Page 36 of Wicked Design
Her feet tangled, arms windmilled.
He shut the door and flung out his hands. “Voilà.”
“I’ll say.” She dropped to her knees and pulled down his fly.
He grabbed her wrists. “Wait.”
“Why?”
“Look.”
“I’m trying to, but you keep stopping me.” She wrested free.
He grabbed her again. “Look at the room.”
“Why? What’s so—?” She stood and turned a slow circle.
He’d displayed the sketches of her likeness he’d completed these past months. Most sheets showed her face in profile or a three-quarter pose, her expression pensive in some, neutral in others. Always beautiful.
She touched the drawings with care, the way one would with something sacred.
Humbled, he regretted not having enough talent to do her justice. “I wish I could have done better.”
“What are you talking about? These are fantastic. You made me look good.” She glanced over. “Is this how you see me?”
He’d never capture her real essence or what was in his heart when it came to her. “Almost as good as your image in my mind.” He picked up his best work. In it, a faceless crowd surrounded her, their forms blurred and gray, while she stood out Technicolor bright, her gaze direct. “I didn’t have time to tint each sketch like this one. Truth is, I’m not good with chalk or watercolors like Tor is. Oil’s my medium.”
Van Gogh pulled out the painting he’d brought. Last spring he’d spotted her in a local park. A chance encounter he should have taken advantage of, but he hadn’t the nerve to make his move. In the oil painting she sat cross-legged beneath an enormous banyan tree, eyes bright, hand outstretched to a pigeon. Sun broke through heavy clouds, the rays creating a golden circle around her, buildings and passersby far less colorful, their representation similar to what the real Van Gogh would have done. Her facial detail was closer to da Vinci’s style. Somehow the differing techniques worked well together.
For him.
Clover’s silence concerned Van Gogh and couldn’t be good for someone so talkative. “I should have made your hair black. At the time I painted this I thought it was dark brown.”
She touched the oil then dropped her hand.
“It’s okay. You can’t hurt it. Fondle away.”
Her eyes sparkled.
He wanted to die. Her disapproval of him was far worse than anything shitty his parents might say about his work. “I shouldn’t have shown this to you. It’s not my best. I can do better.”
“Than this? How would that be possible for any artist? Can I have it? I’ll pay you.”
“No. It’s yours.” He offered her the oil, stunned she wanted it. “Are you sure you like it? Be honest. You won’t hurt my feelings.”
She stroked the edges. “I recognize where you saw me and remember that day. I should have gone grocery shopping but thought screw it. If the world ended tomorrow, I’d have crappy TV dinners but would have missed a nice afternoon. Thankfully, the clouds made it cooler, but that bird was a real piece of work. It kept chasing off the others to get my breadcrumbs and wouldn’t leave me alone even when I tried to shoo it away.
“No, I don’t like your painting. I adore it. I didn’t see you back then sketching me, otherwise I would have gestured you over. Did you take a picture of me on your phone and do this later?”
“I work from memory.”
“Get out.” She bumped his arm. “And you don’t think this is good? It’s amazing. You should have said hi. I don’t bite.” She sank her teeth lightly into his biceps. “At least not much.”
He cupped her face. “Behave.”
“Make me.”
“You don’t think I will? I brought cuffs.”
