Chesapeake Blue (Chesapeake Bay Saga 4) - Page 10

  Talked to himself, Dru noted. Well, it wasn't so odd, really. She held entire conversations with herself in her head. "The kitchen—" Dru began.

  "Doesn't matter." Frowning, he stared up at the ceiling, his gaze so intense and focused she found herself staring up with him.

  After a few seconds of standing there, silent, staring up, she felt ridiculous. "Is there a problem with the ceiling? I was assured the roof was sound, and I know it doesn't leak."

  "Uh-huh. Any objection to skylights—put in at my expense?"

  "I… well, I don't know. I suppose—"

  "It would work."

  He wandered the room again, placing his canvases, his paints, his easel, a worktable for sketching, shelves for supplies and equipment. Have to put in a sofa, or a bed, he thought. Better a bed in case he worked late enough to just flop down for the night.

  "It's a good space," he said at length. "With the skylights, it'll work. I'll take it."

  She reminded herself that she hadn't actually agreed to the skylights. But then again, she couldn't find any reason to object to them. "That was quick, as advertised. Don't you want to see the kitchen, the bathroom?"

  "They got everything kitchens and bathrooms are supposed to have?"

  "Yes. No tub, just a shower stall."

  "I'm not planning on taking too many bubble baths." He moved back to the front windows again. "Prime view."

  "Yes, it's very nice. Not that it's any of my business, but I assume you have any number of places you can stay while you're here. Why do you need an apartment?"

  "I don't want to live here, I want to work here. I need studio space." He turned back. "I'm bunking at Cam and Anna's, and that suits me. I'll get a place of my own eventually, but not until I find exactly what I want. Because I'm not visiting Saint Chris. I'm back for good."

  "I see. Well, studio space then. Which explains the skylights."

  "I'm a better bet than Terri," he said because he felt her hesitation. "No loud parties or shouting matches, which she's famous for. And I'm handy."

  "Are you?"

  "Hauling, lifting, basic maintenance. I won't come crying to you every time the faucet drips."

  "Points for you," she murmured.

  "How many do I need? I really want the space. I need to get back to work. What do you say to a six-month lease?"

  "Six months. I'd planned on a full year at a time."

  "Six months gives us both an early out if it's not jelling."

  She pursed her lips in consideration. "There is that."

  "How much are you asking?"

  She gave him the monthly rate she'd settled on. "I'll want first and last month's rent when you sign the lease. And another month's rent as security deposit."

  "Ouch. Very strict."

  Now she smiled. "Terri annoyed me. You get to pay the price."

  "Won't be the first time she's cost me. I'll have it for you tomorrow. I've got a family thing on Sunday, and I have to order the skylights, but I'd like to start moving things in right away."

  "That's fine." She liked the idea of him painting over her shop, of knowing the building that was hers was fulfilling its potential. "Congratulations," she said and offered a hand. "You've got yourself a studio."

  "Thanks." He took her hand, held it. Ringless, he thought again. Long, faerie fingers and unpainted nails. "Given any thought to posing for me?"

  "No."

  His grin flashed at her flat, precise answer. "I'll talk you into it."

  "I'm not easily swayed. Let's clear this all up before we start on what should be a mutually satisfying business relationship."

  "Okay, let's. You have a strong, beautiful face. As an artist, as a man, I'm drawn to the qualities of strength and beauty. The artist wants to translate them. The man wants to enjoy them. So, I'd like to paint you, and I'd like to spend time with you."

  Despite the breeze that danced through the open door, she felt entirely too alone with him. Alone, and boxed in by the way he held her hand, held her gaze.

  "I'm sure you've had your quota of women to translate and enjoy. Such as the buxom blonde in black you were cozied up with at the bar."

  "Who…?"

  Humor exploded on his face. It was, Dru thought, like light bursting through shadows.

  "Buxom Blonde in Black," he repeated, seeing it as a title. "Jesus, she'll love that. There'll be no living with her. That was Aubrey. Aubrey Quinn. My brother Ethan's oldest daughter."

  "I see." And it made her feel like an idiot. "It didn't seem to be a particularly avuncular relationship."

  "I don't feel like her uncle. It's more a big-brother thing. She was two when I came to Saint Chris. We fell for each other. Aubrey's the first person I ever loved, absolutely. She's got strength and beauty, too, and I've certainly translated and enjoyed them. But not in quite the same way I'd like to do with yours."

  "Then you're going to be disappointed. Even if I were interested,

  I don't have the time to pose, and I don't have the inclination to be enjoyed. You're very attractive, Seth, and if I were going to be shallow—"

  "Yeah." Another brilliant, flashing grin. "Let's be shallow."

  "Sorry." But he'd teased a smile out of her again. "I gave it up. If I were going to be, I might enjoy you. But as it stands, we're going to settle for the practical."

  "We can start there. Now, since you asked me a question earlier, I get to ask you one."

  "All right, what?"

  He saw by the way her face turned closed-in and wary that she was braced for something personal she wouldn't care to answer. So he shifted gears. "Do you like steamed crabs?"

  She stared at him for nearly ten seconds and gave him the pleasure of watching her face relax. "Yes, I like steamed crabs."

  "Good. We'll have some on our first date. I'll be by in the morning to sign the lease," he added as he walked to the open door.

  "The morning's fine."

  He looked down as she leaned over to lock the door behind them. Her neck was long, elegant. The contrast between it and the severe cut of the dark hair was sharp and dramatic. Without thinking, he skimmed a finger along the curve, just to sample the texture.

  She froze, so that for one instant they made a portrait of themselves. The woman in the rich-colored suit, slightly bent toward a closed door, and the man in rough clothes with a fingertip at the nape of her neck.

  She straightened with a quick jerk of movement, and Seth let his hand drop away. "Sorry, irritating habit of mine."

  "Do you have many?"

  "Ye

ah, afraid so. That one wasn't anything personal. You've got a really nice line back there." He stuck his hands in his pockets so it wouldn't become personal. Not yet.

  "I'm an expert on lines, nice or otherwise." She breezed by him and down the steps.

  "Hey." He jogged after her. "I've got better lines than that one."

  "I'll just bet you do."

  "I'll try some out on you. But in the meantime…" He opened her car door. "Is there any storage space?"

  "Utility room. There." She gestured toward a door under the steps. "Furnace and water heater, that sort of thing. And some storage."

  "If I need to, can I stick some stuff in there until I get the space worked out? I've got some things coming in from Rome. They'll probably be here Monday."

  "I don't have a problem with that. The key's inside the shop. Remind me to give it to you tomorrow."

  "Appreciate it." He closed the door for her when she'd climbed in, then he knocked on the window. "You know," he said when she rolled down the window, "I like spending time with a smart, self-confident woman who knows what she wants and goes out and gets it. Like you got this place. Very sexy, that kind of direction and dedication."

  He waited a beat. "That was a line."

  She kept her eyes on his as she rolled the glass up between their faces again.

  And she didn't let herself chuckle until she'd driven away.

  THE BEST thing about Sundays, in Dru's opinion, was waking up slowly, then clinging to that half-dream state while the sunlight shivered through the trees, slid through the windows and danced on her closed lids.

  Sundays were knowing nothing absolutely had to be done, and countless things could be.

  She'd make coffee and toast a bagel in her own kitchen, then have her breakfast in the little dining room while she leafed through catalogues for business.

  She'd putter around the garden she'd planted—with her own hands, thank you—while listening to music.

  There was no charity luncheon, no community drive, no obligatory family dinner or tennis match at the club cluttering up her Sundays now.