Body Art
Robie Madison
Blush sensuality level: This is a sensual romance (may have explicit love scenes, but not erotic in frequency or type).
Checklist for a journey of rediscovery: her body, his hands…and a tube of paint.
Almost a year ago, fifty-something high school shop teacher Cass McCarthy heard the one word no one ever wants to hear. She’s a survivor—but that’s all she’s doing. Somewhere along the way she’s lost touch with her body and herself. But then a chance encounter at an art exhibit leads her to the doorstep of the one man who can help. Evan is tall, intense and determined to get her naked. If she can trust his artistic vision and put her body in his hands, maybe they both will have a chance to rediscover the healing power of love.
A Blush® contemporary romance from Ellora’s Cave
Body Art
Robie Madison
Chapter One
“Would you like a glass of champagne?”
Reluctantly Cass McCarthy turned away from the sculpture she’d been mentally taking apart piece by piece. The artist had created a giant park bench from old truck and car bumpers. The sturdy, slightly battered metal kind, not the crap composite bumpers used on vehicles today. Nah, this bench had character. Gave the trendy Toronto art gallery character.
A young woman, dressed in form-fitting black pants and a white halter-style tuxedo shirt complete with pleats and a black bowtie, stood in front of her, holding a circular tray laden with half a dozen slender glasses of bubbly. Cass automatically lifted her hand to reach for one of the graceful, fluted stems when her visual cortex did a reboot.
The waitress serving her drinks was naked.
Cass didn’t want to be rude. But the waitress was standing naked in a crowded room, for God’s sake. So it wasn’t as if she didn’t expect people to look. Right?
So Cass looked.
“You can touch if you want,” the waitress said. She shifted the tray out of harm’s way and took a tiny step forward as if in invitation.
So Cass touched.
And fascinated by the way her fingertips glided along the smooth warmth of the waitress’s real skin. Dipped down and confirmed what her eyes were now telling her—a second skin. Now that she knew what to look for, she could see it quite clearly.
The fine line at the edge of the halter-style shirt, where it met the exposed skin of the waitress’ shoulders and arms—and, Cass imagined, her back—broke the optical illusion. The tux—the pants, the pleats, the bowtie—had all been painted on the waitress’s otherwise unclothed body.
“You are supposed to be admiring the artwork, not ogling the help.”
Synithia Smith, the statuesque owner of the CopperSmith Gallery, seized two glasses of champagne from the naked waitress’s tray and handed one to Cass.
“I thought I was,” Cass said. “Admiring the artwork, that is.”
Reluctantly she accepted the flute of bubbly and even took a sip. What she really wanted was to study the paint job to see how such a lifelike illusion had been created. But that would probably, definitely, make her an ogler.
Synithia’s crimson lips twitched with amusement, letting Cass know her friend hadn’t missed the teeny-tiny hesitation.
“Is it just me or is it very warm in here?” Cass asked, though these days the question wasn’t so much an overused joke as an extreme inconvenience.
For almost a year, very warm flashes had been wreaking havoc on her wardrobe choices and her sleep. Of course, this wasn’t the first time, not by a long shot, that Synithia had caught her trying to deconstruct a piece of art either.
“Not warm enough, if you ask me,” the waitress said with wink. “There’s a draft every time someone opens the front door.”
Cass laughed outright. It was an unexpectedly good feeling. Synithia’s lips twitched, but the gallery owner retained her legendary poise.
“Cass, Danielle,” she said with a slight wave of her hand. “Danielle, my dear friend Cass McCarthy.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Cass said.
“I take it you’ve never seen a body painting before.” Danielle slowly pirouetted, allowing Cass to see the extent of the amazingly detailed paint job covering the woman’s skin.
“Just some face painting at fairs. Nothing so—”
“Liberating,” Danielle said with another one of her winks.
Cass shook her head ever so slightly.
“You don’t believe me, but it’s true.” Danielle checked over her shoulder then leaned forward. “I get to be very naughty while pretending to look nice.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Cass said, unable to hide the hint of sarcasm in her tone. A sure sign she was feeling defensive. She might have been born in the sixties, but she couldn’t imagine being so exposed—putting herself out there with only a coat of paint between herself and the world.
“Another way of putting it is that you’re still fascinated by my body—art, that is.”
It was clear from Danielle’s tone that she was challenging Cass, but in a friendly manner. Caught out, Cass shrugged, unable to deny the charge.
“And it’s time I got back to work. The champagne will probably last longer than this, ah, outfit. Nice to meet you too, Cass.”
The waitress walked away with a sultry sway to her hips.
To lighten what had turned into an awkward moment, at least for her, Cass clinked her glass against Synithia’s.
“Definitely admiring the artwork,” she said, and it wasn’t a lie.
Only Synithia gave her a look. The amusement gone, replaced by speculation. Always a dangerous word when associated with her friend.
“Welcome to Urban Life,” Synithia said after a long, silent moment, keeping any other ideas to herself.
Urban Life was Synithia’s brainchild—a provocative exhibit that represented both a range of media and artists, many from the Toronto west-end art scene. This afternoon’s pre-opening-night event was by invitation only and, entirely understandable given the naked waitress wandering around serving champagne, adult only.
“Urban Life with a well-honed sense of humor,” Cass said, nodding toward the park bench she’d been examining only moments before.
A discreet plaque bolted onto one of the bumpers read Road Kill.
“You like it?” Synithia asked, and something in her voice told Cass this was more than a polite, casual question.
It was Cass’ turn to give her friend the look. The little red dress Synithia wore was showcased to the best advantage by her mocha-colored skin and a chunky silver necklace. She looked good, but then, this was her show and she always dressed the part when it was show time.
“Anything I should know about?” Cass asked.
“Maybe,” Synithia said then obviously thought better of her answer and shook her head. “Too soon to tell.”
“Okay. And are you kidding? Of course I like. My grade eleven shop class—”
“Would be all over the project.”
“Begging me for a field trip to a wrecker.”
Cass walked the length of the sculpture, confirming her impression. She glanced toward the front door.
“Constructed on-site. Eight bumpers. Probably close to sixty-four carriage bolts. Definitely doable.”
“Oh good heavens,” Synithia said, grabbed Cass’ arm and forced her deeper into the mingling crowd. “Can’t you ever look at a piece of art without dissecting its components?”
“No.”
“Art is meant to be experienced viscerally. Create an emotional reaction, not a deep desire to play with power tools.”
“Hey, I love my power tools.”
“Here, take a look at this painting and tell me what you feel.”
Cass halted and stared at the painting hanging
on the wall in front of her. What she saw was a wobbly orange line across a white canvas. That was it.
Anyone could draw a wobbly orange line. Heck, her four-year-old great-niece drew fantastic wobbly lines in all sorts of colors. She kept that observation to herself though because apparently this particular wobbly orange line was good enough to hang in the CopperSmith Gallery.
Beside her, Synithia shifted slightly. “You’re looking good.”
Cass was quite proud of the fact that she did not own a little dress black, red or any other color. Instead, she boasted a modest collection of smart, tailored dress pants. Today she’d paired her favorite pinstripes with a dressy black cardigan.
Her “thanks” was understated but heartfelt. Synithia had definitely been there for her all those months ago when she’d needed someone.
“How are you feeling?”
“Good.”
“Cass. I’ve been so damn busy getting this show organized—”
“I see a horizon,” Cass said before Synithia embarrassed them both.
“What?”
“You asked me to look at the painting. I see a horizon.”
Synithia sighed. “I asked you to tell me what you feel, not what you see.”
“Yes, well, I see a horizon. A sunset, maybe,” Cass persisted, because when she stared at that wobbly orange line, it made her think.
“I see a future,” she said. All the things she hadn’t been sure she’d see again or have.
“Filled with power tools and schematics for your latest project, no doubt,” Synithia said, turning to survey the crowd.
Cass laughed. “Definitely. And shouldn’t you circulate? Work your magic.”
“Definitely.” Synithia pulled Cass in for a hug. “We’ll do lunch when this craziness is over,” she whispered before making a beeline toward a couple discussing a figurine made from twisted pieces of scrap metal.
Cass continued to circulate the exhibit, dismembering the sculptures and paying scant attention to the abstract paintings. Sharing her thoughts about a wobbly orange line was about as deep as she wanted to go for one day.
It took her awhile to reach the far corner of the massive gallery, which was overtaken by a piece of installation art that Synithia had evidently commissioned for the exhibit. Unhelpfully titled Perspective, it seemed to be a maze of giant icicles hung from the ceiling by chains and oscillating like pendulums when touched or deliberately pushed. Cass sidestepped one of the huge cones when it swayed toward her, unsure if she wanted to join the visitors who were wandering through the labyrinth. And caught a glimpse of her body totally distorted by the motion and the mix of convex and concave mirrors that covered the conical surface.
Within seconds, and without being wholly conscious of what she was doing, she was standing on the sidewalk outside the gallery. The April afternoon was blustery, but Cass didn’t care about the leaves and litter swirling past her. She was shrugging into her leather jacket when Synithia arrived beside her. Probably no more than a minute or two had passed since her ungracefully hasty exit from the gallery.
“I’m going to be okay,” Cass said, but at that moment she realized that she didn’t believe her own PR.
“Not if you keep building things instead of fixing yourself.”
“The surgeon did that.” And took out half her insides in the process, or at least that’s what it felt like, since Synithia was so keen about how Cass felt.
“No, the surgeon made sure the cancer was gone and that you had a fighting chance that it won’t come back. But that means you need to fight, Cass.”
Synithia should know. She was Exhibit A when it came to fighting back and not just surviving but thriving. Cass shook her head because she didn’t know how, mostly because she didn’t know what was wrong with her. Recovering from the surgery had been challenging and tiring. She’d persevered, taken naps and slowly her energy and stamina had returned. But somewhere along the way, she’d lost touch with herself.
“I think I’ll take a walk before catching the subway home,” she said. “Clear my head.” Of these crazy thoughts would be nice.
“Good idea. Here,” Synithia said.
“What’s this?”
Synithia had written an address on the back of one of her business cards.
“Cass, it is liberating. Think about it, okay?”
“Okay,” Cass said, not at all sure what she’d just agreed to.
About twenty minutes later, her thoughts were quite precise.
Synithia, this is definitely one of your crazier ideas, because there is absolutely no way…
Only she didn’t walk away. What she did was loiter across the street, huddled in her coat, hands jammed into the pockets—thankful for the double loop of her infinity scarf that kept the chilly wind at bay—and stared at a renovated strip of brick buildings. Or more precisely, the third building with a large rectangular sign above the door that read Body Art.
* * * * *
“I’m in the back,” a deep male voice said from behind a wall made of frosted glass blocks.
Cass had more or less convinced herself that the place wouldn’t be open this late on a Saturday afternoon. That she’d be forced to duck into the attractive café two doors over for a cup of tea before heading home.
She’d had the entire scenario worked out as she’d walked across the street and tried the door. Which now swished closed behind her, after apparently triggering some sort of silent security alert, making it impossible to slip out and ignore the unexpected invitation.
She did ignore the coatrack mounted on the wall beside the door and pretended she didn’t see the sign asking visitors to remove their footwear. Still bundled against the cold, she skirted the empty reception area, walked around the corner and came face-to-face with another frosted-glass block wall.
This one created a privacy partition between the foyer and the back, which meant she couldn’t see the room and that the male with the deep voice couldn’t yet see her. She hesitated before walking around the divider and into a modestly spacious room.
The sense of space was probably deceptive and largely created by the fact that most of the room was empty. Still, Cass immediately liked what she saw. An exposed-brick wall added texture, polished pine floors and subtle track lighting added the warmth. A few light stands and a box labeled Photo Equipment occupied the far left corner. Farther along the outside wall, a couple of mirrors sat propped against the brick, waiting to be mounted. Finally, to her right, three crappy tables that looked as if they’d been rescued from a basement were set up along the far wall. Boxes and bins were stacked under and beside them.
A tall—Cass estimated six feet—bald man wearing jeans and a black T-shirt, no shoes, stood at the far end of the room in front of one of the tables sorting photos.
She rested one shoulder against the glass wall. Synithia wanted feelings. Well, Cass felt a smile teasing her lips, this time she was definitely ogling. Interested as she’d been by Danielle’s body-painted tux, the male form was a far more fascinating subject. And from the back, the bald man was very fascinating.
He had nice lines.
Sleek.
Honed.
Taut.
His movements were clean. Economical.
His ass looked great framed by the faded denim.
And was there anything sexier than a man in bare feet?
“Took you long enough to get here,” he said and she jumped, a little startled at the interruption to her thoughts.
He hadn’t turned around when she’d walked in. And she realized she’d just assumed he hadn’t been aware of her standing there. Ogling him. A silly notion since he’d invited her into his space.
He still didn’t turn around but set about gathering up the photos. “What did you do, take the long way?”
This time she paid attention to what he was saying.
“Oh I think you’re expecting someone else.”
He tossed the photos into a banker’s box tucked undern
eath the table then stooped to put the lid on before he turned toward her. Silence ensued as he looked her over.
And she continued to ogle him. Because he looked remarkably nice from the front too. He appeared to be a few years younger than she, which put him in his late forties. But a late forties enhanced by good genetics and exercise—well-defined pecs under that tee, an admirable not-quite-six-pack—and he wore a diamond stud in his left ear.
“Nope,” he finally said. “Pretty sure I’m expecting you. Syn said you’d be right over.”
“Sin?”
“Not any of the seven deadly ones,” he said. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”
For the second time that day, Cass’ brain needed a reboot to get it into gear.
“Oh you mean—”
“Synithia Smith, owner of the CopperSmith Gallery over on Queen Street.”
The man padded toward her like a big cat on the prowl. His feet didn’t make a sound on the hardwood floor, which only enhanced the impression that he was stalking prey.
That he was stalking her.
Cass swallowed. Wondered if she was totally misreading the signals.
“I know. I was just at her art gallery.”
“Good, glad we got that cleared up,” he said and stuck out his hand. “I’m Evan.”
Got what cleared up?
Cass shook her head slightly, trying to clear it, looked down and realized that she still held her gloves in her left hand. She didn’t remember taking them off, but since it was gloveless and free, she put her right hand in his.
“Cass. Cass McCarthy.”
His hand was big and firm and warm. Then he took one small step forward. Invaded her personal space and backed her into the glass wall. She was acutely conscious that he didn’t let go of her hand. That the move forced her to look up because he towered above her. Surrounded her—enticed her—with his masculine scent.
And just like that, the polite greeting turned into something far more intimate. Unexpected. She caught her breath at the blast of heat radiating off his body.
“Breathe,” he whispered, his voice so low she wasn’t sure he’d actually spoken.
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