Every Second Counts

by D. Jackson Leigh

  “Of course it’s art. It may be computer-generated, but the very concept began as a seed in the mind of the artist. I’m sure the artist started with a concept, then a vision. Bringing this to life may have been much more difficult than layering paint on a canvas.”

  Bridgette stepped around a panel to where two figures sat on a low bench, staring at the digital projection of a pink dogwood tree as it budded, bloomed, deflowered, grew leaves, swayed in the wind, drank rain droplets, withered and dropped its summer foliage, then held its spindly branches out to catch the winter snow before beginning the sequence all over again.

  “It’s a brilliant combination of display and performance art.”

  Ah. The husky voice again. She stared at the well-formed shoulders moving under a tight black T-shirt. The voice and the V-shaped body could easily be mistaken for that of a young man, but the slight flair of the hips in the low-slung jeans and the gesturing of the hands held a hint of femininity. Intrigued, Bridgette edged closer.

  The thick, straight hair was cut in ragged lengths that barely brushed the shoulders in a style currently popular with the male art students. The arm that extended backward to brace the figure on the bench sported a black-dragon tattoo that peeked from under the short sleeve straining to contain a well-developed bicep. But the bare forearm was smooth and the hair on it fine, not coarse. The hand was long-fingered and, Bridgette decided, fine-boned enough to be female.

  This person was deliciously androgynous and oddly familiar, but she met a lot of new people in her teaching job and was sure she would’ve remembered the large, black brace wrapped around the woman’s left knee.

  “Well, it is quite mesmerizing.” The very elderly art patron chuckled and patted the arm of her much-younger companion. “And your enthusiasm for this piece is just as entertaining. However, I must be off. My grandson is probably waiting rather impatiently. I’m sure his class is over by now.”

  The younger person stood and helped the woman to her feet, and Bridgette decided the gentle outline of the cheek and full lips was definitely female, as was the lack of beard stubble. Perfect.

  “Would you like me to walk with you to find your grandson?”

  “Thank you, no. I may be old, but I’m still perfectly able to get around by myself.” The old woman straightened as much as her bowed spine would allow. “At least I’m not using one of those yet,” she said, pointing to the black cane still propped against the bench.

  The younger woman’s laugh came from deep in her chest, low and sexy. She retrieved the cane from where it rested and put her finger to her lips. “Don’t tell anyone, but it’s hollow. As soon as you leave, I’m going to cut that painting over there out of the frame, roll it up, and conceal it inside the cane. It should bring a nice price on the black market.”

  The elderly lady waved her hand dismissively. “Still a jokester, I see. I might have believed you, but I’m sure you have a dozen like them already.” She turned toward the door. “Lovely to see you again, dear.”

  The old lady had barely left when Bridgette stepped forward. “Excuse me.”

  The woman turned, her amused dark eyes flicking over Bridgette. “Hello.” A broad smile dimpled her tanned cheeks as they looked each other over for a few seconds. She tapped the cane against the bench. “It isn’t really hollow, and even if it was, I don’t think I could stuff an entire painting inside.”

  “It would have been interesting to watch you try, I’m sure.”

  Now that she was facing Bridgette, the woman’s female attributes were obvious. Her height topped Bridgette’s by a few inches, but small, well-rounded breasts softened her muscled upper body, and her narrow hips flared slightly from the trim waist.

  “I actually wanted to see if you would be interested in a rather unusual opportunity.”

  The smile broadened to a grin. “I’m always interested in opportunities with attractive women.”

  Heat rose to Bridgette’s cheeks, but she dipped her head in acknowledgement of the compliment. “Let’s try this again.” She extended her hand. “Hello. I’m Bridgette LeRoy. I teach art and body sculpture here.”

  The woman’s grin grew wider. “Bridgette isn’t a common name in these parts.” The hand that grasped Bridgette’s was rough but warm, and the lips that pressed against her knuckles soft. “Marc Ryder. Most people just call me Ryder.”

  Bridgette was amused by the gallant gesture. The woman looked more mature than the usual coed, but the college did have some older students enrolled. “Are you a student here, Ms. Ryder?”

  “No, I’m not. I dropped by to talk to one of your professors, but his secretary said he was teaching a class so I wandered downstairs to peruse the gallery.”

  “You’re an artist?” Bridgette let her eyes trail down Ryder’s well-defined forearm to her long fingers. She turned over the hand that still held hers and examined the thick calluses. “Sculptor?”

  The dark eyes twinkled. “Wrong again. I just appreciate beauty…in art and women.”

  Bridgette met her gaze. “Well, you’re not bashful, are you? That’s good, considering what I want to propose.”

  “My answer is yes.”

  Bridgette laughed. “I haven’t explained anything yet.”

  “Will it injure me in any way?”

  “Heavens no.”

  “Then my answer is yes.” Ryder’s hand tightened around hers. “But perhaps we could discuss the details over dinner.”

  “You said you were here to see someone.”

  Ryder waved her hand dismissively. “Nothing is more important than having dinner with a beautiful woman.”

  She hesitated. Ryder was athletic, confident, and oozing sexuality—certainly the androgynous type she found attractive. Besides, serial killers were almost always men. What could it hurt to have dinner? She eyed Ryder’s strong body. She certainly wasn’t opposed to a little adventure afterward either.

  “How to you feel about sushi?”

  “Love it.”

  She glanced at the brace on Ryder’s left knee. “I’ll drive.”

  Ryder grinned. “I love a woman who takes charge.”

  *

  It was still early and the restaurant was relatively empty, so it only took a few minutes to be seated and place their order.

  Acutely aware of Bridgette continually checking out her physique, Ryder couldn’t believe her luck. How many artists named Bridgette lived in Cherokee Falls? This woman had to be Tory’s nine-and-a-half, and Ryder intended to confirm it.

  “So, what I wanted to propose to you—”

  Ryder held up her hand. “A woman likes to be wined and dined before a proposal.”

  Truth was, Ryder wanted to wine and dine Bridgette. She intended to savor this beautiful, soft-voiced woman sitting across the table from her.

  Bridgette’s expression was smug. “You’ve already said yes. I was just going to fill in the details.”

  “There’s so much I’d like to know before we get to that. I grew up around here and I’m pretty sure you didn’t. Tell me about yourself. Where did you grow up?”

  “Everywhere. Mostly the northeast when we were in the country. My father was a professor of political science. He job-hopped a lot, teaching at universities on the East Coast and managing a political campaign every now and then. More than once, he accepted a foreign-ambassador position when his candidate held the seat of power.”

  “A well-traveled woman. What brought you to Cherokee Falls?”

  “My cousin had a hand in it.” Bridgette dropped her gaze, her fingers worrying with her napkin. “I was sort of at loose ends.” Her smile was a bit forced when she looked up. “So, my cousin Cheryl convinced me to apply for the artist-in-residence position here. The college may be small, but it’s well-known in some key art circles.”

  They paused while the waitress set a sushi platter between them and poured the wine Ryder had ordered. Recognizing Bridgette’s discomfort with her past, she steered the conversation toward preferences
in art, music, books, and movies as they ate. But each time Bridgette asked about her career or friends in Cherokee Falls, she neatly deflected the questions and sent the conversation in a different direction. She didn’t want to chance Bridgette connecting her to stories Skyler or Tory might have told about her.

  “May I inquire about who you wanted to see at the art school today?” Bridgette asked.

  “Jonathan Frank is a family friend. I wanted to get some guidance from him on what to do with some things from my grandmother’s estate.”

  “Your grandmother?”

  “She died a few years ago and I’m her sole heir. I’m just getting around to deciding what to do with her house and the stuff still in it.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  Ryder shrugged. “We weren’t that close.” Time to change the subject. “I didn’t see a Bridgette LeRoy in the gallery. Do you paint under an alias?”

  “No.” Bridgette chewed for a moment and pushed the food around on her plate. “The department chairman has been pressuring me to contribute something, but, well, I just haven’t yet.”

  “I’m disappointed. Isn’t there somewhere I can see your work?”

  “I have some paintings and a sculpture or two in galleries in New York and Boston.”

  Bridgette took a sip of her wine, and Ryder captured her hand when she put her glass down.

  “You sculpt, too?” She turned Bridgette’s hand over and lightly traced the soft palm with her fingertips, pleased at the faint tremble she evoked. “I wouldn’t have guessed. No calluses.”

  “I sculpt in clay, not stone.”

  “Ah, that explains it.” She caressed Bridgette’s palm once more before releasing her, pleased when Bridgette picked up her wineglass and gulped down a large swallow. She suspected it wasn’t just the alcohol coloring Bridgette’s cheeks.

  “If you’re really interested, I can write the names of the galleries down for you. They both post their offerings on their Web sites.”

  “I’d like that, but the Internet is so impersonal. Every artist I’ve known has a studio filled with their work. I was hoping for a personal showing.”

  “I’m not sure I want to get personal with someone I know nothing about. What do you do for a living?”

  “I work in the sports field.”

  “I don’t really follow sports.”

  “Then I won’t bore you with the details.”

  Ryder noticed that Bridgette gravitated toward the spicy tuna, so she had taken only one piece and left the rest of it for Bridgette. She snagged the last piece with her chopsticks and held it up. She watched Bridgette hesitate, then take it gently on her tongue and into her mouth to chew slowly. When Ryder looked up, a blazing gaze captured her.

  They both smiled, acknowledging the mutual seduction. If they didn’t get out of that restaurant soon, the heat between them would cook every piece of sushi in the place.

  “My personal studio is at my loft,” Bridgette said.

  “If that’s an invitation, I accept.” Ryder tossed enough money on the table for the meal and a generous tip, then slid out of the booth and held out her hand to assist Bridgette. “I’ve always found art to be very…inspiring.”

  Chapter Six

  Their journey to the loft was one long, hot tease.

  During their walk to the car, Bridgette linked her arm in Ryder’s, taking every opportunity to brush her tantalizingly erect nipple against Ryder’s bicep as they flirted. By the time they had reached the parking lot, Ryder had slipped her arm around Bridgette’s waist and drifted her hand down to palm Bridgette’s firm ass. She teased back, pressing Ryder against the car as she unlocked it, then stepping away just as their lips were a hairbreadth from their first kiss. Once in the car, Ryder took her hand and pressed it against her hard thigh. She retaliated by inching her hand upward until her pinkie barely touched the damp heat of Ryder’s crotch. She smiled when Ryder groaned under her breath.

  She jogged to her second-floor loft while Ryder’s cane thumped noisily along the stairs behind her. Disengaging the lock, she grabbed fistfuls of Ryder’s T-shirt and yanked her inside. As they stood breast to breast, Ryder’s breath was hot on her face, her whisky eyes smoldering. She grazed her lips against Ryder’s, dodging her head away as Ryder’s mouth chased hers.

  “I thought you wanted a personal tour of my studio.”

  Ryder abandoned pursuit of her lips and sucked the pulse throbbing at the base of her neck, then licked upward. “I’d like to get to know the artist first.”

  Her hips jerked when Ryder’s teeth nipped at her sensitive earlobe. She tore Ryder’s shirt from her jeans and raked her fingernails across her abdomen.

  Ryder growled. She threw her cane to the floor, shoved the door closed, and whirled them around to pin her against it. The heavy oak was hard against her back. Ryder’s mouth was demanding, her tongue searching. She tasted of the woody bouquet from the wine they’d had with dinner. She skated her hand up to Ryder’s small breast and twisted the nipple hard. Ryder’s hips bucked against hers, her thigh rolling against Bridgette’s crotch. Sweet Jesus.

  Bridgette felt like she was on a runaway horse, galloping toward a thousand-foot drop. No woman had ever gotten her this hot, this fast. Slow down. She needed to slow down. She shoved Ryder away and they stood panting, staring at each other.

  “About that proposal.”

  Confusion flashed across Ryder’s face, and then she narrowed her eyes and a slow smile dimpled one cheek. “I’m up for anything you are as long as it’s not too kinky.”

  “I want you to pose for my art class.”

  Confusion flickered again.

  “Now?”

  “Next week.”

  “Fine. I said I’d do it.” Ryder reached for her.

  “Nude.”

  Ryder froze, then dropped her hands and laughed. “You thought you’d get me all worked up so I’d agree to anything you wanted?”

  She stepped close again and traced her finger along Ryder’s cheek. “You’ve already said yes. Remember?”

  “So?”

  She trailed her finger down Ryder’s neck to tug at the collar of her shirt. “So, I want a,” she moved her finger lower to circle hard nipples straining against the cotton fabric, “preview of my model.”

  Ryder stepped close to whisper in her ear. “I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours.”

  She shivered but again pushed Ryder gently away. “We’ll get to me later.”

  Ryder’s grin was cocky. She jerked her shirt over her head in one quick motion. The tight material had done little to hide the well-defined shoulders and arms, but her breath hitched at the sight of Ryder’s small, soft breasts and carved abdomen. Her fingers itched to touch, but she drew in a deep breath and forced herself to focus with her artist’s eye instead of the throbbing between her legs.

  She pointed to the knee brace wrapped over Ryder’s jeans. “Can you take that off?”

  Ryder didn’t answer but snatched the Velcro straps open and tossed the brace to the floor. While her hands had worked quickly on the brace, they moved slowly over the buttons of her fly. The loose jeans dropped to the floor, revealing skin-hugging, low-cut black boy shorts and thick, firm thighs. Bridgette barely had time to register the roadwork of red scars along her left leg before Ryder turned away.

  Sinewy lines moved smoothly under the flawless skin of her back as she hooked her thumbs under the Lycra material and slowly drew it down to reveal a tight, compact butt. Deep clefts on the sides of the rounded cheeks flexed as she shifted her weight.

  Bridgette circled, evaluating the boi-god, warrior-goddess physique. Well-defined and nicely muscled, but not too bulky. From the back, a careless eye would see a man. A careful eye would notice the faint flair of the hip, the lack of masculine hair, and the softer grain of the skin.

  “Perfect,” she murmured to herself.

  “Thank you.”

  Lost in her observations, she jerked her gaze ba
ck to Ryder’s face after the husky voice startled her. Her expression had gone from smug to curious.

  She should explain. “I want my students to recognize the subtle indicators of gender when they paint and sculpt.” She continued to circle, taking careful note, while Ryder stood as still as chiseled stone and let her look. “Our perceptions in general are shaped mostly by the dominant sex, by men. Conventional attitudes are that women are poorly muscled and have an hourglass shape.”

  “I’m often mistaken for a man.”

  “That’s why I approached you in the gallery.”

  “I’m crushed. I thought maybe you were hot for me.”

  She ignored the implied question for now. “From this view, you might be mistaken for a male. But an artist should be able to see the female.”

  Ryder crossed her arms over her chest, flexing her back into a wide V-shape. Bridgette smoothed her fingers along the overly developed trapezius and latissimus dorsi above and below the shoulder blade. “These might be mistaken for masculine but,” she ran her hand down the trenched center of Ryder’s back, pleased at the faint shudder she felt, “the lumbar curve of your spine is definitely female. Women are more sway-backed than men, tilting their pelvis backward.”

  In front of Ryder again, she moved her hands along the collarbone and over the firm deltoids of the shoulders. “Your shoulders are actually probably no wider than mine, even though the larger muscles make them seem broader.” She squeezed the hard biceps, then scooped Ryder’s hands into hers. “Interesting.”

  “Something wrong with my hands?”

  She moved them up and matched them with hers, palm to palm. Ryder’s hands were wider, hers longer. “On the majority of women, the index finger and the ring finger are usually the same length…like mine. Men generally have a shorter index finger…like yours.”

  She entwined their fingers and squeezed briefly before dropping her hands to Ryder’s hips. “Even though you have very narrow hips for a woman, the hipbone still flairs slightly.” She crouched and squeezed Ryder’s thick quads. “Because a woman has a wider pelvis, her femurs are angled inward, shaping their legs into a slight X-shape.”