Page 48 of Sawyer
His stomach was knotted now. “I’m beyond honored, Ms. Merriweather.”
More precious stones flashed from her earlobes as she tilted her head to the side, studying him. “Call me Beverly, and I love the suit. I can already see you wearing something as spectacular at your first gallery show. Makes good copy and impresses clients. But first, take me to thisatelierof yours. I am dying to see your work in person.”
“Can I get you a café?”
“After I see your work. With Axel behind you, I’ve been absolutely tantalized by you, Sawyer. The photos I’ve seen are captivating, but seeing it in person… It’s all I’ve been able to think about.”
The light-headed feeling came again, and he strode to the elevator he rarely used, praying spots wouldn’t appear behind his eyes. While she was capable of handling everything from orgies to ravens, he didn’t want to pass out in front of her. God, waking up in her arms on the floor…
No, she’d toss a cold glass of water in his face.
“This way, please. It’s up three flights of stairs and?—”
“Say no more! I love Paris for all its stairs and quirkiness, but I won’t pass up an easier ride to the top. Metaphor. I assume youratelieris at the top.”
“It does have the best light,” he explained, feeling cramped in the elevator. Although physically small, she was larger than life. Grasping for something to say, he settled on, “You had a good flight from London, I hope.”
Really? He wanted to slap himself.
“It was perfect. Nothing like London for its old-world atmosphere.”
God, she was making it easy. She was the kind of person who always knew what to say and could make someone feel at ease. Rather like Phoebe, he realized. Just the thought of her had the sick feeling in his stomach subsiding.
“I’m glad you had a good trip.” The elevator opened and he let her precede him. “It’s down this way.”
When they reached the door, he took a deep breath. Thankfully no stars appeared behind his eyes as he let it out, so he turned the knob and gestured inside. “Welcome to my studio.”
Here we go.He had his proverbial sword ready.
She didn’t stride in. She slowed her pace, her steps so light her heels didn’t make marks on the tarp. Obviously, she wasn’t worried about getting paint on her. She continued her survey of the space, tilting her head to the ceiling.
“My God, you were right about the light. I know painters who would kill for light like this. Sawyer, this is a beautiful space.”
His throat was backed up, so he didn’t respond, but that was fine. She was moving to his first canvas, the largest of the lot—the one of his first date with Phoebe. She stood there with her back to him. The silence grated at his nerves. But then he caught Phoebe watching him with her brilliant green eyes, assuring him everything was okay. Better than okay. He only needed to be still. And not hyperventilate. Sticking his head into a paper take-out bag would be humiliating.
So he stood just inside the studio as Beverly went to his next canvas and then the next. Three finished works—ones he was proud of. Okay, so maybe he wouldn’t be sticking his head in the take-out bag?
When she arrived at his painting in progress, she touched her finger to her lips. “My, my. This one is going to be as breathtaking as the others.”
Breathtaking…the word hovered, as if spoken from the ether. Part of his soul floated up to the heavens. The angels were singing. The moment felt reverent, and he wished he could see the scene he was in from above, so he could paint it later with some holy title likeThe Anointingbecause that’s what it felt like to him.
“You paint people with a gorgeous sensitivity,” she finally said. “The heart of them. The woman in all three. She is based on a real person, yes? Like Nanine is, and I expect the other women in the painting in the restaurant.”
He could barely nod for all the buzzing and tingling her praise had left in its wake in his body. If she wanted to know more, she would ask. But he would not mention Phoebe. Or his roommates. That was his to share at some later point if he chose.
“The Lydia Corbett to your Picasso.”
Whoa!Picasso?Shit. He might need that bag after all. He’d take the reference—despite Picasso having met Lydia when he was seventy-three, and she only nineteen.
“The colors are spectacular.” She pointed to the paintingfrom his first date. “The aqua tones of her coat against the black night are magnificent. Titian-like in their power and depth. Not only are the tonals perfect, but she practically glows like a modern Madonna figure. Like in your Nanine painting. Do you have a romantic sense about women? Are you close to your mother?”
Two questions, his mind parsed, with answers so different it took him a moment to answer. “If you mean Romanticism and the art movement at the end of the eighteenth century, then yes, I suppose I’m romantic. When the women mean something to me, when I care about them, then yes, I paint from there. As for my mother, I am not close to her.”
She only nodded before gazing back around. “I see three finished works. One in the making. If you can secure the two from Nanine’s as loans, we have nearly six paintings right now.”
He knew what was coming. “I know I need more for a show, and I’m painting as fast as I can. Would you want twenty-five or thirty paintings?”
Her smile was dragon-like. “Normally, yes, but that’s where you’re lucky to have me because I don’t always play by the rules.”
