadened. “And here’s the artist herself.” He looked at Drake, dressed in his poor clothes. “Take your time and enjoy the paintings,” he said gently.
Drake smelled her before he saw her. A fresh smell, like spring and sunshine, not a perfume.
Completely out of place in the fumes of midtown Manhattan. His first thought was, No woman can live up to that smell.
“Hello, Harold,” he heard a woman’s voice say behind him. “I brought some india-ink drawings. I thought you might like to look at them. And I finished the waterfront.
Stayed up all night to do it.” The voice was soft, utterly female, with a smile in it.
His second thought was, No woman can live up to that voice. The voice was soft, melodic, seeming to hit him like a note on a tuning fork, reverberating through him so strongly he actually had to concentrate on the words.
Drake turned—and stared.
His entire body froze. He found himself completely incapable of moving for a heartbeat—two—until he managed to shake himself from his paralysis by sheer force of will.
Something—some atavistic survival instinct dwelling deep in his DNA —made him turn away so she wouldn’t see him full face, but he had excellent peripheral vision and he watched intently as the woman—Grace—opened a big portfolio carrier and started laying out heavy sheets of paper, setting
them out precisely on a huge glass table. Then she brought out what looked like a spool of 10-inch-wide paper from her purse.
Goddamn. The woman was… exquisite.
DANGEROUS LOVER
Summerville, Washington
St. Jude Homeless Shelter
Christmas Eve
H e needed Caroline like he needed light and air.
More.
The tall, emaciated boy dressed in rags rose from his father’s lifeless body sprawled bonelessly on the icy, concrete floor of the shelter.
His father had been dying for a long time—most of his life, in fact. There
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