damn good for a guy who hadn’t seen, much less touched, a flesh-and-blood female hip in over a year. Why had his bitch of a muse finally given him permission to express his burning memories of that night in clay? Maybe he had a chance to save his upcoming gallery show after all.
Nudes. That was the answer. A series of nudes, utter simplicity in line and form. A pale, pearlescent glaze, lit from within like her skin.
He had to get the ideas down on paper before they disappeared into the ether. The sketch pad was by the door, leaning against his duffle bag and some perishables he’d hastily unloaded from the Jeep when he’d returned to the cabin so unexpectedly earlier that day. He’d left before daylight, giving himself plenty of time to drive back to Minneapolis and catch his flight, but with each southbound mile, the odd sense of...wrongness, of disquiet, had grown. A half-mile north of the Cloquet cut-off, he’d flat-out panicked, suddenly certain that signing the contract to design functional art sound systems for The Pignello Group’s new nightclubs would be an epic mistake, a fork in the road he wouldn’t be able to navigate back from. And miraculously, a wisp of an idea was awakening with a slow, languid stretch. He recognized his muse immediately, a familiar friend he’d inexplicably been on the outs with. Without giving himself time to reconsider, he turned the car around and called his agent, instructing her to call off the deal she’d spent months negotiating on his behalf .
He looked at the nude and smiled. If he needed any more validation that turning down the sound system commission had been the right decision, he was looking at her, stretched out and damp, on the cabin’s newspaper-protected dining room table .
As he swaddled her in damp cloth and plastic wrap, headlights swept across the west wall. Who the hell…? He hadn’t taken the time to close the security gate behind him when he’d driven in earlier, but the private road leading to the cabin was strewn with No Trespassing signs. Couldn’t people read? And when had it gotten dark?
He glanced at his sketch pad again. Maybe if he didn’t answer the door, whoever it was would turn around and go away, and he could—
The garage door opened with a muffled hum. Whoever had just arrived had the next best thing to a house key. Damn it.
He flicked on the room lights with a nudge of his elbow, and then stalked to the kitchen sink to rinse the worst of the clay from his hands and wrists. He had only himself to blame for the unexpected company. His family thought he was on a plane to Los Angeles, and he hadn’t told anyone about his change in plans. Maybe Lukas and Scarlett were sneaking away for a long weekend. Maybe it was Sasha with her latest lover, or his father and Claudette. He glanced at the kitchen counter, where his silent cell phone mocked him. He’d turned it off after letting Brooke and the pilot know that he wouldn’t be traveling to California as planned.
Ratcheting back his annoyance, he flipped the switch that would flood the driveway and garage area with light, and opened the heavy oak door. “Wow.” Every surface—the pine boughs, the gravel driveway, the electrical wires, Bailey’s tiny red clown car—was filmed over with ice, and—
He blinked. Nope, he wasn’t hallucinating; that was Bailey’s Mini Cooper, all right, limping into the garage as a wicked rain/snow mix spit from the sky and froze on contact. What the hell had she been thinking, driving in such dangerous weather conditions? It was sheer dumb luck that she hadn’t skidded off the road, slamming into one of the thousands of lethal, telephone pole-sized pine trees lining the road for miles.
And why hadn’t she emerged from the garage yet? “Shit.” Ducking back into the cabin, he jammed his arms into his parka, slung a knit scarf around his neck, stomped his bare feet into a pair of thick-soled Sorels, and headed back out. Needles of sleet
Nudes. That was the answer. A series of nudes, utter simplicity in line and form. A pale, pearlescent glaze, lit from within like her skin.
He had to get the ideas down on paper before they disappeared into the ether. The sketch pad was by the door, leaning against his duffle bag and some perishables he’d hastily unloaded from the Jeep when he’d returned to the cabin so unexpectedly earlier that day. He’d left before daylight, giving himself plenty of time to drive back to Minneapolis and catch his flight, but with each southbound mile, the odd sense of...wrongness, of disquiet, had grown. A half-mile north of the Cloquet cut-off, he’d flat-out panicked, suddenly certain that signing the contract to design functional art sound systems for The Pignello Group’s new nightclubs would be an epic mistake, a fork in the road he wouldn’t be able to navigate back from. And miraculously, a wisp of an idea was awakening with a slow, languid stretch. He recognized his muse immediately, a familiar friend he’d inexplicably been on the outs with. Without giving himself time to reconsider, he turned the car around and called his agent, instructing her to call off the deal she’d spent months negotiating on his behalf .
He looked at the nude and smiled. If he needed any more validation that turning down the sound system commission had been the right decision, he was looking at her, stretched out and damp, on the cabin’s newspaper-protected dining room table .
As he swaddled her in damp cloth and plastic wrap, headlights swept across the west wall. Who the hell…? He hadn’t taken the time to close the security gate behind him when he’d driven in earlier, but the private road leading to the cabin was strewn with No Trespassing signs. Couldn’t people read? And when had it gotten dark?
He glanced at his sketch pad again. Maybe if he didn’t answer the door, whoever it was would turn around and go away, and he could—
The garage door opened with a muffled hum. Whoever had just arrived had the next best thing to a house key. Damn it.
He flicked on the room lights with a nudge of his elbow, and then stalked to the kitchen sink to rinse the worst of the clay from his hands and wrists. He had only himself to blame for the unexpected company. His family thought he was on a plane to Los Angeles, and he hadn’t told anyone about his change in plans. Maybe Lukas and Scarlett were sneaking away for a long weekend. Maybe it was Sasha with her latest lover, or his father and Claudette. He glanced at the kitchen counter, where his silent cell phone mocked him. He’d turned it off after letting Brooke and the pilot know that he wouldn’t be traveling to California as planned.
Ratcheting back his annoyance, he flipped the switch that would flood the driveway and garage area with light, and opened the heavy oak door. “Wow.” Every surface—the pine boughs, the gravel driveway, the electrical wires, Bailey’s tiny red clown car—was filmed over with ice, and—
He blinked. Nope, he wasn’t hallucinating; that was Bailey’s Mini Cooper, all right, limping into the garage as a wicked rain/snow mix spit from the sky and froze on contact. What the hell had she been thinking, driving in such dangerous weather conditions? It was sheer dumb luck that she hadn’t skidded off the road, slamming into one of the thousands of lethal, telephone pole-sized pine trees lining the road for miles.
And why hadn’t she emerged from the garage yet? “Shit.” Ducking back into the cabin, he jammed his arms into his parka, slung a knit scarf around his neck, stomped his bare feet into a pair of thick-soled Sorels, and headed back out. Needles of sleet
Similar Books
