Читать книгу Postcards From… Collection - Maisey Yates - Страница 30

He dialed her number, a bad feeling in his gut. The message was time-stamped early this morning, and Gabriella was due in an hour. It didn’t take a brain surgeon to realize something was up. As her phone rang and rang, he hoped the news wasn’t terrible.

It had taken him over a month to find the body type he’d wanted to act as model for his latest project. The works he planned had been inspired by his years in dance, and he’d been excited when a mutual friend had put Gabriella in contact with him. She was a dancer—nowhere near Maddy’s level, but she had the refined, defined muscles and flexibility he required.

He tried to anticipate the reason for the last-minute contact. She might be sick. Her car might have broken down. Or—disaster—she might have broken a leg or something else equally debilitating.

The phone clicked as someone answered.

“Max. I’m so glad you got my message,” Gabriella said. “I was worried you wouldn’t see it in time.”

“Hi, Gabriella. What’s up?”

“I’m so sorry, Max, but I won’t be able to make it today. I got a job.”

“Right. Congratulations.” He tried to sound genuine. He knew that Gabriella had been looking for dancing work for some time now without much luck.

“I know this ruins your plans, but I had to take it,” she said apologetically. “I hope you understand.”

“Of course. We’ll just reschedule. What’s your timetable like? Is it weekend work?”

“Oh, I didn’t explain very well, did I? The job’s not here in Paris. It’s a touring show, a kids thing. I’ll be on the road for the next three months.”

Shit. Might as well have broken a leg.

He leaned against the kitchen table and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“Right,” he said.

“I can still sit for you when I get back, if you’re happy to wait,” she offered tentatively.

“Sure. Give me a call when you’re back in town.”

He’d need to find someone before that, of course, but there was no need for Gabriella to feel needlessly bad. She had to make a living, and what he could pay her as a life model wouldn’t come even close to what she’d earn as a full-time dancer.

“Okay. I’m really sorry for the short notice, Max.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll work something out.”

After wishing her best of luck with her new job, he ended the call.

He fought the urge to kick something. It had been a long time since he’d wanted something wholly for himself. Was it too much to ask that even the simplest of his desires—that his chosen model be available to sit for him at a convenient time—be answered?

“What’s up?”

He turned to find Maddy halfway down the stairs. She was rumpled and sleep-creased and warm-looking. He made an effort to keep his eyes above the hemline of the T-shirt.

“Nothing. Just a work thing,” he said.

“Of course. You’re back in the workforce now. What are you doing?”

He stared at her. There were a handful of people who knew about his artistic ambitions. None of them were close friends or family. Still, he had to start owning his desires sooner or later.

“A bit of stonework. Mostly working with bronze. Mostly figure-based stuff,” he said.

God, he felt like a pretentious wanker saying the words out loud.

She frowned. She had no idea what he was talking about, of course.

I’m trying to be an artist.

That’s what he should have said.

Her baffled gaze slid over his shoulder to where his earlier works marched along the wall beside his workbench.

“Oh! Those are yours?” she asked, incredulous.

As well she might be.

Her eyes were wide as she walked over to inspect them.

“God, Max, I thought you’d brought them over from your dad’s place or something and didn’t know where to put them in your new loft,” she said.

He stayed where he was, his whole body tense as she circled his most recent piece, a full-size bronze figure of a woman balanced on one leg, her other leg bent at the knee and held at a right angle from her body, her pointed foot hitting her supporting leg above the knee. Her arms were lifted high, joining in a graceful arch over her head.

He’d been happy with the emotion he’d been able to capture in the piece, but it still needed work.

“This is great! Wow. Max, this is amazing. I can’t believe someone I know made something this beautiful.”

Something—relief?—expanded in his chest and he let himself move closer.

Maddy ran a hand over the curve of the woman’s waist and hip, her face lit with admiration.

“I can almost feel her moving. How did you do that?” she said. Then she snatched her hand away. “I’m so sorry! Is it okay if I touch it?”

Her expression was so contrite he had to laugh.

“It’s bronze. It could probably survive a nuclear holocaust,” he said.

She looked at him, shaking her head.

“I can’t believe you didn’t mention this last night, or in any of your e-mails, for that matter. I remember you used to sketch, but this is…I don’t have the words. What a dark horse. How long have you been doing this?”

He shrugged. “I’ve just been dabbling, really. But I’m about to get started on a new series I’ve been planning.”

“Was that what the call was about?”

“Yeah. Gabriella, my life model, pulled out at the last minute. I’m going to have to find someone else.”

He sounded pissed. Probably because he was.

She’d moved on to inspect his smaller, earlier works. He shuffled from foot to foot, then shoved his hands into his back pockets. They weren’t as good as they could be. He’d been learning his craft when he made them, honing his skills. He should have destroyed them. Or put them in storage somewhere.

Maddy’s eyes were warm when she looked at him again.

“Max. I don’t know what to say. These are really, really good.”

He was embarrassed by how much her praise meant to him.

“Thanks.”

She stroked the bronze figure again. “Losing this life model is a pretty big deal, yeah?”

“It’s a setback. It took me a while to find her. The series is dance-based, and ordinary models aren’t up to it.”

“Dance-based.” She looked at the bronze woman again. “Like this?”

“More dynamic. I want to capture that moment when dance becomes more than just movement,” he said. Then he stopped. Could he sound like any more of a tosser, crapping on about his work like some beret-wearing poseur?

She looked at him. There was a new light in her eye, as though she’d made an important decision.

“Use me,” she said.

“Sorry?” He actually shook his head, convinced he hadn’t heard right.

“You need a new life model, right? Someone to portray a dancer. Why not me?”