Artistic License

by Elle Pierson

  “Alicia Kemp,” Sophy confirmed, nodding. “She’s actually one of my favourite artists, but she’s almost completely unknown. She painted a lot in the 1940s, and then basically gave it up to raise her family. I’m arguing that she was right there with many of the early proponents for local modernity. I’ve managed to track down some of her works in regional museums, but apparently a private banker in Auckland has the majority of her surviving paintings, and his collection is totally private and inaccessible. Anyway,” she shook her head, smiling. “Sorry. It’s almost one o’clock in the morning. Class dismissed.”

  “I like listening to you talk about art. You’re doing what you love. Can’t underrate that.”

  Despite the clear sincerity of the compliment, he looked tired. There were fresh grooves etched at the corners of his mouth and shadows beneath his eyes. Guilt panged as she observed him with concern.

  “Has it been a really long day?” she asked sympathetically. “And I dragged you out of bed.”

  “A crisis in the London office dragged me out of bed,” he returned easily. “Followed by a hysterical guest at the hotel, and Sean with a spider in his room.”

  “A spider?” Sophy repeated, blinking.

  “Hates them.”

  “Oh.” She snorted with laughter. “Poor Mick. Actually, poor Sean. I’m petrified, too.”

  “I wouldn’t get up close and personal with one by choice either, but I don’t make a scene about it.”

  “You didn’t join in the girlish screams?” she teased. She toed off her heels and tucked one leg beneath her on the couch. She was wearing her work uniform of black skinny jeans and a plain black tank. Mick was wearing his leather jacket over a basic tee and pants, black on black on black.

  They looked like the poster children for today’s modern biker couple.

  “Tends to be frowned upon in the Army,” he said, grinning before his expression turned more serious. “Sophy, about this car you saw.”

  Her smile faded. “I didn’t really see it,” she admitted, shifting uncomfortably against the cushions. “Honestly, Mick, I’m not even sure it was following me. I think I’ve just let everything that’s been happening get to my head.”

  “I don’t think we should ignore the possibility. Particularly given the incidents with the gifts.”

  “They’re probably harmless. Just someone trying to be nice,” she said, biting her thumbnail as she watched him.

  “I agree,” he replied calmly. “There probably is no harm in it, and the person in the car was likely looking for a number on a letterbox or waiting to pick someone up. But we can still be cautious. Could you see the colour of the car, any identifying features, any numbers on the license plate?”

  Sophy considered, tried to think back to the moments before she’d panicked and hopped away like a spooked rabbit. “It was dark,” she said doubtfully. “And I was trying not to look too hard, to be honest. I didn’t want to alert the driver if he was watching me.”

  “He?” Mick asked quickly.

  Sophy shrugged. “Or she. I assumed it was a man, I suppose. Not really based on anything but assumptions. The car was dark, but I couldn’t say exactly what colour, and I wouldn’t have a clue on the make. I don’t know anything about cars. As long as they have four wheels and preferably a cute paint job, I’m good to go.”

  “License plate?” He was apparently not to be deflected by the brief diversion into the girly.

  “Mick, I really wasn’t looking.”

  He had put down his cup of tea to pull out an electronic notebook. “I know,” he said, “but you’re an artist, Sophy, and you’re one of the most observant people I’ve ever met. You probably pick up details without consciously realising it. Try to think back without forcing it.”

  She puffed out her cheeks in a heavy, tired breath. After a few minutes, her lips and nose twisted in a grimace, and she shook her head. “No good,” she said. “Sorry. I just wanted to get out of there. I had visions of guys in black masks leaping out of the back seat.”

  “You did everything right,” he assured her again, tucking the device back inside his jacket, and briefly touching the pad of his thumb to her chin. It was a casually affectionate gesture that made her heart thump.

  He sat back and gave her a slightly unreadable look before he picked up his tea again. “What kind of vehicle does Gallagher drive?”

  He uttered the question in meticulously bland accents over the rim of his cup, and for a moment she entirely missed the implication.

  “Dale?” she asked blankly, then: “Dale?”

  Mick just watched her, one brow raised.

  “Mick, what… Dale?” she asked in disbelief for the third time. She stared at him in astonishment. “Why on earth would you think that Dale was loitering about town at midnight, following me home?”

  “Have you considered he might have sent the gifts?”

  Sophy opened her mouth. Closed it again.

  “He has a thing for you,” Mick said coolly.

  God. Parallel universe. Any minute now, she would wake up, or Mick would turn into a tap-dancing donkey or something.

  “What? I…what?”

  “He has a thing for you,” he repeated calmly.

  She managed to produce a noise between a splutter and a sneeze. “He does not.”

  She actually felt…scandalised. It was as if he’d told her, in those irritatingly bland tones, that Nigella Lawson had given up baking cakes to peddle diet pills, or Rodin’s The Kiss was actually a portrait of vampiric exsanguination, or her parents were practicing Satanists.

  It was ludicrous.

  “No, he doesn’t,” she said, more firmly. “Why would you even think… He’s Melissa’s ex-boyfriend!”

  The prosecuting counsel appeared to be unimpressed with her defence.

  “Do you think that might be why he’s Melissa’s ex-boyfriend?” he asked, unperturbed.

  What? She didn’t… Ack.

  “Dale does not have a thing for me,” she said between gritted teeth.

  Apparently a wise man knew when to retreat from the fray.

  “Maybe not,” he conceded, and it was the verbal equivalent of a placatory pat on the head.

  Much more of this, and she would have no enamel left on her back molars.

  “Why don’t we change the subject?” she suggested tightly. Right now. “And talk about something more pleasant. Like religion and politics. Or the hearing on Friday.”

  There: an appeal to the man’s Nile-wide chivalrous streak. His attention was immediately diverted.

  “Are you worrying about it?” he asked, reaching for her hand. Mick was a definite toucher. She was not, by nature, but her usual reserve was apparently situation-specific. Her fingers turned in his grasp, curling around his. “Because I wasn’t giving you a line at the hospital to avert a meltdown, Soph. It really shouldn’t be a big deal at all.”

  “Will you be there?” she asked, and hoped it had come across as curious rather than needy. She wasn’t so far gone that she was going to fling her arms around his knees and cling.

  He looked a bit surprised. “I will if you want me to be,” he said slowly, releasing his hold, and she frowned.

  “But don’t you have to give evidence?”

  “No. The firm submitted a report to the police, but there are plenty of witnesses to Darvie’s part in the incident, and he was taken into custody on the premises. The Crown needs your statement to place Maria Harper at the scene.”

  She had originally brought up the trial as a distraction; now, she really was getting nervous again. “Oh.” Sophy frowned. “But…I thought you said you were going to Auckland this week as well?”

  “I am,” said Mick grimly, and with a total lack of enthusiasm. “I’m going first thing Friday morning.”

  She thought he was going to continue the trend of strong and silent, and leave it at that, but he went on, sounding as if she’d pulled the information out of him with a pair of red-hot pliers: “My brot
her’s getting married on Saturday.”

  It was the first time he’d voluntarily initiated a conversation about his family. She had been starting to wonder if they were arms dealers or lifestyle nudists.

  Leaning her head back against the couch, absently rubbing the stiletto-ache in her heels, Sophy studied him. She thought it best to remain quiet, let him decide if he wanted to go on.

  “My father is fairly…adamant that I attend,” he said. His large hands were playing with the half-empty mug, which he realised after a minute and stopped. He leaned forward to put it carefully down on the coffee table, a safe distance from her study notes.

  “Well, sure,” she said cautiously. “It’s a big deal, I suppose, your siblings tying the knot. And a wedding is always exciting.”

  Actually, she ranked weddings as social occasions only slightly less hellish than school reunions, but it didn’t seem supportive to say so.

  Mick’s lips twitched. “Hmm,” he said. “This will be the fourth time in six years that we’ve had that particular thrill. It started to pall before the first round of vows.”

  “Your brother’s been married three times already?” Sophy asked disbelievingly. “And he’s…how old?”

  “Thirty-six.”

  “Geez. They didn’t all die in mysterious circumstances, did they?” she said without thinking, and then visibly cringed.

  Her poor, tired feet had suffered enough abuse tonight without being shoved between her teeth like that.

  Fortunately, Mick laughed, a huff of tension leaving his body. “Not that I’m aware of,” he said, his eyes smiling at her. “Last I heard, they each vanished into the sunset clutching a hefty cheque. And good luck to them.”

  “I’m not really feeling the brotherly love.” Sophy tucked her hand beneath her cheek, weighing her words. “Are you…not a very close family?”

  She sensed that some of the answers to the Mick-puzzle could be found here, but the navigation was a bit rocky.

  “I wouldn’t say that.” His mouth twisted wryly. “They’re peas in a very narrow pod.”

  They’re peas in a pod.

  She reached out and took hold of his hand again, clasping it between both of hers. Her palms were swallowed up against his much larger fist. A startled flash of emotion crossed his features, a blend of surprise, gratitude, and something infinitely more disturbing. She jumped slightly when he lifted their joined fingers and pressed a kiss to the back of her wrist.

  She was half-anxious, half-hopeful in trying to anticipate his next move, but he merely dropped his head back against the cushions and closed his eyes. His barrel-like chest moved in a deep sigh. He looked exhausted.

  “You should get home to bed,” she said quietly.

  His lashes barely flickered. “Are you going to be all right?” he asked, and the words were a deep, sleepy rumble.

  “Of course I will.”

  The desire to lean forward and touch her lips gently to his was almost insurmountable. There seemed to be a new closeness, a comfort, between them. And it was bothering her that it wasn’t bothering her.

  This seemed to be the night for confidences, and there was one more subject she desperately wanted to raise. It wasn’t nosiness. She hoped. It just felt like she should know. Even if it went against a lifetime of caution to return to a point of contention.

  “Mick,” she said, firmly enough that he opened his eyes and looked at her fully. “I realise this is the conversational version of poking a bruise with a stick, but I’m just going to come out and ask properly this time. It wasn’t my business before, and it’s not my business now, so if you really don’t want to talk about this, just say so. I promise I won’t run sobbing into the night.”

  He had let go of her hands and was sitting up on the edge of the couch, his forearms resting on his knees. Of the two of them, he looked far more inclined to bolt. There was an air of resignation about him, however, rather than the defensive anger she had feared.

  “What happened with the woman at work?”

  The question fell between them like a gambler throwing down a last-ditch attempt at a winning hand. Everything hinged on the other player’s response.

  Mick stared at the floor, one hand rubbing the back of his neck, his movements unhurried and thoughtful. When he spoke, it was without looking at her. “She slept with me on a bet.”

  Whatever Sophy had been expecting, it hadn’t been that.

  “What?” she asked blankly, and watched as his fingers tensed against his collar.

  “She was headhunted into Ryland Curry last year from a firm in Ireland,” he said evenly, still to the carpet. “I had no personal interest in her, but after a month or so she started a pretty heavy pursuit. She was…fairly relentless.” He glanced at her, and his expression, until then lacking any sort of emotion, became tinged with self-disgust. “I eventually took what was on offer. It was only later that Sean discovered she’d made a bet with two other consultants, Anya Hollings and Jack Trevallion, that she could go through with it.”

  He shrugged. “Trevallion’s an inept prick who’s had it in for me since I gave him a written warning for a misdemeanour last year. I’d always had a reasonable working relationship with Anya.”

  He’d been betrayed by one trusted colleague and treated without kindness, respect or decency by another. And he was so bloody polite about it.

  Sophy was actually trembling with anger. “I don’t…” She swallowed the harsh words, and tried again. “I don’t understand. Why? I don’t get it.”

  The look he gave her hit her directly in the throat.

  “Sophy,” he said, and the very ordinariness of his voice brought tears stinging to her eyes. “Look at me.”

  She moved so quickly that he didn’t have time to retreat. Her hands came up hard against his jaw, gripping his head between her palms and forcing his face to meet hers. She pressed her forehead to his and felt her lashes sweep the curve of his brow. “I do look at you,” she said fiercely. “I haven’t stopped looking at you for days. And I would never understand her.”

  His arms were achingly slow to come around her, and then they tightened in a compulsive movement, hard bands across her back, enveloping her in warm, firm muscle.

  It wasn’t the crescendo peak of a grand seduction scene. It was a quiet embrace of deep, even breaths and shared comfort. And love. For that instant of time, it was a touch of love, given freely, without strings, conditions or promises.

  His fingers were tracing gentle patterns up her spine as they sat there quietly. A hand came up against the back of her head, smoothing the flow of her ponytail, playing with the ends of her hair. “Sophy,” he murmured, and her name thrummed between his chest and her ear.

  “Mmm.” She was slipping into a floaty, contented doze.

  Her leather-clad pillow shifted and rolled irritatingly as he bent to try and see her face. “Honey.”

  “Shh.”

  His soft, ragged laugh was the last sound she heard as she fell deeply asleep.

  His completely standard, garden-variety security detail in Queenstown was turning out to be an emotional trial by fire.

  Mick tightened his hold around Sophy, slipping one arm under her knees to lift her high against his chest as he stood up. He wasn’t used to handling anything with such a delicate touch, and managed to find a flicker of amusement in the fact that he was carrying her as cautiously as he would a live explosive.

  Her elbows curved about his neck as she snuggled into his throat, and he remained motionless for a few seconds, just breathing her in. She smelled faintly of perfume, one of those ultra-feminine, synthetic scents that were pleasant when women didn’t get carried away with the spray. Also ever so slightly of beer from the bar, which wasn’t unpleasant either.

  He wasn’t entirely sure what had happened this evening. This morning.

  There were very few people in his life who truly knew him, and for whom he would take a hit without hesitation. Sean was his brother in all but blood.
He had several army buddies who had walked at his side into hell. On the family side of the ledger, he was now only close to a paternal aunt, a politically liberal yoga instructor whom his father had all but disinherited.

  His relationships with women had been largely and even then sporadically sexual. He was aware he had a physical frame that was attractive to a certain type, but as he’d tried to tell Sophy, he was under no illusions about his lack of good looks. Women in general were not interested in taking things further than the bedroom; many had difficulty even in making eye contact. He was not the sort of man whom they were proud to be seen with in public and wanted to take home to meet their mother.

  It was what it was.

  As usual, however, Sophy apparently marched to her own beat. She might be skittering around the prospect of pursuing a physical relationship, but it wasn’t because of the limitations of his appearance. And he truly did believe that, for possibly the first time in his life.

  As for how he felt about her –

  After a lifetime of distance, it was a bit mind-blowing that he could bond this quickly and this hard with someone. He cared about her in a way that was completely out of proportion with the shortness of their acquaintance.

  Moving slowly, he walked with her out of the living room and down the hallway to where two bedrooms faced one another, the doors thankfully open. There was no problem in identifying which room belonged to Sophy.

  Easing the door wider with his shoulder, he carried her into the messy one.

  She basically expanded the moment she touched the mattress, arms and legs flying in all directions and seriously hampering his attempts to cover her with the patchwork quilt. Giving up, grinning, Mick checked the fastenings on her windows and pulled her curtains.

  Before he quietly left the house, snicking the lock behind him, he ran the back of his knuckles down the smooth exposed plane of her arm, and shook his head.

  He was dead on his feet by the time he got back to the hotel, so knackered that he made a very rare usage of the elevator. Letting himself into his room with a pass key, he didn’t hold back a pained groan when Sean looked up from his sprawled position in the armchair. “For fuck’s sake, it’s a five-star hotel. If there’s another spider, call the reception desk.”