Page 54 of Painting Celia

“Well, yes,” she agreed slowly. “You should have. But I understand about inspiration.”

“Do you?” His expression eased a fraction.

“Not personally, not yet,” she amended. “But I know artists. I get what happened.”

“Okay. Thanks. And,” León said, swallowing, “I apologize for chasing you down and bugging you to sit for me.” When she tried to shake her head, dismissing him, he cut her off. “You kept saying you wanted to go, but I didn’t listen.”

“I said I was cold,” she replied.

His eyes fell, his face finally looking as though he was sorry. “And I apologize for touching you without asking.”

But she hadn’t minded. It had been natural in the moment. Still, when he put it that way, he had a point.

“It won’t happen again,” he said.

Oh.

For a moment, their eyes met, both with faces as carefully blank as unpainted canvases.

He looked away to start straightening his brushes. “I’d like to get the shapes right now,” he said, “but the light’s wrong for final work. Would you sit again tonight, out by the pool, so I could get the colors?”

“I can do that.”

“Thanks. For now, could we put you….” He looked around at the floor-to-ceiling windows, flooded with morning light, then looked to the pool. “If we lay you here, on the floor, I could move back here. That’s about the same angle as the pool. We’ll put down some blankets so it’s more comfortable.”

“All right.”

“You can leave on underwear if you want. I just need shapes.” He began pulling blankets and pillows off his bed and laying them on the floor. She began undressing.

She sneaked a few looks toward him as he worked. He moved quickly, impatiently, but his face was like stone. Usually, she could see exactly what he was thinking, his expressive brows and mouth giving away everything. However, Andrew had said he only looked impassive when he was hiding something.

He finished laying out blankets and stood by his easel with pillows in his hands to cushion and prop her up where needed. He didn’t turn his head as she got down on the floor.

Bare except for her underwear, she stretched out on her back, raising enough to lean on her elbows, waiting for him to direct her.

•••

Her underwear was pink.

León snapped his eyes to the canvas. He’d thought for a second she was fully nude, reclining on his bedding in the sun. His mouth was dry, his heart pounding. Damn. Come on, he’d worked with nude models since art school.

He had to look back to give direction.

Wow. The sight of her.

The sun was golden and fragile, with that gentleness you only got in the mornings. It reflected off her skin, rounding the curves away from the window with dark gold shadows, the parts of her near the window glowing. Her skin was warm and softly textured. The fine hairs on her arms burned like filaments. A long stripe of sun running down her thigh made a beautiful line he’d need to capture, but not for this blue painting.

Okay. Get it together.

“Could you lay back like you were last night, please? Arms out to your side.” She did so. “Your right leg bent a little at the knee, please.” The left leg had that glorious stripe of sun, the other a shadow that mirrored it, hinting at roundness and motion. “Arch your back just the smallest bit.” It made her look more as though she were floating. “Head back, please. A little less. Okay, hold that.”

He approached with the pillows, tucking one under her knee to help support it. His eyes met hers, asking silently if it was comfortable, and she nodded. He bent closer to push one under her arched back, having to tuck it firmly when it bunched against the blanket. The back of his hand brushed against her skin, and he clenched his jaw.

The final pillow went under her neck and shoulders, helping to support her arched neck. The line of her bared throat made him swallow hard. He studiously avoided looking elsewhere.

“Good?”

“I’m fine.”

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