He seemed to be taking an inordinate amount of time to cope with the minor tasks he’d mentioned, she was thinking, when the door opened and Burns, laden with suitcases, trudged past — en route, Colleen assumed, to the bedroom.
‘The amount of travelling you do, Ingrid, I’m surprised you haven’t made yourself broke with overweight baggage charges,’ he said upon his return. ‘Honestly, haven’t you ever heard of the concept of travelling light?’
‘But of course,’ was the reply. ‘That is what I am doing.’
He slid into a chair at the head of the table and sipped appreciatively at his wine before chuckling with wry amusement, ‘If you say so; I only hope you tip well.’
‘I ... know how to express my appreciation,’ she said, in tones that made it abundantly clear what she meant. Thankfully she stopped short of being any more specific, Colleen thought, but Devon didn’t even seem to notice the innuendo.
Instead, he turned his attention to Colleen and asked if she, too, travelled the world with enough baggage to support a small army.
‘Only myself,’ she had to reply. ‘Not that I’ve done that much travel overseas.’
‘I’ve done my share, and expect I will again, but I still reckon the best part of any trip is getting home again when it’s over,’ he said surprisingly. She had never before discussed this with him, had not realised that he was so committed to his lifestyle and sense of roots. ‘I haven’t yet seen anywhere I’d rather live than here, when all’s said and done.’
That comment was the springboard for a spirited and obviously long-standing argument between him and Ingrid about where he should be living. Ingrid apparently was convinced that he would be equally happy in Europe or even America; she made it all too clear that she thought Tasmania far too remote in the extreme, and, without saying so in just so many words, that having him accessible to her was the major criterion in her thinking.
‘Bull-dust,’ was his firm, almost disdainful response. ‘I can be on a flight to almost anywhere in the world from here within a couple of hours if I plan it right. Assuming, of course, that I wanted to go in the first place. But try that some time from some of the places you’d have me based and you’d be hard put to get out of the suburbs in that time.’
The argument slowed only long enough for him to serve the dinner, then resumed with a vengeance as they dined. Colleen found it fascinating, if occasionally too convoluted for her to follow with any ease. Her own travel experience seemed minuscule compared with that of these two, and she found herself wondering when Devon had ever found the time to make his international reputation.
Ingrid, for her part, seemed to be on the move so much that she didn’t apparently have a home as such, and Colleen couldn’t help but wonder how the blonde Scandinavian could expect to maintain such a hectic pace and the relationship she so obviously wanted with Devon Burns at the same time.
But most surprising was the way Devon seemed to ignore that element of Ingrid’s thinking. He seemed, from Colleen’s viewpoint, to be quite unaware of the blonde sophisticate’s personal—as opposed to business — interest in him. He treated her as an old and valued friend. Colleen thought, but Ingrid’s interest was much more involved than that, even if he was apparently unaware of it.
Unaware? Or was it more a case of deliberate blindness? she wondered. To her eyes, Ingrid’s infatuation was glaringly obvious, almost embarrassingly so. How could Devon not see it? He was, she would have thought, far too sensitive to be blind to Ingrid’s feelings except by choice.
Somehow, during Colleen’s introspection, the subject changed yet again; she returned to the present to find Devon and Ingrid locked in dispute over something involving commissions, and his emphatic remark sounded all too familiar in Colleen’s ears.
‘I don’t do commissions,’ he was saying, ‘I do not and will not and that’s that, Ingrid. You know damned well that I’ve been there, done that and will ... not ... do ... it ... again!’
"You are still upset by that one incident? But that was — what? — six, seven years ago now.’
Ingrid’s surprise seemed genuine enough, if not quite so emphatic as Devon’s conviction.
‘Not just that one incident, which, incidentally, has finally been resolved, after a fashion,’ he replied. ‘But I will admit, with hindsight, that it was quite enough by itself to put me off commissions for ever; I just cannot and will not have anybody else’s opinion governing my work like that. It’s fine if they want to criticise a piece once it’s finished, but while it’s in progress, damn it, my work is mine and mine alone!’
‘That one incident has made you into the world’s worst misogynist,’ the blonde woman replied, making no attempt, at least to Colleen’s ears, to hide the bitterness in the remark. ‘And, if you wish my professional opinion, it has cut you off from an entire genre of work that could have given international recognition far beyond what you already have.’
‘I have all the recognition 1 need,’ he said, but it was another, younger Devon Burns talking now — a man hurt and still suffering that pain. It was there in his voice, in his eyes; he even went so far as to shake his head, as if to try and dislodge the hurt ... or the memory.
The resultant silence gave Colleen the opportunity she had subconsciously been waiting for. This conversation was getting far too personal for her taste; there were strong emotions here which she didn’t feel up to coping with, not to mention undercurrents that she didn’t understand and wasn’t sure she wanted to.
‘I think maybe it’s time I shot through,’ she said, the words plopping into the silence with what seemed a startling volume.
‘No way! We’re just getting lo the interesting part,’ was the astonishing reply from her host. ‘No, you stay, Colleen. I’m about to show Ingrid the stuff I’ve assembled for her next exhibition, and I’m sure you’ll be interested in at least some of it.’
The remark brought an expression of curious concern to the blonde Ingrid’s ice-grey eyes; she looked at Colleen with the most astonishing mix of apprehension and hostility — unlike Devon, whose eyes twinkled mischievously.
‘All right.’ What else could she say? If only, Colleen thought, she didn’t have that sinking feeling that Devon Burns was deliberately manipulating her, and using her own well-developed curiosity to do it!
‘Right!’ he said then with a vigorous grin, absolutely leaping from the chair. ‘Charge your glasses first, and let’s get on with it, then.’
Moments later the three of them, Rooster prowling like a shadow behind them, were in Devon’s studio, blinking as their eyes adjusted to the glare of the fluorescent lights. Devon dragged over a couple of aluminium lawn chairs and waved the women into them.
And then, one by one and with a great display of quite outrageously extravagant showmanship, he produced the various pieces he’d selected for Ingrid’s exhibition, which Colleen now knew to be the one he’d referred to as being nearly three months away, just before her father’s birthday.
She watched, fascinated, as piece after piece was brought out for display, duly commented upon, appropriately admired by both her and Ingrid, then returned to its place in storage. Ingrid, while appreciative and admiring of all the work, also seemed extremely perceptive in her comments from what Colleen realised was a highly developed professional point of view.
For herself, it was difficult enough just to keep her attention on what was going on. She had seen, however briefly, all of these pieces during her snooping earlier in the day, and while there was much to be admired her eyes kept straying to where she knew the siren sculpture should be — and wasn’t.
How was Devon going to handle this situation? she wondered. He must either not show that piece to them at all, or...? Whatever, she was more than half-certain that he was aware of her divided attention, and also the reasons for it.
Her speculation ceased when he was about to bring out the next piece, commenting as he did so that Ingrid should find it especially interesting in view of the
ir discussion about commissioned work. Colleen didn’t pay that much attention at first, expecting that she had already seen it. But when he brought the piece from the storage cabinet she realised immediately that she had never seen it before.
To have seen this masterpiece and not remember would have been impossible — even Ingrid allowed herself a small hiss of genuine appreciation, while Colleen forcibly had to hold back a cry of wonder and delight — but that she should have missed it during her snooping expedition seemed even more impossible. It simply couldn’t have happened, she thought.
‘This might turn out to be the highlight of the exhibition if I decide to let you take it, Ingrid,’ Devon said, without any trace of false modesty. ‘I’m not sure if I’m prepared to sell it, and if I’m not there isn’t much sense you carting it all the way to Europe just to send it back again.’
‘I would do so gladly,’ was the soft reply as Ingrid rose from her chair and stalked round the figure that Devon had placed on the display platform. ‘But I will not; this is too ... too strong ... it would overshadow everything else and then everyone would be wishing to buy only this piece.’
Her excitement about the piece was revealed by the slight thickening of her accent, and Colleen felt that she knew exactly how Ingrid must be feeling. The work was certainly strong; indeed, ‘powerful’ might have been a better word for it. In some reddish wood — not myrtle, she was certain — Devon had somehow blended animal and human elements into a composite that might have stepped alive from a woodland fantasy — or a nightmare.
At first glance the almost life-size figure was a werewolf. caught midway through its shape-change. A more studied inspection revealed it to be a were/fox, but that was the least of its surprises. The figure was subtly and yet undeniably sensual, erotic — whether animal or human or whatever between … this was a vixen in heat.
The workmanship was what she might have expected from Devon Burns, only more so; Colleen thought that this might be the best thing he’d ever done. It had an elemental simplicity, a primeval strength about it that was both startling and yet exquisite. And explicit! Burns had somehow managed to capture the essence of his subject, and it was this essence of feral, almost of malevolence, which gave the statue its power. And its face was familiar — surprisingly, almost frighteningly so; it was a face that Colleen had seen only once but had never been quite able to forget.
‘I’ve called this a lot of other things since I did it,’ Devon said, with a harsh, almost sadistic grin. ‘But I keep coming back to my first choice — Vixen — and may the foxes of the world forgive me.’
‘Has that one?’ Ingrid asked. ‘From what you told me about this at the time I would have thought—’
‘Not likely,’ he interrupted. ‘She hates me as much as she ever did; maybe a bit more. To be as fair as I can be, she’s as spinny as a wheel, of course. Quite mad, although probably harmless to anybody but me. She still has this amazing fantasy that I fathered that poor bloody child, and I guess she’ll hate me for ever just for that!
‘But her husband has forgiven me, at last. He finally — after all these years — caught her out in her lying and craziness. And, to give the devil his due, he actually apologised and even returned this ... along with a quit-claim. God only knows how he got her to sign that, and I don’t think I even want to know, but it allows its exhibition and sale at my discretion.’
Burns shrugged. ‘He said it was partial compensation for keeping the piece from being exhibited for so long, but it isn’t really. It was realising that child was his, after all, that made the difference, I suspect. Still … better late than never,’ he said with a shrug, ‘although in those days I could have used the exposure. This is still one of the best things I’ve ever done. Maybe even the best.’
Again the shrug, but there was no complacency about it. It was an acceptance, if only a grudging acceptance.
‘But, really, I was so damned glad to see he hadn’t destroyed it — he threatened to at one point, as you know, Ingrid — that I didn’t bother to discuss it with him.’
Burns turned to look at the statue, and Colleen could have sworn that his amber eyes actually glowed with the intensity of his emotions. The muscles of his strong jaw testified to the grinding of his teeth, and that lean, rakish body almost vibrated with tension.
‘And if anybody’s going to destroy the damned thing it’ll be me!’ he growled, then turned unexpectedly towards Colleen.
"What do you reckon?’ he asked, his voice still raspy with the tension inside him. ‘A decent likeness — both physically and ... of what she is, the essence of her? Or do you even remember?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she replied, almost shrinking from the intensity of his inner anger, his pain. ‘I remember. At least enough to vouch for the likeness. I don’t know about the rest, except that she certainly seemed to dislike you very much.’
His short bark of laughter was sharp, as fiery as his eyes.
‘Dislike? That’s putting it mildly. That woman hates me even worse than she hates that,’ he said, pointing to the sculpture. ‘Because I’m not the father of her child and damned well couldn’t be, and probably because that only starts to show her true character. I know exactly what she’s like, the poor bitch — madness or no — and. for that, she could never forgive me. Whoever said that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned knew exactly what he was talking about. And so do I!’
He laughed then, but it was laughter fraught with bitterness and long-nurtured anger at the unfairness of it all.
‘All this trauma because of that?’ Colleen was talking more to herself than to Burns, but he took the question literally.
‘That’s the crux of it, but it’s a long and rather sordid little tale; I might tell you some time, if you catch me in a foul enough mood. But not tonight! Tonight we’re looking to the future, not the past.’
And, having dismissed the subject, leaving more questions than answers in Colleen’s mind, he set Vixen aside and turned his attention once more to the display of his work for the exhibition ahead.
He trotted out another half-dozen pieces of his work, each — like the first lot — unique and beautiful in its way. But in comparison with Vixen not one of them stood out. They were all dimmed in contrast to that splendid effort, and Devon Burns must have realised it.
‘Of course, I have another potential focal point for the exhibition,’ he said, this time with his attention focused more on Colleen than Ingrid. it’s got the same intrinsic problem in that I’m not at all sure I want to sell it, but I’ll let you two be the first to judge.’
With only that for an introduction he threw Colleen an enigmatic glance and walked over to gather in his arms the shrouded figure from behind the screen. The shroud was still in place as he reached the dais, but there was no shroud on the gleam of anticipation in his eyes as he grinned mischievously at Colleen and then removed it, leaving her to gasp in sheer astonishment.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ingrid, too, gasped with astonishment; Colleen felt the gesture from the blonde woman beside her. But whereas Ingrid’s reaction was simply one of pure delight at the splendid creation being exhibited her own was far more complicated.
She half rose from her seat, panic flooding through her in an unleashed reaction to what she was seeing and what she had expected to see, but now didn’t. What had happened? What strange magic trick had Devon Burns played this time?
The sculpture before them was not, as Colleen had quite confidently expected, the nearly completed depiction of Rooster. This was the black-heart sassafras siren in all its glory, completed, finished, polished ... and absolutely magnificent!
Just as Vixen had exuded an aura of feral malignancy this siren sculpture had its own unique aura, but it was somehow one of purity and brightness. It was seductive, sensual, indeed erotic in every clean, sculpted line, but there was none of the taint that Vixen carried. The man seduced by the venality of Vixen was doomed, but Siren held only promises of wonder and beauty in i
ts seductiveness.
And, of course, it had her face. Her face and ... Colleen could almost feel herself blushing at the naked voluptuousness of the figure that posed on its spray-washed rock, hair like seaweed in the spume. Her figure? Surely not, she thought, but had to wonder.
And wondered even more at how Devon Burns had managed the miraculous transformation from what she had seen under this shroud only hours before to this! Only he could have done it, but she couldn’t think when, much less how. Was she going quite mad?
The triumphant look in those damned amber eyes didn’t help her. She couldn’t tell if the triumph related to having caught her out yet again or was there simply because he was proud — and justly so — of the achievement she was now seeing.
Burns, wisely, was saying nothing. The work spoke for itself; indeed it fairly sang, in appropriate siren fashion, its song echoing the clarity and purity of the artistry, the sheer magic of it. The black heart of the sassafras — due, Colleen now knew, to a fungus within the structure of the wood itself — had been cunningly used to fullest advantage, giving highlights to the wind-washed hair, to the perch on which the siren poised.
But ... her face? For an instant she knew exactly how the model for Vixen might have felt, even discounting the wickedness of character that piece revealed. It was disconcerting, almost frightening, the humanity Burns managed to instil into a piece of wood, how much the sculpture revealed, implied, suggested...
Colleen closed her eyes for a moment, as if that simple gesture could change anything. But when she opened them again the sculpture still sang, and now she could feel Devon Burns’ eyes upon her, asking for a reaction, demanding a reaction. And, beside her, the cool grey eyes of Ingrid Johnsson, flickering from Colleen to the siren to Devon, then making the circuit again.
Beguiled and Bedazzled Page 12
