* * *
The Internet offered few details about Cobb's work. I needed to visit Chicago's Art Institute to do some research.
In the morning, out in front of the museum, I rubbed the paw of one of the lions. "Wish me luck," I whispered to the stoic predator and hurried up the stairs.
Once inside, I cheated and asked a docent to direct me to the Contemporary Art section. He pointed at a tour group, and I followed them. We entered a large foyer. The guide began to speak, and I saw my chance to escape.
Farther down the hall and to the left, two canvases took up an entire wall. First, a nude woman reclined on her back. Her lush black hair splayed on the pillow beneath her, her right hand laid in the tangles—eyes half closed, her lush lips pursed, her left hand limp against her side, her knees pulled together and slightly bent. Her whole body sated. She just had great sex. The plaque beside it read, "Satisfied by Benjamin Nance Cobb."
No doubt.
Next, a woman sitting on a bed, her back positioned toward the artist, the sway of her hip revealed the top of her butt, her arms and legs crossed in front of her, a hint of right breast showed, her face in profile, her eyes glanced over her shoulder, and her blonde hair mussed. I read the plaque, "Anticipation by Benjamin Nance Cobb."
How about Striptease for Benjamin Nance Cobb?
The paintings carried the same message: goddesses with an attitude. Power radiated from them. They owned the men who sought to possess them. Confident in their appearance and sexuality, the viewer of the portrait felt like an intruder, stumbling into the intimate setting. The discomfort was for the outsider looking in. I imagined being free not to care about others' opinions, living by one's own rules. Easier said than done.
A small blurb about the artist hung on the wall. I didn't get much passed his age, thirty-five, because next to it a photograph almost stopped my heart. The man himself glared at the camera. Not a posed shot, one stolen on the street by paparazzi. Black hair, ice blue eyes, nose and chin chiseled like a bust of a Roman god.
I stumbled away a little shaken by the portrait of the reaper of women.
Would I be released by my editor from this assignment? No. Would I gain the self-confidence required for public nudity in two days? Double no. Would my sisters ever let me forget I chickened out? Triple-dog no.
Not only my likeness would be captured, Cobb might prove capable of reaching down and finding my true self, ready to be exposed. Could this opportunity remake me into one of those women proudly displaying their attributes to the world? Was I willing to risk all for a taste of confidence like my sisters wore every day?
The new expressive me lay trapped inside the old mousy me. Where there was a will, there was a way, but no graceful way out.
I dodged my sisters' phone calls and focused all good karma on Wednesday. I arrived early for my exhibition; I mean appointment to a nondescript building with no sign or address, no names on the mailboxes. Subtle message, if you weren't invited, you shouldn't be here. I pressed the doorbell, heard footsteps coming to the door, and prayed I wouldn't faint.
The imposing oak door swung in, and the grail of my quest stood before me. The men of my dreams were book boyfriends. Men conjured up from another woman's imagination who yielded to her will. All were tall, muscular, ruggedly handsome, and smelled wonderful. Like them, this guy was all those myths come to life. Now I'd add a few revisions to include sparkling blue eyes enticing me to jump into those pools for a slow swim, full lips, and thighs like tree trunks. Forget breeders' hips, the sight of Benjamin Nance Cobb made my ovaries explode. He assessed me up and down then smiled. A slight dimple formed on his unshaven cheek. A kiss would fit perfectly on that indentation.
"I'm," he hesitated and stared at me.
He knew I was a fraud. Who would believe I was a model?
"I'm sorry, I'm Ben Cobb," he said, pushing the door all the way open to the wall. "You must be from the agency."
"Yes, I'm the model."
Of what, I didn't know.
"You look familiar. Have you posed for print ads?" His cordial tone sounded as if he had just parked my car.
"No."
What if he asked to see some credentials or my portfolio? I should have taken Eleanor's crazy advice about head shots or shots to the head. Right now, I was a bit confused as my fear and flight impulses beat against my brain. As a result, I stayed put and proceeded in. I didn't dare speak again, my voice hid under the covers, waiting for me to come to my senses.
"The changing room is to the right, I mean your left. There's a robe in there on the wall. On a hook on the wall. No, it's on the door," he said as he scratched the back of his head. "I apologize. I'm sure you're a professional and can figure it out."
Professional fraud at the moment.
"No problem, I'll find it." I strolled down a hallway.
Was he upset or nervous? Did I scare him? He probably thought, "How am I supposed to work with her?" Should I apologize in advance?
I found an open pink door. It was more of a renovated closet with a full-length mirror, an embroidered chair, and an ornate hook on the back of the door with a flimsy yellow robe attached.
I bit my lower lip as I began to undress. I tried to focus on why I put myself in this situation: a career boost and a chance to get in good with the new bosses. I forgot about impressing my sisters, they would be questioning my sanity about now.
Getting him to talk presented the ultimate challenge.
"So why do you paint nudes?"
"Do you pay them or do they pay you?"
"I'm a fan of your mom's work."
Helen Nance Cobb's books were special to me. They reminded me of my childhood before my parents died. Adele's Armoire, Benjamin's Bike, Celeste's Closet, and Daniel's Dugout were the first four books I could read by myself. Prose and illustrations represented all twenty-six letters.
A soft knock at the door brought me back to the present. I gripped the back of the chair.
"Is everything all right in there?" he asked.
"I'm coming."
If I shook anymore, I could make a smoothie. Yesterday I waxed, exfoliated, moisturized, and steamed myself. I wished I could pump up my courage too. Exhaling slowly, I opened the door to meet my new outlook on life or die trying.
The floor creaked as I ambled toward the easel where he stood, cleaning brushes.
"Where do you want me?" I asked as my fist clutched the robe shut.
He stared at me again. I must be the most hideous specimen to ever pose for him.
"When you're ready, take off the robe, and lay on your stomach on the pillows," he said, offering a slight smile.
I cautiously strolled over and sat on the floor with my back to the wall.
If a guy jumped out with a camera and yelled "Smile," I wouldn't be surprised. Being caught at the most embarrassing moment of my life made perfect sense right now.
"How long have you been a model, Miss?" he asked, shifting the canvas on the easel.
"I'm Alexia Hale. I've been modeling for two years."
Did it sound believable? Should I have used a fake name?
"Only with Perkins?"
"Yes."
Who or what was Perkins?
"I'm surprised they didn't send you earlier. I've asked for a variety of women, especially without endowments. Sorry, I mean a woman with natural beauty."
"My works takes me out of the country."
My nose was about to go Pinocchio on me, and he noticed my breasts. My nipples hardened up and rubbed against the polyester blend. Traitors.
"Where?" he asked.
"Paris, Vienna, Stockholm, and Hawaii."
All the places I would love to visit.
"Busy girl. Photography or painting?"
"Both."
This one didn't count as a lie. I liked taking pictures, and I finger painted in kindergarten.
"Are you ready to start?" he asked.
I let the robe slide off of me and flopped on the pillows. He di
dn't flinch or move for three full minutes. He absorbed me into those piercing blue eyes.
"Excuse me," he said as he hurried away.
The sight of the nude me made him vomit. I stood, wrapped the robe around my shoulders, and sprinted toward the dressing room. I'd grab my clothes and dress on the sidewalk. He must be calling the agency to complain, and they would out me as a fraud.
He rounded the corner and almost knocked me to the floor. The robe swirled around my legs and landed in a puddle at my feet. My right arm went across my chest and my left hand fanned over my womanhood.
"Beautiful," he said under his breath as he swept my hair back behind my ear.
Me? I shivered from his touch. This was why the women looked enraptured in his paintings. They had sex with him before they posed. That would blow the wind in my sails, definitely a step out of character for me.
"Excuse me, I'm being totally unprofessional," he said as he leaned down, retrieved my robe, and handed it to me. "If you're uncomfortable staying and want to leave, I'll understand."
"No, I'm fine," I said as I fumbled with the robe, trying to put it on.
"Okay, let's get started."
I followed him back to the studio and pretended he didn't stir me up. I couldn't comment on my effect on him as I resettled by the pillows. The robe melted off me this time because I wanted him to see me.
"Please support yourself on your elbows," he said.
I stopped trembling, pushed up, and glanced at him.
"Like this, Mr. Cobb?" My voice squeaked.
"I'm Ben. Mr. Cobb is my worthless father," he swallowed hard, grabbed the back of his neck, and pressed down.
I touched a raw nerve.
"Look at me." he said. I only shifted my eyeballs, afraid to move anything else. "I'm going to tell you when to change your facial expressions like be happy, pensive, sleepy, or sad, understand?"
"Yes."
"Please follow my directions, and don't speak or move."
The artist had arrived and was all business. Time for me to do the same.
He hadn't even picked up a brush yet. He slowly surveyed me, back and forth. Finally, he grabbed the palette and put a scowl on his face: cold, stern, and unflinching. I shivered and licked my top lip with the tip of my tongue.
My lips got dry when I felt nervous or afraid or totally freaked out.
"Don't move, I have to concentrate on you," he said in a low voice.
I nailed myself to the floor, only changing when he spoke. I didn't budge for two hours. I cleared my mind to stop all involuntary movement. My nose itched, but I didn't dare scratch it. Other body parts itched too. Maybe I broke out into hives. Could those be power washed out of a painting?
Ben's gaze penetrated my skin. I knew where he focused all the time. When he surveyed my legs, they tingled. My breasts swelled and my nipples were on full alert when he moved up my body. My face burned and, when our gaze met, he entranced me. Classic features chiseled in granite: an edged face, sharp cuts for his chin, his jaw, and his cheeks. A bust of a soldier or emperor, all nobility, power, and masculinity personified. Too much male for me. Perhaps I could take small doses of him until I built up immunity.
"Time for a ten-minute break. Do you want a drink?" he asked as he wandered away to the kitchen.
"Yes, please."
My whole body ached as I snatched the robe and had it back on before he returned. He handed me a water bottle and strolled back to the kitchen. I took a big sip, spilling some on the lapel.
Alexia Hale, the epitome of grace and charm.
As I drank slower the second time, I surveyed my surroundings. I'd been so nervous when I'd arrived that the studio hadn't registered with me. Then for two hours, I'd stared at him. Stunning view of intensity, creativity, and raw male.
The workspace had Spartan-white walls filled with blank canvasses of all shapes, leaning on them. An avocado green refrigerator gurgled in the corner. He stood by the fridge, drinking a cup of coffee, with his back to me.
Forget waiter butts, his butt kicked ass. Give me a man poured into a pair of well-worn jeans. I was a sucker for lust at first sight. I used to believe in love, but the last guy I fell for mooched eight thousand dollars off of me. He cleaned me out with a sob story about his widowed sister and her two adorable children needing emergency roof repairs. He showed me a picture, plucking my heartstrings. I paid him in cash and kissed both of them goodbye. He disconnected his phone, abandoned his apartment, and left me holding an empty bank account.
I lied and told my sisters I broke it off. They knew nurturing was my weak spot. Weren't men helpless and in search of a home-cooked meal? Not the guy in front of me. A true hunter of women. Was I about to be bagged and mounted on a trophy wall?
He must have sensed my gaze and turned to me. I quickly looked beyond him to a door ajar in the back, probably the bathroom. A stripped double bed on the other side of the room looked worn out. Bet it could tell some wicked stories. He sauntered toward me. I peeked up at the glass ceiling, an endless skylight, which flooded natural light into the room.
Who washed the windows? Wonder if he worked today and enjoyed the show?
It was now or never for the interview.
"I loved your mother's books," I said in my cheery voice. "I had all of them when I was a child. My parents read them to me every night before I went to bed. I memorized them and recited them too. After my parents died, my sisters and I split them up. I have A through G."
He made no response.
Should I keep talking? Maybe he wanted to get back to work.
I put down the water bottle and scooted back to the pillows. My hands were on the robe's belt when he spoke.
"I have a few sets of the original printing. Of course I keep them under lock and key. The set I received as a child was trashed years ago. Her books were the first ones I could read all by myself."
He sat next to me by the pillows, sipping his coffee. His knee inches away from my hip. I loved the cadence of his voice, deep and strong. The heat flowing off of him engulfed me. Hot puckered lips enclosed around the cold ceramic cup. I envied that mug and needed to stop drooling.
"I'd like to get started again," he said as he stood.
I waited for him to saunter back to the canvas before I disrobed. It was easier removing my robe the third time. Resuming my position, I didn't shake. Maybe public exhibition should be my next profession. That thought made me shudder.
Another hour flew by. He quizzed me on his mother's books. My knowledge of them exceeded his because I stumped him on the color of Frank's eyes.
"Yellow," he said.
"Gold because of the firelight they had absorbed," I said.
"Damn, you're good," he said, sounding impressed.
I may not be up on current events, but I owned children's literature trivia.
Another hour and he put down his brush.
"I'm done," he said.
"All right."
I inched the robe over and slipped it on. I stood stiffly, trudged back to the changing room, and closed the door. My black skirt made my legs too pale, and my white tank top molded to me. Too warm in here to put my red jacket on without leaving sweat stains.
I checked myself out in the mirror. Slightly mussed, but not too shabby for someone who had spent four naked hours with a gorgeous man.
I grabbed my purse, not realizing I'd left it open. The contents blew all over the floor. I picked up bus tokens, used tissues, dry cleaner receipts, and tampons. Shoving everything in and bracing the purse between my knees, I zipped it closed. I opened the door and darted out to make a quick exit.
He stood before the painting, studying it. He glanced over at me and smiled.
Those pearly whites coupled with the dimple were a siren's song. What wouldn't a woman do to please him?
"Do you want to see yourself?" he asked.
Not especially, but to refuse would be rude. I padded over and peered around the huge canvas. Didn't he own any Mona Lisa
sized ones?
It was only my face. I should say, several poses of my face. Why did I have to be nude for him to sketch my face? Was this how the other portraits started or did he survey my body and reject it, planning to Photoshop my head on the next model? I was thrilled and hurt not to see my nudity captured for eternity.
"So what do you think?" he asked.
Before I could ask where the rest of me was, I bumped into the easel, caught my heel on a table, and caused a plastic water jar to tremble. He leaned over in an attempt to catch it. Too late. The water spilled all over his shirt.
"I'm sorry," I said.
"Don't worry about it."
He picked up the bottom of his T-shirt and slowly lifted it over his head. He dropped the shirt to the floor. Ripples of hard-toned muscle lined his abdomen and black curly hair splayed across his chest. For the first time in my life, I praised my clumsiness.
I had to leave before I licked him up, down, and around like a melting ice cream cone.
"I better go before I trash the place. I meant what I said about your mother's books."
"Thanks, she was a great writer," he said, leading me to the door. "I need you to come back. Have the agency call me with your schedule."
"Sure."
I didn't interview him yet. Dare I try another round of nudity for the sake of my resume?
"I enjoyed working with you. I'm sorry if I came off a bit harsh. I zone out when I paint and forget all about common courtesy." He opened the door and leaned on it.
"No problem, honored to be here."
I offered him my hand. He raised it to his lips, and softly kissed it. I put it to my cheek as I glided out the door.
A quick flash made me think lightning would strike me down for lying and lusting, but there wasn't a cloud in the sky. I must be hallucinating and hope I never stop.
I floated to the corner and hailed a cab.
"Chicago News Building please," I said to the driver.
My lack of an interview put my day in perspective. I could describe his studio, his demeanor, and my modeling experience, but I didn't get him to answer questions about himself. A few hours of fantasy would cost me dearly. I had become a liar, a loose woman with no shame, and, soon, no job. He probably called the modeling agency by now and thanked them for the face, next time send a suitable body. Although he was nice when I left. He even apologized for taking his profession seriously and kissed my hand.
Spicing Up Trouble: a romantic comedy Page 2