Page 10 of The Artist and the Muse

“Don’t believe inwishes?” She gave a dramatic gasp, her rose-petal lips dropping open in a perfectO. “What kind of artist are you?”

“A practical one,” I said, putting my hand on the small of her back to steer her toward the motorcycle rental shop I knew was nearby. “Now, how do you feel about motorcycles?”

“Well, I’ll get on one with you, but only because you claim to be a practical artist. Not one with his head in the clouds who would be bound to steer us into a tree.” Georgia grinned. Again, thatmillion-dollar smile looked to me like it should have been gazing back at me from a magazine. But no, magazine-cover beauty was too shallow a definition for her appearance. She should have been adorning the Sistine Chapel’s ceiling, or starring in a painting of Aphrodite or the Muses.

“But you’re wearing a dress.”

She shook her head. “I have shorts under. You never know when you might need to get on a motorcycle for the first time.”

I chuckled. I was surprised and strangely touched by her assurance that I wouldn’t steer us wrong. That she trusted me. As I helped her put on her helmet, my thumb brushed the soft underside of her jaw. I was grateful the visor came down to cover her face so I wouldn’t be so terribly distracted by her.

She bunched up her skirt in her hands as she waited for me to sit down first, adjusting her outfit to keep her dress from getting caught in the motorcycle or burned by the exhaust.

No one had trusted me with their safety in a long time. So the fact that she did made a flame of hope sputter to life in my chest.

Chapter Five: Georgia Philips

As I climbed onto the back of George Devereaux’s motorcycle and wrapped my arms around his surprisingly muscled torso, I questioned every decision that had led me to this wild, thrilling moment.

I’d been known to get my hands dirty or hair messy in pursuit of adventure, so the adventurous part wasn’t new for me. But why had the forces in my life conspired to sprinkle romance into my life? How I had gotten so close to an artist whose work I’d only been admiring for the past few days? Why had fate or God or whatever higher power allowed me to meet him... and put an automatic time constraint on us forming a relationship?

Not only did the end date of my vacation make me hesitate to start anything with George, but also my fake boyfriend waiting for me, back in New York. Sergio Cavalli, a fellow model and the socialite cousin of the famous entrepreneur, Sebastian Cavalli.

My publicist and my agent had both assured me that dating Sergio would put me on the map. So far I’d only been a catalogue model,landing roles in small campaigns and modelling clothes for department store flyers.

But after this, my agent, Claire, assured me I could expectVoguecovers and money and freedom to pursue whatever artistic whims struck my fancy. I might be able to branch out from modelling to acting or music, or whatever I wanted. Claire had promised me that during the meeting we'd had a few days before leaving for Italy.

The only problem was, I wasn’t so sure what I wanted to do as a creative pursuit. Even though I was attracted to the allure of money I’d earned myself, especially money that hadn’t been provided by a trust fund from my wealthy uncle, I didn’t know what career path called me.

Acting was too similar to modelling for me. I had never relished the idea of having cameras on me at all times for a career. Which made my modelling career so ironic, because I never received attention for anything except my looks.

I’d been raised with my mother’s adoring praises whispered in my ear as she brushed my hair, our eyes locking in the mirror as she murmured,such a pretty face. She always gave me compliments on my appearance—you have your father’s eyes, so striking.

One year, when I wanted to dress as Wonder Woman for Halloween one year, she’d suggested Rapunzel instead. That was before the frying-pan-wielding heroine ofTangledhad been created in the Disney film. So, I knew I was being slotted into the role of superficial beauty, not capability. But, my mom had insisted that it was because I was blonde, like Rapunzel, and Wonder Woman was brunette.

We took a sharp turn over the cobblestoned streets, the motorcycle pitching so far to one side that I could have sworn my side would have scraped the ground if not for George’s quick righting of the bike. My stomach lurched, bringing me back to the present moment.

The resulting swoop and flip of my insides might have been due to the rumble of the motorcycle beneath me and the whoosh of the summer breeze ruffling my dress… But part of me wondered if it was because of George Devereaux.

As the wind whipped past me, I was keenly aware of how exposed we were to the elements. It wasn’t like we were riding through harsh weather, but every sensation was magnified. The cool of the breeze; the rumble of the bike; the goosebumps rising on my bare arms; all of it felt a thousand times sharper and clearer than any car ride with the windows down. I could get used to the sensation of being vividly alive.

The bike pulled to a stop next to a smaller, but more whimsically detailed fountain, with two basins. The smaller, uppermost basin sprayed water toward the sky. Four bronze statues of men stood at awkward angles beneath the upper basin, with their feet resting on fishes’ heads. Streams of water flowed from the fishes’ mouths into the pool. Each statue had one muscular arm extended upwards, barely touching the small bronze animals that rested on the upper basin of the fountain.

“Are thoseturtleson the fountain?” I asked. Then I remembered I had the helmet on with the visor down, and George probably couldn’t hear me through the motorcycle’s rumble anyway.

George shut off the motorcycle. He reached out, unbuckling the straps of my helmet. His calloused, rough fingers were surprisingly gentle on my skin, his touch featherlight as his fingertips skimmed my face. A shiver ran down my spine as he pulled away, hanging the helmet on the handlebars of his bike. “What was that?”

I repeated my question. “Turtles. You brought me to see a fountain with turtles on it?”

“Hey, this isn’t just any turtle fountain. This isFontana della Tartarughe—it’s a turtle fountain that’s been mistaken for one of Michelangelo or Raphael’s creations.”

I cocked my head to one side. “Is this fountain why they’re called the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?”

The pained expression on his face made me burst into laughter. “Georgia, that’s the artistic equivalent of serving Chef Boyardee’s macaroni to Gordon Ramsay.”

“Are you also going to start swearing at me in a British accent?”

“I might, if you told me you found British accents attractive.” His grimace softened a touch as he quirked an eyebrow. “Do you?”

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