“Thanks. It may not seem like much, but that little bit of exercise really makes my back feel better. Seems like this little girl spends half her day kicking me in the kidneys,” she said.
Jessica gave her a long look, her eyes kind. “We love having you here. Relax and give yourself time to fully heal.”
She nodded, even though she knew she’d never have enough time for that to happen. A lot more than her leg needed healing.
*
Ryder stared up at the two-story brick mansion, unsure why she was standing here.
Maybe it was Jessica’s talk about family and other things in life. Maybe it was her preoccupation with another artist that she couldn’t seem to shake. Regardless of what had brought her to the doorstep of her grandmother’s—now Ryder’s—mansion, it was time to buck up and deal with it.
Eleanor White had been dead for nearly five years. Ryder was the only child of Eleanor’s only child. But Eleanor never got along with her daughter, and Ryder’s parents hadn’t lived in the United States since they dropped her off like a stray kitten for Eleanor to rear. She guessed that was why Eleanor had designated her as the sole heiress to the multi-million-dollar estate.
But in the years since her grandmother’s death, she’d hardly spent any of the money or set foot in the house and stables. She’d instructed her lawyer to continue contributing to the charities Eleanor had and to make sure the house and grounds were secure and tended as if someone still lived there.
Flowers bloomed in neat beds that surrounded the house and immaculate lawn. The long brick drive was well maintained and clear of any debris. Inside, the furniture was draped in white sheets, ghostly figures in the dim light. The hum of the central air-conditioning and the recent vacuum tracks on the carpets explained why the house smelled fresh despite being closed up.
She wandered from room to room, pulling out memories she had packed away and forgotten: Eleanor entertaining art patrons in the huge dining room and formal living room, Eleanor mixing colors in her cavernous studio, and her childhood bedroom suite that was both refuge and prison.
It seemed smaller than it had when she was eight years old. Still, how many children had a three-room suite? It wasn’t like she brought friends home from school to play with her.
She couldn’t really fault Eleanor. She had never intended to be a mother, much less a grandmother. She wasn’t cruel, just severely bipolar.
Art was her lifeline. When she was depressed, she hid in her dark bedroom for weeks and painted tortured canvases by candlelight. When she was manic, she moved to her sun-filled studio and painted around the clock.
Ryder lived for the manic periods. At least Eleanor talked to her then and encouraged her to paint, too. She tried, but Eleanor was never satisfied with her own work, much less that of a child. Ryder’s last attempt still sat on the easel in her playroom, surrounded by posters of the US Equestrian Team and shelves that held dozens of model horses.
Riding had been her lifeline. When she began to get into trouble at school, a concerned teacher convinced Eleanor that her granddaughter would get the attention she craved at the Cherokee Falls Equestrian Center. She wasn’t one of the juveniles referred by social workers to Leigh Parker’s program. Eleanor was wealthy enough to buy horses and pay for lessons. But Ryder was just as emotionally bruised as those other kids. She found friends there every day after school and on Saturdays, and Eleanor found the solitude she needed.
She wandered back into the studio, which reminded her of Bridgette’s loft with tall, uncovered windows that flooded the room with natural light. Would Bridgette like this studio, too? She imagined her, blond curls falling across her shoulders, standing in the center, brush poised to transfer her emotions onto the canvas.
She closed her eyes. She could almost taste Bridgette, feel the softness of her breast against her cheek, and hear Bridgette’s heart beating wildly.
Ryder shuddered. She’d rarely had a second thought about a woman after the tryst was over. Why now? Maybe it wasn’t Bridgette she really wanted. Maybe it was all the other people who had walked out of her life, walked out of this mansion.
She would call the lawyer tomorrow and tell him to sell everything—the house, the furniture, and her grandmother’s art.
Her life was simple now. She leased a furnished condo and kept few personal items other than her clothes and riding equipment. She could pack up in an hour and hop a plane to her next adventure when the mood hit.
No house to sell, no furniture to ship, no relationship to anchor her.
Chapter Ten
Bridgette hurried across the campus, barely noticing the October chill. Another red light and she would have been late to the evening class. It took longer than she had expected to find a new set of silk sheets. She bought deep blue to replace the red ones she had thrown out.
Hopefully, her teaching assistant had arrived early and was prepping the model Bridgette had suggested she enlist for tonight’s class. His physique wouldn’t offer the same lesson she’d planned to teach, but an androgynous model like Ryder was a rare find.
“Bridgette, a moment, please.”
She gritted her teeth but stopped and forced a smile before she turned. “Dean Blanchard. What can I do for you?”
“I may have a good prospect for a donation to the auction.”
“That’s wonderful. I’ve put out some feelers myself and should have some results to report to the committee in a few days.”
“Excellent. I knew you were the right person for the job.”
“So who is your prospective donor?”
He gave her a smug look. “I’ve heard that Eleanor White’s granddaughter is in town for the first time in years. She’s the sole heir to that estate, and the old mansion is still filled with art.”
“Eleanor White! She died almost five years ago. Her collection is intact?”
“Yes. The lawyer overseeing the estate is a friend, and he said the granddaughter apparently isn’t interested in Eleanor’s collection. He’s sure we could probably convince her to donate several pieces as a tax write-off.”
“You haven’t spoken with her yet?”
“No. He couldn’t give me her cell number without her permission, but I have a number for the friends she’s visiting. It’s in my office. If you have a moment, I can get it for you. ”
“You want me to call her?”
He frowned and pushed his hands into his pockets, obviously trying to decide how to phrase what he wanted to say. “My friend said, uh, she would be more readily agreeable if a woman made the proposal.”
“A woman.”
“Yes.” He raised his chin and looked her in the eye, as if daring her to object to his honesty. “It seems that, like you, she prefers the company of women. And I understand that she’s considered quite attractive to, uh, other women who prefer women.”
“Dean Blanchard, you old dog. Are you proposing that—”
“I’m only suggesting that she would be more receptive to listening to a beautiful, passionate artist than a stuffy, old department head.” He huffed. “For God’s sake, I’m not asking you to date her. Just talk her out of some of her grandmother’s paintings.”
She chuckled at his consternation. “Okay, but I’m late to my evening class. I’ll stop by tomorrow and get that number.”
“Very well. Tomorrow will be soon enough.”
*
Bridgette closed the door of the darkened classroom and waited for her eyes to adjust. She had only six students in this advanced sketch tutorial, and each sat before an easel positioned in focused pools of the track lighting. The only other lights in the room illuminated the small stage where the model’s back was turned to the students.
She nodded to her assistant, Karen, who signaled that she was going to step out of the classroom for a few minutes. After she quietly laid her bag on the desk in the back of the room, she slipped a Bach CD into the small stereo on the shelf behind her. The music and the lowered lights relaxed
and isolated the students from the hallway noise. These small touches, as well as her expertise, made Bridgette a favorite among the serious art students.
Her assistant had done well. The model was nude, except for a Greek-style helmet that covered the face turned toward the left. Feet shoulder-width apart, the model gripped a long spear planted parallel to the body, accentuating the well-developed bicep. The right hand rested on the model’s hip, bulging the muscle at the top of the shoulder.
Bridgette frowned and narrowed her eyes. She had used this model before and insisted that he shave down for the job, but he’d never been this smooth before.
The timer went off and the stage went dark.
“Five-minute breather for the model. Students, you may continue sketching or take a break,” she announced.
Karen returned to the classroom. “Great model, huh? I set up easels for us, too, if you want to sketch. I don’t know where you found her, but that’s an amazing body.”
“Her? I thought I told you to call Jason because Ms. Ryder wouldn’t be here.”
“He couldn’t do it. I was just about to call the agency to see if they could send someone but found a message in my mailbox that said Ms. Ryder had called to confirm she would be here after all. I thought the message was from you.”
“No. She must have called the department secretary.”
“Lucky for us, huh? It’ll be fun to see who picks up on her gender before we switch to a frontal view next week.”
“I don’t think so.” She didn’t want to envision Ryder naked, facing her whole class. Sure, her students were artists and they’d drawn nude models before. But not a body she knew so personally. Not this body that she’d slept with. Fucked. Touched. Tasted. Drooled over.
“Don’t think what?” Karen looked confused.
“Uh, I don’t think she’ll be back next week. I should have explained better. I had told her not to come tonight because she can’t be here next week.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I misunderstood.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll talk to her at the hour break.”
The buzzer sounded again and the stage lights came on. The students worked frantically.
It was so clear now. How could she not have recognized that back, that ass the moment she walked in? Her breath caught.
They were faint and nearly healed, but those were definitely scratches across Ryder’s left butt cheek. The vivid memory nearly stole her breath. Her nails digging into Ryder’s ass, urging her to thrust harder, faster as she was about to come. Bridgette sat on the desktop and squeezed her legs together to stop the throbbing in her crotch. Heat rose up her neck and she glanced around to see if anyone noticed.
But they were all sketching. Karen, too. She took a few deep breaths and refocused on her job. She moved from student to student, offering suggestions, commenting on their work. When the buzzer sounded, she pulled the curtain to conceal the stage while Karen switched on the overhead lights.
“You’ve got twenty minutes to work on your sketches, and then the model will return with a different pose for the second half of class,” she told her students before slipping behind the curtain to confront Ryder.
She picked up the robe tossed onto a padded bench that would be used for the next pose and held it up as Ryder pulled off the helmet. She put her finger to her lips and pointed to the door of her small office that served as a dressing room.
Ryder drew the robe around her shoulders but left it hanging open as she followed. Bridgette closed the door and whipped around to glare at her.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded in a hushed voice.
“I came to do what I said I’d do.”
“Keep your voice down. These walls are thin.”
Ryder’s hair was soaked from wearing the metal helmet under the hot lights. Sweat trickled down her neck, between her breasts, and over the bands of her abdomen.
“Close your robe, please.”
“I’m hot,” Ryder said, exposing a breast as she lifted the terry-cloth collar to wipe her face. “Besides, it’s nothing you haven’t seen before.” Ryder took a step closer and she breathed in her spicy scent. “Something I’d be happy to show you again, if you want.”
God, she did want. Badly. This room was too small. Ryder was too close. She needed to get out of here.
“There’s bottled water in the small fridge over there. I’d suggest that you drink enough to stay hydrated under the lights.” She pointed to the right. “The bathroom’s through that door.” She was babbling. Ryder obviously was acquainted with the bathroom because that was where she’d stripped before the class started.
Bridgette pressed against the door at her back when Ryder took another step forward. The robe had fallen back on her shoulders, baring her breasts. Her taut nipples were so close, Bridgette could almost feel them touching her own. Ryder’s eyes were liquid chocolate, her gaze melting.
“Don’t,” she whispered as Ryder’s lips brushed hers.
“I can’t help myself,” Ryder murmured.
The kiss was slow and languid. Ryder’s tongue was hot but her mouth gentle. She clutched Ryder’s robe to push her away but instead pulled her closer. Pressed between the door at her back and Ryder’s hard body, she whimpered and slipped her hand downward to clutch Ryder’s firm ass. Carefully. No fingernails, no marks.
Ryder’s fingers brushed her cheek and slipped around to grasp the back of her neck. The calluses of Ryder’s hand were rough against her skin.
Then she remembered why Ryder had calluses on her right hand. She pushed her away.
“Stop. This is not going to happen.”
“After class, then.” Ryder’s voice was hoarse.
“Never. It’s not going to happen again. Ever.” She smoothed her shirt and wiped at her lips, as though she could erase the kiss. “You have fifteen minutes before Karen comes back in and gets you ready for the next session. You’ll pose for fifteen minutes, take a five-minute break, then pose for fifteen more. After that you’re done.”
“When’s the next class? Karen said it was a two-night deal.”
“You won’t be here for a second night.” She slipped out the door before Ryder could say more.
When the lights dimmed and the curtain was drawn back for the next session, she was pleased that Karen had carefully followed her instructions.
Ryder was a Greek warrior, lounging on the padded bench, propped up by her left arm, shoulders turned toward the students. Her healing left leg lay flat on the bench, while the right was bent to support her arm casually resting on her knee.
But she wasn’t fully nude. Leather armor covered her shoulders and breasts. They had purposefully left off the matching belly plate to expose her muscled abdomen. Attached to the armor, a crimson cape draped down her back and swirled across her hip to discreetly cover her crotch.
Still, the female identity was obvious to Bridgette. The lack of body hair, the shape of the rib cage, elegant wrists, and finely boned hands were telling. Would her students recognize them?
Despite her frustration that Ryder was here, in her classroom, she reveled in the lesson this session would provide her budding artists.
The eye ports in the helmet were fathomless black holes under the stage lighting, but she could feel Ryder watching her. She stared back, careful to keep her expression stoic even though her mouth was parched and her heart pounded.
She watched the tight abdominal muscles contract and expand with each breath. Then they stilled, as though Ryder was holding her breath, and she realized she was unconsciously licking her dry lips. She ran her tongue over her lips again, inexplicably pleased when the muscles jerked, confirming she wasn’t the only one affected by their proximity.
Feeling more in control, she went to the easel Karen had prepared for her and began to draw. Soon, she was immersed so deep, she sketched through the breaks and never looked up when Karen pulled the curtain on the stage and instructed Ryder how to exit without walking throug
h the classroom after she dressed.
“Do you want to stay a while longer?”
She was surprised to glance up and see the classroom empty. Karen had already put the supplies away and stood near the door.
“I was about to head out,” Karen said. “Do you need anything else?”
“No. Gosh. I didn’t realize it was so late. You go ahead. I need to wash up. I’ll lock the classroom.”
She carefully stored the drawing in her office and washed the charcoal from her fingers. The robe and costume Ryder had worn lay across the short sofa. She stared at the crimson cloak and realized the color had not triggered another anxiety attack. In fact, she was so focused on Ryder, she hadn’t even hesitated as she sketched the cloak. Relief flooded her, and she made a mental note to return the helmet and armor to the drama department tomorrow.
It was late when she stepped out into the cool evening, but she felt surprisingly good. A few students were still moving between the buildings and her car wasn’t that far away. She hummed to herself as she walked, enjoying the clear night. Then she stopped.
A dark figure sat on the trunk of her car. She slowed and glanced about. A young couple sat a short distance away on a bench, so she wasn’t alone. As she cautiously approached, the figure turned and the streetlight revealed Ryder’s face.
She let out her breath and walked directly to the car.
“If you need a ride, I can call a cab for you,” she said, unlocking the door. The hurt that flashed across Ryder’s features made her instantly regret her caustic offer.
“I don’t need a ride.” Ryder slid off the trunk and hobbled around to face her.
She was surprised to see Ryder using the cane again. She hadn’t had it in the art building. Standing while she posed for thirty minutes apparently had taken a toll.
“You’re a real faucet, you know. Off, on. Hot, cold.”
Every Second Counts Page 9
