Page 7 of The Artist and the Muse

As I spoke, I could practically see the painting in front of me again, the lines of her face, the spark in her eyes.

“I never considered that,” he said. “I always focused on the knight more. The way he’s looking at her.”

I laughed. “Frustrated by her unwillingness to let him pull her up?”

“There's that. He also wants to save her from herself and she won’t let him—and he knows he can’t rescue her. He knows he has to let her go through this on her own, yet it’s killing him to watch her.”

His analysis surprised me. “You’ve really studied this painting, haven’t you?”

“Don’t most people do that at art museums?” He cocked his head to one side. There was a blend of elegance and nonchalant gruffness to him. On one hand, the simplicity of his outfit and the white scars peppering his knuckles and forearms suggested he was a man who hadn’t always lived life on the straight and narrow. On the other hand, his beard was neatly trimmed and his cologne smelled expensive and intoxicating, like sea salt and sage. Nothing like the frat boys I’d met who doused themselves in Axe body spray.

“I think most people pose with the art and then post pictures on social media. Or they breeze through, not taking time to examine any of the paintings too closely. Just trying to say they’ve seen them all, without really looking at any of them.”

He chuckled. “I like you, Miss…”

“Philips. Georgia Philips.” I extended a hand for him to shake.

He shook my hand with a firm grasp, not treating me like something breakable, which I appreciated. Still, the pressure of his fingersagainst mine sent a shiver down my spine. A shiver that had nothing to do with the air conditioning gusting through my linen dress and everything to do with the way he looked at me.

Like I was one of the art pieces on the wall, something to be admired and studied and cherished.

“What a coincidence. I’m George.”

“No last name?” A smirk played on the corners of my mouth as I took my hand back. “I gave you mine.”

“I have something better for you.”

“That could come off really creepy, George.” Still, I couldn’t help the smile that spread across my face.

“That depends. Would you like to see the gallery’s private collection of Devereaux paintings?”

“There aremoreof them?“ I whispered, mostly to myself. I’d been so enraptured by the man’s paintings that I hadn’t bothered to wonder where else I could see them.

“Of course. He’s the artist in residence here.” George gestured me toward the door marked RISERVATO and unlocked it. “Ladies first.”

I walked in, feeling like a trespasser but too curious to turn back. George led me past red velvet floor-length curtains into a world of some of the most beautiful art I had ever seen. “Wait, is this the artist’sstudio?”

Some half-finished sketches and canvases littered the small room, along with easels draped with white sheets. In the centre of the room was a painting of what looked like Madonna and child, but the woman’s face was still a blur, her features unfinished.

“You could call it that.” George’s amusement grew as he watched me explore the room. “But it’s more like an artist’s privateroom back here.”

“How are we allowed back here? Won’t the artist be mad that we’ve invaded his personal space?” Not that invading an artist’s private studio ranked high on the list of my broken rules.

George chuckled. “I think we’ll be fine.”

I took a deep breath, smelling the paint and turpentine that had been used, and closed my eyes. Along with the beautiful art I’d taken in today and the gentle jazz playing softly from the speakers, I was in heaven. All that was needed to complete my bliss would be a delicious pasta dish and a view of the sunset over the ocean. “This is a much better gift than your last name.”

“You can have that, too, if you want.”

I laughed. “If you’re going to propose marriage, you should at least ask me to dinner first.”

“I will. But I have a different present for you.” He lifted one of the sheets off a frame dramatically. “Voila.”

It wasThe Fair Maiden and Her Knight. “How did you…”

“Georgia.” The gleam in George’s hazel eyes was confidence mingled with delight. “I’mG. C. Devereaux.”

Chapter Four: George Devereaux

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