Read Loving Grace for Free Online

“A friend of mine
suggested it, after attending your first show.”
    He was holding a glass of red wine and
nodded, took a sip, and glanced from the piece to her. His silken
voice continued. “What do you do for a living?”
    She flushed, and lied again. “I’m job hunting
at the moment. Downsizing and all.” Oh God, Grace thought, why
won’t my brain function?
    He seemed to look her over, slowly, from head
to toe. “Have you done any modeling?”
    She laughed, nearly choking.
    “Not fashion.” He shook his head causing
those jet curls to move against his shoulders. “I suppose from that
flush, you haven’t?”
    “Of course not.”
    His brow went up again. “Why not? Of
course...”
    “The obvious reasons. I’m not exactly the
type.”
    “For an artist, there is no type, only
inspiration.” He gestured toward the paintings. “Very few of those
women model for a living. Many live ordinary lives.”
    She noticed he wore a black mock turtleneck
in some ribbed material and black slacks. However, it was her turn
to arch a brow. “They’re quite beautiful.”
    His smile was part indulgent, part smug. “Are
they? Tell me, how many actual faces did you see in the
paintings?”
    That gave Grace pause. She thought back with
some surprise. “Only three...out of a dozen.”
    His eyes were very mahogany, velvety as they
looked into hers. “One should look at a painting and see something
new, feel it, every time their eyes move over the canvas. When
clients buy art, they do so because it moves them in some visceral
way.”
    “Or it’s simply a good investment.”
    He laughed, short and quiet, and Grace felt
her stomach tighten with some sensual tension that nearly had her
shaking. “I’m sorry, that was rude, and insulting.”
    “Not at all.” He studied her, still half
smiling. “I enjoy a challenge.”
    “Challenge?”
    “Mmm.” His gaze seemed to pierce deeper. “An
artist is, at times, obsessed with capturing what he sees on
canvas, but the mind is ten times more creative than the hand
holding the brush. He is driven to portray the imagery...” He
paused, “It isn’t the actual reflection of the pose or scenery he’s
using, rather that inspires him, and his mind captures it, enhances
and expounds on it, until he is beset with thoughts of putting that
image on the canvas, breathing life into it, and making it real,
touchable. Hopefully evoking a response from those who see it.”
    “You’ve done that.”
    He shrugged. “To some, but not you, I
think.”
    “Not at all. I didn’t mean—”
    “I’m challenged,” he cut her off
thoughtfully, “by the fact that you see a perfect reflection rather
than the essence—”
    “I said I know little of art.” Grace winced,
wanting to sink through the floor. “I’m not really into it, but I
think your work is beautiful.”
    He smiled again, shaking his head, looking
into her eyes.
    “What?” She had to ask. “I’m really sorry.
Excuse me.” She stepped around him, wanting to leave, to
cringe...and hide out...for the next year.
    His hand came out and lightly detained her by
a hold on her arm. “Would you model for me?”
    Grace almost dropped the glass. So hard did
she clutch the stem, she thought she’d snap it in two.
“Uh..I...Uh...” Oh, shit! She couldn’t think.
    He set the wineglass on a small ledge and
reached in his pocket. Handing her a card. “I pay well.”
    She took it, her hand trembling and her
stomach in knots. “I’m not exactly right for… for what you do.”
    He disagreed then asked smoothly, “What is
your name?”
    She lied again, her mind darting in every
direction while she thought of one. “Jane,” she said, and then
looked at his shirt. “Blackstone.”
    “Jane...” He frowned slightly and moved his
gaze over her face.
    She quipped, “Plain old Jane.”
    He smiled, but his eyes still looked
puzzled.
    Grace knew she had to make her escape before
she created more disaster. “I’m flattered, truly