Page 16 of Muzzled

Chapter Six

Mike watched asRyan eyed her, the hint of lust that had spiked when she first knelt before him turning to wariness.

“Relax.” She laughed, patted his knee, and pulled a fresh canvas over. “You don’t have to pose. Just be.”

He exhaled and shifted, stretching his neck out. “I was kind of expecting to be a total spectator in this,” he muttered, clenching his jaw a few times before he attempted to relax for her. “So just do this?”

Tilting her head to study him, she nodded. “I don’t do portraits,” she said, squinting as an image began to form. “More of an inside job, if that makes sense.”

He flexed his hands and grabbed his knees. “I’m not sure I want to know what you see.”

“Tell me about your family.”

Blinking, he rolled his shoulders out and hunched forward a fraction. “I have two brothers.”

She waited for him to expand, keeping one eye on his hesitations as she set her spray cans aside and pulled her oil paints closer. “You guys close?”

“I suppose,” he replied, watching her hands intently. “They’re twins. Alex lives down in the Coachella Valley with his girlfriend. He’s…what are you doing?”

Reaching behind him to pull a tabletop easel from under her bed, she laughed. “Ryan. Relax. This won’t hurt.”

He shifted again and nodded, the intensity of his gaze letting her know how little he was obeying her command. “Alex is pretty levelheaded. He runs a bar down there now and seems to be liking i—” His eyes locked on the back of the canvas as she propped it on the stand where he couldn’t see her work. “Liking it. Bo’s wilder. He’s settled down a lot since he got married, but he’s got a reckless streak in him that will probably get me killed someday.” She made her first swipe across the canvas and he leaned forward. “So, you’re starting?”

Reaching over to give his leg a squeeze, she reloaded her paintbrush. “Remember what I said,” she murmured, closing her eyes to zoom in on the image in her head. “It’s an inspiration, not a photo.” With a frown, she zeroed in on the picture. “Interesting.”

*

Ryan arched overhis chair to peek at Mike’s work, sitting back when she stabbed at him with a loaded brush. “So what you’re saying is if I had bent my knee a different way or scratched my arm, the whole piece might have shifted in your head.”

She’d been painting for over an hour already, answering his barrage of questions about her process—or at least the questions he’d come up with once he’d relaxed enough to think of anything other than escaping.

“That’s essentially it,” she murmured, feeling around beside her until she found a cloth. “One tilt of the head could bring on a dragon, one breath held too long could bring on a mermaid.” She looked up at him. “You don’t inspire mermaids.”

“Damn,” he grumbled, trying in vain to track her hand movements. “I was kind of hoping for a seashell bra.”

She laughed and set her brush aside as she stood up. “I’ve done enough mermaids in my life,” she said, reaching up and stretching her back out. “So tell me, lone accountant, you ever been married?”

Persephone flashed across his mind for a second, her perfectly sculpted lips drawn tight in annoyance. “Never,” he replied, looking away as Mike arched back, giving him a flash of skin across her stomach. “How about you?”

“No interest in white, in either dress or picket-fence form,” she grinned, walking over to a small fridge and grabbing two bottles of water. Passing one to him, she resumed her place on the floor and stared at her canvas for a moment. “Not going to lie, this is kind of a strange piece.”

Popping the cap off his bottle, he fought the urge to peek, knowing the oil paint she’d been using to fend him off would definitely stain. “And I’m not going to lie. You saying that makes me nervous as all hell.”

Exchanging a wide brush for a skinnier one, she dipped into an ivory flesh tone. “I’m just as nervous as you are,” she said as she scooted closer to her work. “I’m used to being watched while I paint, but there’s a whole other level of doubt when it’s one-on-one, isn’t there?” She picked up a small knife and scraped it across the canvas, then wiped the excess paint onto her thigh as she breathed out. “You’re going to hate this.”

“I won’t hate it,” he argued, his heart rate spiking as he did a quick assessment of her leg to ensure she hadn’t cut herself. “Why don’t you tell me what you saw that inspired it?”

With a faint smile, she added more paint to her brush. “You checked your watch.”

“I checked my watch.”

“That’s it.”

His mind began flipping through possibilities. “Is it a clock?”

She laughed, shaking her head. “No.”

“An hourglass?”

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