“You should’ve been here,” Suzy said. “I thought for a minute I was back at the Fit’n Trim Gym. Bend, sweep to the left, sweep to the right, twenty reps and then stand up and do it all over again.”
“He’s a good teacher,” the quiet brunette said. “He’s been drawing and painting since he was in grade school. He actually did a year at Pratt and met some of the big name artists.”
Suzy said dryly, “I toured the capitol once, but that doesn’t make me a politician.”
At the front of the room, Silver had placed one of his own watercolors on a standing easel. He held up a small matte, then moved it over first one section, then another. “What we’re looking for is something that can be salvaged even if we have to sacrifice those parts that aren’t working.”
Maggie wondered which parts of this week she would salvage, given the chance.
“Think of it as mining for precious gemstones.” Silver shifted the small horizontal matte to frame a log tobacco barn, a dead tree and part of a cornfield, blocking out the farmhouse that had been the center of interest.
She would salvage today. Wise or not, she would salvage every single moment she spent with Ben Hunter.
Suzy said, “I still don’t know exactly what he means by not working.”
“Do you care?” Maggie whispered back.
“You have a question, Miss Riley?”
Well, heck. She might as well get something out of this blasted class after all the money she’d wasted on it. Mary Rose would just have to take her word for what a creep the man was, because so far Maggie hadn’t come up with a scrap of proof in spite of Suzy’s efforts. “I said I’m not sure what you mean by not working.”
“Come closer, dear, perhaps it’s your eyes that aren’t working.”
Or her brain, Maggie admitted ruefully. The implication was clear, and not all that unfounded.
Over the next several minutes the class was treated to a demonstration of how elements as small as a speck of bright color or a broken cornstalk pointing the wrong way could lead the eye out of the picture plane. It never occurred to Maggie to ask what a picture plane was. She really didn’t care.
While Perry droned on and on about muddy colors and paint quality—about the difference between planned bleeds and unplanned blotches—Maggie wondered where Ben was. He hadn’t joined the class. She listened for the sound of a vehicle leaving the parking lot, but all she heard was the rumble of distant thunder.
By the time Silver relented, her head was reeling with useless knowledge, her feet were killing her and all she could think of was that Ben had made love to her and she was probably doomed to spinsterhood. No other man could ever come up to his standard. It had nothing whatsoever to do with technique, but with the man himself. Whatever it was—chemical, biological or something more mystical—she was stuck with it.
She was packing up her material with some vague idea of leaving for good when Perry Silver’s mellifluous voice rang out again. “There’s a truism among artists. When the general public likes your work, you’re in trouble. Do you know what I say?” He looked expectantly at his disciples. “Faugh on that. Perry says, faugh, faugh, faugh!”
Faugh? Now there was a word for you, Maggie thought, amused. This entire week, she had to admit, had been a learning experience. A few of the lessons she could have done without.
“I paint for the masses,” the instructor announced, “not for the elite. If the general public appreciates my work, I know I’ve succeeded.”
Then he’d obviously succeeded, scam or no scam. She’d heard nothing but raves from most of his students, several of whom would probably part with enough money to buy whatever he was selling.
Finally the last class of the day ended. The last as far as Maggie was concerned, at any rate. Tonight’s session she would skip, if she were still here. For all the progress she was making, either as a painter or a sleuth, she might as well pack up and go home.
Ben was waiting for her when she emerged from her room a few minutes later. Without a word spoken on either side, he steered her to the front door. And like the dumbest lamb in the flock, she went.
The western sky had blackened, creating a dramatic backdrop for the narrow streak of late sunlight that gilded the treetops. Instead of lingering to appreciate the view, he nodded toward the arbor on the edge of the clearing.
Maggie was suddenly reluctant. She’d heard of butterflies in the belly. Hers tended to go for the brain. If he wanted to act as if today had never happened, two could play that game. Affecting an offhand manner, she said, “Maybe we’re doing the man an injustice, did you ever think of that?”
“Who, Silver? Yeah, I thought about it. According to Janie, the guy really does know his stuff. He’s won a whole bunch of awards in the state and local arena. The only thing I have a problem with is selling reproductions and claiming they’re a great investment.”
Pausing to finger a pebble from her sandal, Maggie steadied herself by clinging to his arm. Straightening, she said, “Okay, so maybe he’s the next best thing to whatsisname, that guy who paints the four-eyed, dissected ladies. Maybe he’s even made a fortune selling his stuff—and I’m sorry about your grandmother, I really am—but that doesn’t mean he’s in love with Mary Rose and not her trust fund.”
“So what are you saying? There’s no such thing as love at first sight?”
Her heart shifted into overdrive. “Pure urban myth,” she said breathlessly.
“Okay, then what about this one? When it comes to love, rich women don’t stand a chance.”
Halting, she turned to face him and then wished she hadn’t. It was almost impossible to think clearly when she was this close. Her hormones had taken over earlier today. Now it was time for the gray cells to step forward. “All I’m saying is that if Perry made as much money on art as the Dilyses have on pickles, there’s a slight chance he truly loves her for herself. I really, really hope that’s the case, honestly, I do. But I don’t think so.”
Ben’s eyes narrowed. “Has he come on to you?”
“Do I look rich? Of course he hasn’t, but I asked Suzy to—to sort of flirt with him, drop a few hints about her family’s business.”
“The hell with that, has he made a move toward you?”
Maggie looked at him as if he’d lost his wits. “For Pete’s sake, why would he go after me when he could have someone like Suzy—or even Ann?”
He shook his head slowly. “You still don’t get it, do you?”
“Sure I get it. Whenever I want it.” And then, hearing what she’d just said, Maggie slapped a hand over her mouth, inwardly cursing her tendency to resort to glibness when she was nervous. “I mean, I can get a date any time I want one, but that’s not why I’m here. Oh, shoot!” She closed her eyes. “You get me so mixed up!”
A slow grin spread over his face. “Good. I’ll take any advantage I can get.”
“Oh, no you won’t.”
“We need to talk about that, too, but let’s get this other stuff out of the way first. How old is this friend of yours?” They had stopped a dozen feet away from the arbor.
“I already told you, she’s twenty-five. A young twenty-five.” She tapped her foot, daring him to challenge her. If he thought she was making too much of her own maturity, he didn’t mention it. Just as well. She could still clobber him.
Mature. Right.
“Any reason she can’t think for herself?” His tone was suspiciously reasonable.
“Other than the fact that her father’s always treated her like a hothouse rose, I can’t think of any. I keep telling her she needs to move into a place of her own, but she’s afraid of hurting her folks’ feelings.”
Ben did something with his mouth that was both maddening and provocative. She knew what that mouth could do, dammit. She didn’t need to be reminded. “Tell me something,” he said. “Do you still live at home?”
“That’s different.”
“I expect it is,” was all he said. With an arm at
her back, he steered her toward the vine-covered arbor. If she had a grain of sense she’d turn around right now and go back inside. Any talking they did needed to be done in plain view of anyone who cared to look. There was safety in numbers.
“I’ve known her forever.” Maggie had this habit of filling any uncomfortable silence with words, whether or not they were relevant. “When we were little we used to play together. My dad does all Mr. Dilys’s insurance, did I tell you that?”
His arms moved to her shoulder as he led her over a patch of rocky terrain. She could smell his pine-scented soap. When she’d stripped off her clothes earlier, she had smelled something earthy and green. Never would she be able to look at moss in the same way.
Rather than break away and run back to the house—her first impulse—she focused on not tripping and tried to ignore the feel of him, the scent of him, and how comfortable the weight of his arm felt on her shoulder. She wanted desperately for him to approve of her, which was a bad sign. An incredibly bad sign, because for the most part, Maggie didn’t give a hoot what anyone thought of her. Her father called her heedless, and she had to admit that the trait occasionally landed her in trouble.
“What a pair you must have made,” Ben mused. They were only a few yards away from the shadowy arbor, with its cozy two-person swing.
“We still do. She writes letters to my column under an assumed name when things are slow so it looks like I’ve got this huge readership, and I take her to places she’s never heard of and introduce her to some really neat people.”
Ben shook his head. “I’d like to meet a few of what you call ‘neat people.’ Sometimes a woman can fall in with the wrong crowd and find herself in more trouble than she bargained for. You ever think about that?”
“All the time. For instance—”
But before she could get to her “for instance,” they arrived at the arbor and stopped dead. Ben said, “Charlie, what are you doing out here?”
Someone laughed, a soft, husky sound that identified her even before the peach colored hair came into view.
“’Scuse us,” Ben said, and backed away. As they turned toward the house again, Maggie told herself she wasn’t disappointed, not really. If she had a single grain of sense—which at the moment, was debatable—she’d call it a lucky reprieve.
Ben chuckled and Maggie said, “Maybe we could make reservations. For the arbor, I mean.”
Kick yourself, woman!
“Good idea. I’ve got an even better one. How about we head for town, pick up whatever groceries are on the list and have dinner while we’re out?”
Spending time alone together was like waltzing through a minefield. Maggie knew it. She had a feeling Ben knew it, too, unless today had meant no more to him than scratching a temporary itch.
Ten
The rain began in earnest before they were even halfway to town. With the windshield wipers and headlights on, Maggie leaned forward to switch on the defogger. Neither of them had brought any rain gear, but Ben said, “Miss Emma made me bring an umbrella. Told her I never used ’em, but she insisted.”
“That’s what grandmothers are for. Where is it?”
“Somewhere back there under a ton of junk.” He nodded to the narrow space behind the driver’s seat. “Rain’ll be over by the time we get to town, anyway.”
Before they’d set out he had glanced at a map, even though Maggie told him she knew the way. With rain coming down in curtains, maps were little help as they could barely see the road, much less the exit signs.
“Real frog strangler.”
“Try for something more original. How about an ark floater? Ben, slow down,” Maggie cautioned.
He slowed, but not too much. He didn’t want to rear-end another vehicle, but neither did he want to slow up enough to risk being a road hazard. There was no sign of any taillights ahead, but that didn’t mean they were the only ones on the highway. There were always a few nuts who thought that as long as they could see they didn’t need lights.
Clutching her shoulder belt, Maggie leaned forward, peering through the wall of gray. “There ought to be an exit somewhere along here where we could—”
“Sit back. If I have to stop suddenly I don’t want you—” He swore under his breath. “Sunovabitch!” Jerking the wheel sharply, he milked the brakes to a standstill within inches of a white van that had pulled off onto the shoulder at an angle, one corner projecting a few feet onto the highway.
Ben backed up a few feet, then steered cautiously onto the narrow shoulder, making sure he was completely off the highway. Maggie said, “I don’t want to be here.”
“Me, either.” He waited a moment, then checked carefully for any sign of traffic before pulling out again. “Is there an overpass anywhere around here?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. Anyway, it might not be wide enough if you were thinking about parking there until the rain slacked off.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right. Watch for an exit. We’d better find a place to wait it out.”
The Laurel Lane Lodge looked as if it had survived the past half century unchanged. Of the five separate units, none appeared to be occupied, but there was a light on in the office.
“Sit tight.” Ben ducked out and made a dash to the door.
The apron-clad woman behind the desk rose to meet him. “My mercy, would you look at this rain. Sauer’s Branch is already up over the banks, I heard it on the radio. There’s so much static you can’t hardly hear anything. You need a place to stay?”
A few minutes later Ben slid into the truck again, soaked to the skin, but grinning. Brandishing a key, he said, “Any old port in a storm.” His voice was barely audible over the sound of rain hammering down on the metal cab.
Maggie tried to pretend her pulse rate hadn’t shot into the stratosphere. “If you wanted to show off your Texas roots, a broad-brimmed hat would’ve served a lot better than those boots.”
“I’ll match my boots against those things you’re wearing any day. We drew number five, over there on the end.” Inching along the short driveway, he pulled up in front of a small unit distinguished by a blue door and a single blue-shuttered window. “Stay here while I unlock.”
Watching him dash toward the minuscule shelter, Maggie thought of all the motel jokes she’d ever heard. Under the circumstances, stopping was only sensible. It didn’t necessarily mean they were going to dive into bed together. They could dry off and talk until the rain slacked off. Actually, it would be a good opportunity to get better acquainted—sharing childhood experiences, comparing notes on the progress of their individual missions. That should take all of two minutes. Then what?
As if she didn’t know.
Deliberately she pushed away the thought that in a few days, once the workshop ended, they would each go their separate ways. Not that they would be all that far apart—not as long as he stayed with his grandmother. She hadn’t asked about his future plans because first of all, it was none of her business. Now she was afraid to—afraid his plans didn’t include her.
After only a short dash to the blue door they were both wet, thanks partly to the solid wall of water pouring off the roof. Maggie wouldn’t have been surprised to see steam rising from Ben’s shirt, the way it was plastered to his skin. His boots made a squeaky sound with every step. “Hope there’s enough towels,” he said, reaching the minuscule bathroom in three strides.
Self-conscious, Maggie studied the room that was dominated by a chenille-covered bed. Instead of the usual commercial carpet there were several scatter rugs on a varnished wood floor. “This reminds me of one of the illustrations in this book I used to have,” she said, refusing to be intimidated by a bed. “I’m not sure if it was Goldilocks or Little Red Riding Hood.”
“Easy to tell the difference.” Ben dropped a towel over her hair and gave it a few gentle rubs. “Depends on whether there’s a wolf or a bear in the bed.”
So then of course they both stared at the bed, which suddenl
y seemed to grow until there was nothing else in the room. Ben cleared his throat. He seemed almost as tense as she was. Moving abruptly, he crossed to the window, discovered that it wouldn’t open, and opened the front door a crack. “Air’s musty in here,” he said gruffly. “Rain’s not blowing from this direction.
He began unbuttoning his shirt and Maggie thought, not like this…please. It’s too soon. She looked everywhere but at the man who absorbed all the oxygen in the small room. “You know what? I think this furniture is the real thing,” she said brightly. “I mean genuine wood.” Swallowing hard, she walked over and touched the leaf of a potted plant. “This is real, too. Real dirt and everything.”
Marvelous, Maggie. Why not impress him with your brilliant conversational skills?
“Watch your step on these rugs, they’re trippers,” Ben cautioned. His shirt unbuttoned, he tugged it out of his pants. Before she could inform him that she didn’t need a caretaker, he said, “Maggie, get out of those damp clothes before you start sneezing.”
She wilted. All right, so he was bossy. It was the kindness in his voice that got to her. He wasn’t just interested in getting her naked so he could have his way with her—not that his way wasn’t hers, too.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” she muttered, turning away just as he peeled off his wet shirt.
Unfortunately, she turned toward the oval dresser mirror, and there he was again. Closing her eyes didn’t help. They could be stranded together in a pitch-black cave and she would still be aware of him with every cell in her body. It had to be chemical. That pheromone thing, probably. She knew men who were handsomer—even a few who were built as well, but not a single one of them moved her at all. Somewhere inside her was an intricate lock, just waiting for the right key. And Ben Hunter was that key.
All right, she told herself—you’re both adults. You’ve done it before, so what does it matter if you do it again? Where’s the problem?
The problem was that she wanted more than sex.
Driven to Distraction (Silhouette Desire S.) Page 12
