When he looked over, she was fast asleep, a gentle smile on her face—and Duncan started a portrait of the woman he loved.
That had been his last visit to the studio. Three months later, she’d been taken from him. Now, here he was again, standing in front of the room that used to be his sanctuary, and he shook at the thought of going inside.
This was pathetic.
“Man up!” he barked at himself, and he turned the handle.
He’d expected to find a room knee-deep in dust and strewn with cobwebs. Instead, the air was fresh and flower-scented, and there wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere. Stunned, Duncan slowly walked into the centre of the large room, with its high ceilings, and perfect northern light. Someone had kept the place in pristine condition. It looked like he’d only walked out of it an hour earlier.
He trailed a hand over the trolley table used to store the paints he’d been working with on his last painting. Each tube had been wiped clean, and the lids maintained to ensure they didn’t crust up and become impossible to open. His brushes were soft and supple, not hard and dried-out as he’d expected to find them.
He scanned the rest of the room. There were dust cloths over the half-finished canvases he’d stacked in the corner. And someone had fitted white UV-filtering blinds to the windows, to protect the colours in the drawings pinned to the walls. Lastly, he turned to the canvas he’d abandoned, the one still sitting on the easel. That too had a dust cover draped over it.
Slowly, he lifted the cover, to reveal the portrait of Fiona sitting in the garden. The blow he’d been expecting didn’t come, only a bittersweet sadness at seeing the half-finished work again. As he moved to drop the cloth, he noticed something tucked into the top of the easel, above the painting.
A rose.
A fresh rose picked from Fiona’s garden—one of the few left untouched by the gardener.
With trembling fingers, he gently removed the flower from its perch and brought it to his nose. It was the same subtle fragrance that filled the room. And he knew that the scent couldn’t have built in the time the flower had been there, there must have been roses present for months—longer, even. It was a quiet and unassuming tribute to the woman he’d lost, and the art he’d abandoned because of her.
The flower, the careful preservation of the past, the working state of the room…it could only have been one person. The woman he’d relied on for two long years but was now beginning to see.
Donna.
He stood there, trying to absorb the magnitude of what he’d found. The depth of thoughtfulness in caring for his studio, in honouring Fiona’s memory, almost overwhelmed him. Donna had stepped in to look after the things that were most important to him when he’d been unable to face them. She’d kept his soul alive. Because that was how he’d always seen his art, as the very core of himself, the best part of him—his soul.
And at that moment, he felt the dark, heavy cloak that covered him split wide open. A cool breeze blew through the crack, sweeping away the musty staleness that prevailed. Bright, diffused light from the sheer-covered windows rushed into the darkness and chased it away. He staggered, holding on to his painting table to keep himself steady. As he felt a smile break out, he lifted his face to the light, breathing the cool, fresh air deep into his lungs.
He’d been sleepwalking through life for far too long, but now he felt…alive. A rush of adrenalin demanded he move. There was no time to waste. He wanted to feel his paintbrushes in his hands, needed to lose himself in the colours and shapes and brushstrokes on his canvas. He wanted to live again.
After sweeping the dust cloths off the canvases, he opened the blinds to let the full light of day flood the room. Carefully, he took the half-finished painting of Fiona from the easel. He wouldn’t complete it. It was perfect as it was. He leaned it against the wall, where she could watch him work, and then he unpinned all the sketches he’d tacked to the walls. They were old ideas. His head was full of new ones.
After grabbing his sketchpad and pencils, he strode towards the sofa and settled in to work. To think. To begin again. That’s when he heard the door creak open, and he turned to find Donna peeking in at him. Those expressive eyes of hers took in the changes to the room and rested for a moment on the rose he’d left on his painting trolley. Her cheeks flushed, as though she was embarrassed at being found out, and then those eyes settled on him.
“I’ve cleared my schedule,” she said tentatively. “If you still want a model, I can pose.”
Duncan didn’t give her a chance to change her mind. He covered the distance between them in the blink of an eye, took her hand and swept her into the room. Closing the door tight behind her.
Chapter 9
What was she doing? This situation was not good for her mental health. And yet, here she was, posing for Duncan because she couldn’t think of anything else that would keep him occupied while the women from the institute planned a party in his home.
Lies. Lies upon lies upon lies…
That’s what her life had come to. She was lying to Duncan to try to get him out of the mansion. Lying to distract him while people used his home. Lying to the art college about Duncan wanting to lecture there. She’d also lied to all the people she’d fired when she’d written them severance cheques and told them it was from Duncan. She was a liar. That was who she was, and she was going straight to hell because of it.
Well, really, said a voice only she could hear, you only have yourself to blame. Gandalf the White appeared beside the easel and frowned over at her. You should tell everyone the truth. It will produce far fewer difficulties in the long run. I find that honesty truly is the best policy. Things seldom go well when you lie.
Thanks. Donna scowled at the imaginary figure as another appeared in the corner of the room.
Good Hobbitses are kind to their master, Gollum said as he crawled along the studio floor after some invisible prey. Good Hobbitses don’t tell them fibs.
You’re wasting your time. Hermione materialised behind the sofa. Donna thinks she knows best and refuses to listen to reason.
Donna glared at all of them. Why is it none of my drawings ever turn up to support me?
Ra-Ra. Go, Donna. A massive hand-drawn troll walked through the room carrying a cheerleader’s pompom in one hand while picking his nose with the other. Great, that was her support? Yay for her.
“Donna?” The only other real person in the room said, pulling her attention away from her imaginary judges. “Are you ok?”
“Yes,” she snapped.
“You looked like you zoned out there.”
“No. I’m fine.” Can you all just get out of here? she shouted in her head.
It was hard enough dealing with Duncan without having to put up with advice from imaginary characters.
Well, I never, said Gandalf, and he disappeared.
I know when I’m not wanted. Hermione followed him.
My precious, Gollum shouted and dove out of the room after his ring.
Yum, said the troll as he took his finger from his nose and popped it in his mouth. Then he disappeared too, leaving her blessedly alone to deal with her latest mess.
She forced a smile. “Where do you want me?”
His dark eyes pinned her with an intense look she couldn’t quite decipher. And then he blinked, and it was gone.
“Give me a minute,” he said and proceeded to tug the sofa in front of the windows that looked out over the driveway. “Okay,” he said, once he’d gotten it where he wanted. “Sit in the corner nearest the windows.”
He strode past her, lifted the barstool and positioned it facing the sofa, then he retrieved his sketchpad and pencil and sat on the stool—with a clear view of not only the sofa, but of the driveway leading up the mansion.
Oh no, no, no, no…This would not do. The whole point of posing was to keep him occupied so he wouldn’t see the Women’s Institute arrive at the house. From this angle, there was no way he’d miss them coming up behind her.
He cocked his head. “I’ve been doing this for a while. I know how I want to pose my models. The light is perfect.”
And so was his view of the driveway.
“I don’t like sitting in the sun.”
“The windows face north. There is no sun.”
“How about I sit on the stool, and you sit on the sofa That way the light will be behind you, and you’ll be able to see what you’re doing a whole lot better.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “I can see what I’m doing just fine. If you’ve changed your mind about posing, say it. I’ve got some sketching I’d like to do in the garden anyway.”
And have him wandering around? Outside? Where he could see everyone, or worse, talk to them? No way.
She sat on the couch with a thump before trying to position herself in such a way that she blocked as much of the view behind her as possible. It was pointless. She was small, the window was large, and Duncan was elevated enough to see over her head.
“Can we at least close the blinds?” she tried.
He ran a hand through his hair, in a gesture that screamed frustration. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” It came out a bit too fast, and her cheeks began to heat.
He looked suspicious, so she scrambled for something else to tell him. “I’ve never posed for an artist before.”
The tension went out of his shoulders some. “Well, it’s easy. All you do is sit still and shut up.” He gave her a slow smile as his eyes sparkled. “I promise I’ll make it good for you.”
Oh yeah, her cheeks were definitely heated now. She studied him, trying to figure out if the innuendo was intentional. It couldn’t have been. It had to be her imagination.
“So, what’s it going to be?” he said. “Are you going to pose where I put you, or do I go outside to draw?”
That was no choice at all. “I’ll pose.”
“Fantastic. In that case, do you think you could relax? You look like a wooden doll.”
Of course she looked like a wooden doll. There was enough tension in her body to solidify her muscles and turn her to stone. She stood, shook out her arms, angled her head from side to side, and did a few stretches while she focused on breathing.
Then she perched on the edge of the sofa with her knees together, hands in her lap, and her back straight. She gave him her best plastic smile. “Better?”
“I can honestly say I’ve never had a model do a warm-up before they posed for me. It’s a whole new experience. You sure you don’t want to do some yoga to really get in the zone?”
She frowned at him. “Is. This. Pose. Okay?”
“It would be great—if you were the witness in a trial. I need something a wee bit more relaxed.”
“This is as relaxed as it’s going to get. How about I offer to stare at you for hours on end, and we’ll see how relaxed you feel?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose, and she got the distinct impression he regretted asking her to pose. “How about you sit back and read a book?”
That got her attention. “You want me to read?”
“Aye. You’ve always got a book in that massive bag you cart around, so go get it and you can read while I draw.”
“Do I get paid for this or is it considered free time?”
“Donna, you’re on a salary. Not an hourly rate.”
“I just want to be clear that this isn’t time I need to make up later, right?”
“No.”
“And all the things that don’t get done while I sit here will remain undone if I can’t fit them into a normal day?”
“Aye.”
“And you won’t freak out if one of those things is something you wanted done?”
“Donna, get the damn book.”
Well, that changed everything. If she was going to get paid to read, then this posing thing was looking up. “Back in a minute.” She ran for the door.
Ten minutes later, she’d returned with a copy of The Hunger Games. She’d chosen it because she hadn’t gotten around to drawing on the pages yet, which meant less chance of anything from the book popping out of her imagination and into the real world to annoy her. With a glee-filled smile, she settled into the corner to read.
Maybe this posing thing would be okay after all.
***
Duncan watched Donna make herself comfortable. There was a look of absolute glee on her face that made him want to smile.
“Is this how you want me?” She’d tucked her feet under her and pulled a cushion over to use as a prop for her book.
Is this how you want me?
Her innocent question made his mouth go dry as images flooded his mind. Donna dressed in nothing but a white men’s dress shirt, reclining on the sofa with the soft early morning light bathing her pale skin. The shirt open to reveal a strip of skin down the centre of her body. Her hair loose around her shoulders, flowing over the blue material of the sofa. Her eyes slumberous with sensuality. He’d paint her surrounded by cool blues and purples, contrasting with the warm tones of her skin and the red gold in her hair.
“Duncan?” Donna’s voice jarred him back to reality. He blinked at her.
“What?”
“Is this okay?”
He cleared his throat. “Take your hair down for me.” Damn. He shouldn’t have added those last two words.
With her eyes on him, she reached up and took her hair from her ponytail she’d put in after their breakfast. “Like this?”
She spread it out over her shoulders. It was thick, luscious, and honey coloured, interwoven with several different shades of blonde and brown, that only truly came to life when the sun hit them in the right way. She was a siren, calling to him. He shook his head to clear it. He was a professional, and he’d painted plenty of people throughout his career. This was no different. He was just a little rusty after more than two years away from his work. That’s why Donna posing for him was affecting him strangely.
“Exactly like that.” The words came out huskier than he’d intended, and he feigned a cough to cover for himself.
“Should I start reading now?”
All he could do was give a terse nod. With a look of uncertainty, she turned back to her book, and Duncan watched her. No, not watched. He studied her.
The graceful line from her neck to her shoulder. The voluptuous curve of her waist to her hip. The elegance of her feet tucked beneath her. Long fingers, caressing the book. A hint of a smile, curving lips that were ripe and lush. Skin so smooth and translucent that it glowed in the soft light from the window.
Today, she wore a peach satin blouse, buttoned up to her throat, with soft pleats down the front. It billowed in the sleeve, falling softly around her delicate wrists. She’d teamed it with grey dress trousers that were far too smart for her pose—barefoot on a sofa with a book. Once again, she’d ignored his suggestion that she dress less business-like, but he knew if he challenged her about it, he would get the same answer: she was wearing what she wanted to wear. For some reason, that made him smile.
“What are you reading?” he found himself asking as he reached for the pastels on his drawing table. He’d sketch her in colour and try to capture the way the peach satin brought out the golds in her hair.
“The Hunger Games.” Thick, long, black lashes lifted as she looked up at him. Today, her eyes leaned closer to forest green than sea green.
He stared at her while his hand moved over the page in front of him. Sometimes it felt as though his talent worked independently of his consciousness. “I don’t know that one.”
“It’s a teen book.” She paused as though waiting for him to comment on her taste in reading matter. He had nothing to say. Who was he to judge what she liked to read? “I’m at the bit where Katniss, she’s the heroine, shoots Marvel, one of the other challengers in the game. She gets him in the
throat with an arrow and he drowns in his own blood.”
That stilled his hand.
He looked up from his sketchpad to stare at her. “Cheery,” he said at last.
With a mysterious smile, Donna returned her attention to her book. And he returned his attention to Donna.
***
Donna pretended to read but was all too aware of Duncan’s eyes on her. Even though she was fully dressed, she felt naked under his gaze. His dark eyes studied every inch of her as his hand flew over his sketchbook. Now and then, he’d frown before looking back and forth between her and his drawing, as though trying to work out a flaw in the comparison.
“I thought you were going to paint me?”
“Only an idiot approaches a canvas without a plan.”
His absolute passion for what he was doing made her sad that he’d spent so long without it. A talent like his, skill like his, needed to be shared with the world. Which reminded her of the scheme to get him out of the way during the ball. “You should take the art college up on its invitation to teach.”
His pastel pencil stilled, and his eyes focused on her in a way that made it clear he was now seeing her as a person rather than an object to study. “Where did that come from?”
She shrugged. “You obviously love it. It would be a shame not to share that passion with people starting out. You’ve taught before, haven’t you?”
“That was a long time ago.” He flicked the page over to start afresh, making Donna wonder how much planning one painting needed. When she sketched in her books, she didn’t think about it at all beforehand, she just grabbed a pencil and got to it. She guessed that was the difference between a professional and someone who dabbled.
“I think you should accept the invitation. It’s only one lecture. It’s not like you’re committing to something long term. Plus, you said yourself, you’re going stir crazy here. Maybe a couple of nights in Glasgow is just what you need. Not to mention, you’d get to talk to people who understand you for a change. I imagine that would be nice.”
Can't Stop the Feeling: Romantic Comedy (Sinclair Sisters Trilogy Book 2) Page 9