in the real world. But the sight of Celia and John, both obviously in love, leaning into each other for support as they reached the top of the stairs, contradicted her jaded outlook. The possibility that true love did exist was a disturbing thought.
Ian was standing next to her, also looking at her parents. When they disappeared, he glanced down at Shay. His expression was infinitely tender, as if he were looking at a newborn baby.
"Your mother epitomizes everything feminine," he said. Left unsaid, Shay knew, was that her daughter didn't. Ian returned to the couch and picked up the sports magazine he'd been reading. Slouching against the cushions and propping one jean-clad leg on the knee of the other, he seemed instantly absorbed by the printed page.
More than a little miffed because he was so rudely ignoring her, Shay stalked to the table in the foyer, picked up her portfolio, and plopped determinedly into the opposite corner of the sofa Ian was sitting on.
The leather cover thumped against the back of the couch as she opened the large book. The pages rattled as she arranged and rearranged the pictures, trying to attract his attention. Under her breath, but loud enough for him to hear, she commented periodically on each picture she held in her hand.
Finally he sighed heavily and turned toward her. "I guess I'm supposed to ask what you're looking at."
Why she didn't slam the book shut at that moment and go upstairs to her room, she didn't know. Possibly because something inside her chanted that sugar attracts more flies than vinegar. In any event, she smiled winningly. "This is my portfolio. Would you like to look through it?"
He shrugged, a gesture she found thoroughly annoying. Was he doing her a big favor by looking at pictures of her nude? Apparently he thought so. "Sure," he said in a voice that intimated he didn't have anything better to do.
Since he didn't move, she was forced to scoot along the couch, dragging the unwieldy book with her. He took it upon his lap and opened it, scanning the first series of pictures.
"I was still in college when these pictures were taken. That's when I first started posing. Dad had died, and money was tight. I was taking art classes, and one day the instructor asked me if I'd consider posing for the advanced art classes, which were already into nudes."
"A male instructor, I presume."
Her fingers itched to slap the knowing grin off his mouth. "No, a female." Her voice was calm, hiding the anger that was nearly bursting from her.
She watched Ian's expressionless face as he slowly turned the pages of the book. His eyes moved over the pictures. He studied them with deep seriousness. But he could have been analyzing a brick wall for all the response he gave.
Wait until you get to the good stuff, she wanted to tell him. These first photographs were obviously unprofessional, taken by a friend so she could start her portfolio.
"This artist is famous," she said when he turned to a picture of a painting featuring only her back. Her hair had been swept up, leaving coy tendrils to trail down her neck. The smooth brush strokes had perfectly captured the texture of her skin. Shadowing had detailed the fragility of her spine and the impishness of the two dimples in the small of her back.
"Yes, I recognize his name," Ian said conversationally. "Didn't he do 'Morning Maid'?"
Shay looked at him in surprise. "Yes. I didn't think you'd know this artist."
"I don't know him, only his work."
He continued turning the pages, sometimes saying that he recognized a photographer or artist, commenting other times on the medium, never mentioning Shay, her pose, or her body.
"Which one is you?" he asked of a picture of a sculpture that had been commissioned by the Fine Arts League of a major midwestern city to grace the fountain outside their new concert hall. It featured the Muses.
"The one with the lyre."
The toga covered only one breast. "Nice lyre," he said, nodding sagely. She could have
Ian was standing next to her, also looking at her parents. When they disappeared, he glanced down at Shay. His expression was infinitely tender, as if he were looking at a newborn baby.
"Your mother epitomizes everything feminine," he said. Left unsaid, Shay knew, was that her daughter didn't. Ian returned to the couch and picked up the sports magazine he'd been reading. Slouching against the cushions and propping one jean-clad leg on the knee of the other, he seemed instantly absorbed by the printed page.
More than a little miffed because he was so rudely ignoring her, Shay stalked to the table in the foyer, picked up her portfolio, and plopped determinedly into the opposite corner of the sofa Ian was sitting on.
The leather cover thumped against the back of the couch as she opened the large book. The pages rattled as she arranged and rearranged the pictures, trying to attract his attention. Under her breath, but loud enough for him to hear, she commented periodically on each picture she held in her hand.
Finally he sighed heavily and turned toward her. "I guess I'm supposed to ask what you're looking at."
Why she didn't slam the book shut at that moment and go upstairs to her room, she didn't know. Possibly because something inside her chanted that sugar attracts more flies than vinegar. In any event, she smiled winningly. "This is my portfolio. Would you like to look through it?"
He shrugged, a gesture she found thoroughly annoying. Was he doing her a big favor by looking at pictures of her nude? Apparently he thought so. "Sure," he said in a voice that intimated he didn't have anything better to do.
Since he didn't move, she was forced to scoot along the couch, dragging the unwieldy book with her. He took it upon his lap and opened it, scanning the first series of pictures.
"I was still in college when these pictures were taken. That's when I first started posing. Dad had died, and money was tight. I was taking art classes, and one day the instructor asked me if I'd consider posing for the advanced art classes, which were already into nudes."
"A male instructor, I presume."
Her fingers itched to slap the knowing grin off his mouth. "No, a female." Her voice was calm, hiding the anger that was nearly bursting from her.
She watched Ian's expressionless face as he slowly turned the pages of the book. His eyes moved over the pictures. He studied them with deep seriousness. But he could have been analyzing a brick wall for all the response he gave.
Wait until you get to the good stuff, she wanted to tell him. These first photographs were obviously unprofessional, taken by a friend so she could start her portfolio.
"This artist is famous," she said when he turned to a picture of a painting featuring only her back. Her hair had been swept up, leaving coy tendrils to trail down her neck. The smooth brush strokes had perfectly captured the texture of her skin. Shadowing had detailed the fragility of her spine and the impishness of the two dimples in the small of her back.
"Yes, I recognize his name," Ian said conversationally. "Didn't he do 'Morning Maid'?"
Shay looked at him in surprise. "Yes. I didn't think you'd know this artist."
"I don't know him, only his work."
He continued turning the pages, sometimes saying that he recognized a photographer or artist, commenting other times on the medium, never mentioning Shay, her pose, or her body.
"Which one is you?" he asked of a picture of a sculpture that had been commissioned by the Fine Arts League of a major midwestern city to grace the fountain outside their new concert hall. It featured the Muses.
"The one with the lyre."
The toga covered only one breast. "Nice lyre," he said, nodding sagely. She could have
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