by Nora Roberts
FIVE
SHE KNEW HE’D moved in. Now and again when Dru went into the back room of the shop, she could hear music through the vents. It didn’t surprise her that he played it loud, or that his choices varied from head-banging rock to mellow blues and into passionate opera.
Nothing about Seth Quinn surprised her.
He came and went during the first week of his lease without any rhyme or reason she could see. Occasionally he breezed in and out of the shop, to ask if she needed anything, to let her know he’d be starting on the skylights, to tell her he’d moved some things into the storage space and made a copy of the key.
He was always friendly, never seemed particularly rushed. And never once attempted to follow up on the steamy afternoon kiss.
It irked her, for a number of reasons. First, she’d been set to deflect any follow-up, at least for the time being. She had no intention of Seth, or any man, taking her availability for granted.
That was simply principle.
And, of course, it was expected that he would follow up. A man didn’t ask to take you to bed one day, then treat you like a casual neighbor the next.
So perhaps he had surprised her after all. Which only irritated her more.
Just as well, she told herself as she worked on the small tabletop arrangements she sold to one of the waterfront’s upscale restaurants. She was settling into St. Chris, into her business, into the kind of life she’d always wanted—without knowing she wanted it. A relationship, whether it was an affair, a romance or just no-strings sex, would change the balance.
And she was so enjoying the balance.
The only person who needed anything from her, demanded anything from her, expected anything from her these days was herself. That, in itself, was like a gift from God.
Pleased with the combination of narcissus and sprekelia, she loaded the arrangements into refrigeration. Her part-time delivery man would pick them up, along with the iris and tulips and showy white lilies ordered by a couple of the local B and B’s.
She heard Seth arrive—the sound of the car door slamming, the crunch of footsteps over gravel, then the quick slap of them up the back steps.
Moments later came the music. Rock today, she noted with a glance at the overhead vent. Which probably meant he’d be up on the roof shortly, working on the skylights.
She went back into the shop, picked up the plant she’d earmarked, then headed out the back and up the steps. A polite knock wouldn’t do, not with the music blaring, so she used the side of her fist to pound.
“Yeah, yeah, it’s open. Since when do you guys knock?”
He turned, in the act of strapping on a tool belt, as she opened the door. “Hey.” His smile came quick and easy. “I thought you were one of my brothers, but you’re a lot better-looking.”
“I heard you come in.” She would not be a cliché, she promised herself. She would not entertain ridiculous fantasies because she’d come upon a long, lanky male wearing a tool belt. “I thought you might like these.”
“What? Wait.” Amused at himself, he walked into the tiny kitchen where he’d set a tabletop stereo and turned down the volume. “Sorry.”
His hammer bounced against his hip. He was wearing jeans that were equal parts holes and denim. His T-shirt was faded gray and splotched with paint and what was probably some sort of engine grease. He hadn’t shaved.
She was not, absolutely not, attracted to rough, untidy men.
Usually.
“I brought you a plant.” Her tone was sharper, more impatient than she intended. Her own words came back to haunt her. No, she didn’t want to be interested in Seth Quinn.
“Yeah?” Despite her tone, he looked very pleased as he crossed over and took the pot from her. “Thanks,” he said as he studied the green leaves and little white blossoms.
“It’s a shamrock,” she told him. “Quinn. It seemed to fit.”
“Guess it does.” Then those blue eyes lifted, locked on hers. “I appreciate it.”
“Don’t let it dry out.” She glanced up. Two skylights were already installed. And he was right, she mused, they made all the difference. “You’ve been busy.”
“Hmm. Traded some time at the boatyard for some labor here. Cam’s going to give me a hand today, so we should finish up.”
“Well then.” She glanced around. After all, she reminded herself, she owned the place. She could take some interest in what went on there.
He had canvases stacked against two of the walls. An easel with a blank canvas was already set up in front of the windows. She wasn’t sure how he’d managed to muscle the enormous worktable up the stairs and through the rather narrow door, but it was plopped in the center of the room and already covered with the detritus of the artist: brushes, paints, a mason jar of turpentine, rags, pencils, chalks.
There were a couple of stools, an old wooden chair, an even older table topped by a particularly ugly lamp.
Shelves, again wood, held more painting supplies.
He’d hung nothing on the walls, she noted. There was nothing but space, tools and light.
“You seem to be settling in. I’ll let you get back to it.” But one of the propped canvases drew her. It was a wash of purple over green. A riot of wild foxglove under pearly light pulled her in so that she could almost feel the brush of leaves and petals on her skin.
“A roadside in Ireland,” he said. “County Clare. I spent a few weeks there once. Everywhere you look it’s a painting. You can never really translate it on canvas.”
“I think you have. It’s wonderful. Simple and strong. I’ve never seen foxglove growing wild on a roadside in Ireland. But now I feel I have. Isn’t that the point?”
He stared at her a moment. The morning sun speared through the skylight and streamed over her, accented the line of jaw and cheek. “Just stand there. Just stand right there,” he repeated as he swung to his worktable. “Ten minutes. Okay, I lied. Twenty tops.”
“Excuse me?”
“Just stand there. Damn it, where’s my—ah.” He scooped up a hunk of charcoal, then dragged his easel around. “No, don’t look at me. Look over there. Wait.”
He moved quickly, snatching up the painting of foxgloves, pulling out a nail from his pouch, then pounding it into the wall. “Just look at the painting.”
“I don’t have time to—”
“At the painting.” This time his voice snapped, so full of authority and impatience, she obeyed before she thought it through. “I’ll pay you for the time.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“In trade.” He was already stroking the charcoal over the canvas. “You’ve got that house by the river. You probably need things done off and on.”
“I can take care of—”
“Uh-huh, uh-huh. Tilt your chin up a little, to the right. Jesus, Jesus, this light. Relax your jaw. Be pissed off later, just let me get this.”
Who the hell was he? she wondered. He stood there, legs apart, body set like a man poised to fight. He had a tool belt slung at his hips and was sketching in charcoal as if his life depended on it.
His eyes were narrowed, so intense, so focused, that her heart jumped a little each time they whipped up and over her face.
On the stereo AC/DC was on the highway to hell. Through the open window came the cry of gulls as they swooped over the bay. Not entirely sure why she’d allowed herself to be ordered around, she stood and studied the foxgloves.
She began to see it gracing her bedroom wall.
“How much do you want for it?”
His eyebrows remained knit. “I’ll let you know when I’ve finished it.”
“No, the painting I’m staring at while I’m trying not to be annoyed with you. I’d like to buy it. You have an agent, I imagine. Should I contact him or her?”
He only grunted, not the least
interested in business at the moment, and continued to work. “Don’t move your head, just your eyes. And look at me. That’s some face, all right.”
“Yes, and I’m certainly all aflutter by your interest in it, but I have to go down and open for the day.”
“Couple more minutes.”
“Would you like to hear my opinion of people who can’t take no for an answer?”
“Not right now.” Keep her occupied, keep her talking, he thought quickly. Oh Jesus, it was perfect—the light, the face, that cool stare out of mossy green eyes. “I hear you’ve got old Mr. Gimball doing deliveries for you. How’s that working out?”
“Perfectly fine, and as he’s going to be pulling up in back very shortly—”
“He’ll wait. Mr. Gimball used to teach history when I was in middle school. He seemed ancient then, as creaky as the dead presidents he lectured about. Once some of us found this big snake skin. We brought it in and curled it up on Mr. G’s desk chair before third period.”
“I’m sure you thought that was hysterically funny.”
“Are you kidding? I was eleven. I nearly cracked a rib laughing. Didn’t you ever pull stunts like that on teachers in your private school for girls?”
“No, and why do you assume I went to a private school for girls?”
“Oh, sugar, it’s all over you.” He stepped back, nodded at the canvas. “Yeah, and it looks good on you.” He reached forward, softened a line of charcoal with his thumb before he looked over at her. “You want to call this a sitting or our second date?”
“Neither.” It took every ounce of will, but she didn’t cross over to look at what he’d drawn.
“Second date,” he decided, as he tossed the charcoal aside, absently picked up a rag to clean it off his hands. “After all, you brought me flowers.”
“A plant,” she corrected.
“Semantics. You really want the painting?”
“That would depend on how much really wanting it jacks up the price.”
“You’re pretty cynical.”
“Cynicism is underrated. Why don’t you give me your representative’s name? Then we’ll see.”
He loved the way that short, sleek hair followed the shape of her head. He wanted to do more than sketch it. He needed to paint it.
And to touch it. To run his hands over that silky, dense black until he’d know its texture in his sleep.
“Let’s do a friendly trade instead. Pose for me, and it’s yours.”
“I believe I just did.”
“No. I want you in oil.” And in watercolors. In pastels.
In bed.
He’d spent a great deal of time thinking about her over the last few days. Enough time to have concluded that a woman like her—with her looks, her background—would be used to men in active pursuit.
So he’d slowed things down, deliberately, and had waited for her to take the next step. To his way of thinking, she had. In the form of a houseplant.
He wanted her personally as much as he wanted her professionally. It didn’t matter which came first, as long as he got both.
She shifted her gaze to the painting again. It was always a pleasure, and a bit of a shock, when he saw desire in someone’s eyes when they looked at his work. Seeing it in Dru’s he knew he’d scored, professionally.
“I have a business to run,” she began.
“I’ll work around your schedule. Give me an hour in the mornings before you open when you can manage it. Four hours on Sundays.”
She frowned. It didn’t seem like so very much, when he put it like that. And oh, the painting was gorgeous. “For how long?”
“I don’t know yet.” He felt a little ripple of irritation. “It’s art, not accounting.”
“Here?”
“To start, anyway.”
She debated, argued with herself. Wished she’d never seen the damn painting. Then because it was a foolish woman who made any agreement without looking at all the terms, she walked to the easel, around the canvas. And studied her own face.
She’d expected something rough and, well, sketchy, as he’d taken no more than fifteen minutes to produce it. Instead, it was detailed and stunning—the angles, the shadows, the curves.
She looked very cool, she decided. A bit aloof and so very, very serious. Cynical? she thought and gave in to the smile that tugged at her mouth.
“I don’t look particularly friendly,” she said.
“You weren’t feeling particularly friendly.”
“Can’t argue with that. Or with the fact that you have an amazing gift.” She sighed. “I don’t have a dress with a long, full skirt and a sleeveless top.”
And he grinned. “We’ll improvise.”
“I’ll give you an hour tomorrow. Seven-thirty to eight-thirty.”
“Ouch. Okay.” He walked over, took the painting from the wall, held it out to her.
“You’re trusting.”
“Trust is underrated.”
When her hands were full, he took her arms. He gave her that slight lift again, brought her to her toes. And the door swung open.
“Nope,” Seth muttered as Cam strode in. “They never knock.”
“Hi, Dru. Kiss the girl on your own time, kid. I don’t smell any coffee.” Obviously at home, he went toward the kitchen, then spotted the canvas. His face lit with pure delight. “Easiest fifty I ever made. I bet Phil Seth here would talk you into posing before the week was up.”
“Oh, really?”
“No offense. Rembrandt here wants to paint something, he finds a way. He’d be a fool to pass up the chance to do that,” he added, and the look on his face when he studied the canvas again was so filled with pride, she softened. “He’s a pain in the ass half the time, but he’s no fool.”
“I’m aware of the pain-in-the-ass factor. I’ll reserve judgment on whether or not he’s a fool until I get to know him better. Seven-thirty,” she said to Seth on her way out. “That’s A.M.”
Cam said nothing, just laid a beat with an open hand on his heart.
“Kiss ass.”
“So, are you going to paint her, or poke at her?” Cam hooted out a laugh at Seth’s vicious snarl. “What goes around comes around, kid. You spent a lot of time being disgusted at the idea of us poking at girls—as you put it—not so long ago.”
“Since it is more than fifteen years that’s not so long ago in your mind, it proves you’re really getting old. Sure you should go up on the roof? Might have a spell up there and fall off.”
“I can still kick your ass, kid.”
“Sure. With Ethan and Phil holding me down, you might have a shot at taking me.” He laughed when Cam caught him in a headlock. “Oh man, now I’m scared.”
But they both remembered a time he would have been, when a skinny, smart-mouthed young boy would have frozen with terror at a touch, rough or gentle.
Knowing it, remembering it, Seth nearly blurted out the trouble he was keeping so tightly locked in the far corner of his mind.
No, he’d handled it, he told himself. And would handle it again, if and when.
* * *
HE was a man of his word. When the last of the skylights was in place, he followed Cam to the boatyard to put in a few hours.
Once, he’d thought he’d make his living here, working side by side with his brothers building wooden sailing vessels. The fact was, some of his best memories were tucked inside the old brick building, flavored with his sweat, a little blood and the thrill of learning to be a part of something.
It had changed over the years. Refined, as Phillip would say. The walls were no longer bare and patched drywall, but painted a simple, workingman’s white.
They’d fashioned a sort of entryway that opened to the stairs leading to Phillip’s office and the second-story loft. It separated, in theory, the m
ain work area.
Lining the walls were rough-framed sketches of various boats built by Quinn over the years. They depicted the progress of the business, and the growth of the artist.
He knew, because Aubrey had told him, that an art collector had come in two years before and offered his brothers a quarter million for the fifty sketches currently on display.
They’d turned him down flat, but had offered to build him a boat based on any sketch he liked.
It had never been about money, he thought now, though there had been some lean times during those first couple years. It had always been about the unit. And a promise made to Ray Quinn.
The work area itself hadn’t changed very much. It was still a big, echoing, brightly lit space. There were pulleys and winches hanging from the ceiling. Saws, benches, stacks of lumber, the smell of freshly sawn wood, linseed oil, sweat, coffee, the boom of rock and roll, the buzz of power saws, the lingering scent of onions from someone’s lunchtime sub.
It was all as familiar to him as his own face.
Yes, once he’d thought he’d spend his life working there, listening to Phillip bitch about unpaid invoices, watching Ethan’s patient hands lapping wood, sweating with Cam as they turned a hull.
But art had consumed it. The love of it had taken him away from boyhood ambitions. And had, for a time, taken him from his family.
He was a man now, he reminded himself. A man who would stand on his own ground, fight his own battles and be what it was he was meant to be.
Nothing, no one, was going to stop him.
“You plan on standing there with your thumb up your ass much longer?” Cam asked him. “Or are we going to get some work out of you this afternoon?”
Seth shook himself back to the present. “Doesn’t look like you need me,” he pointed out.
He spotted Aubrey working on the deck planking of a skiff, her electric screwdriver whirling. She wore an Orioles fielder’s cap with her long tail of hair pulled through the back. Ethan was at the lathe, turning a mast with his faithful dog sprawled at his feet.
“Hull of that skiff needs to be caulked and filled.”