Читать книгу Amorous Liaisons - Sarah Mayberry - Страница 8

HE WAS GOING TO SAY NO. Maddy could tell by the way his eyes darkened and his jaw tensed.

She had no idea if she was the right model for what he wanted to do. But as soon as the idea popped into her head it had felt right. Especially given the realization she’d woken to this morning.

“Before you say no, hear me out,” she said. “I decided something this morning. I’m not going to take this forced retirement lying down. I’m going to get a second opinion—hell, a fifth and sixth if I need it. I’m going to keep doing my rehab work and I’m going to find a way to dance.” She said it like a challenge, daring him to disagree with her.

She’d given up too easily; the thought had been waiting for her, fully formed, when she opened her eyes and blinked at Max’s ceiling half an hour ago. Dr. Hanson was one doctor, and she’d allowed his opinion to count for more than it should. She wasn’t prepared to give up. Not yet. Not until she’d explored every avenue. Her future happiness depended on her efforts.

Only when Max nodded slowly did she release the breath she’d been holding. If he’d looked disbelieving—God, if he’d laughed—she wasn’t sure what she would have done.

“I think that’s a good idea,” he said.

She smiled.

“Thank you. I needed to hear you say that. The thing is, most of the top dance medicine gurus are here in Paris. I couldn’t be in a better place, even if I only came here because you were here. I’m going to call around today, try to get an appointment.”

“That might take a while. Months, even.”

“I know. I’m going to lean on some old colleagues to put in a word for me, see if I can’t jump the waiting list.”

“Stay here,” he said. “It’s no palace, but it’s a roof.”

She felt a rush of gratitude. The idea of staying with Max was infinitely preferable to twiddling her thumbs in a faceless hotel room for weeks while she gnawed her nails to the bone waiting for another specialist’s pronouncement. But she couldn’t mooch off him.

She said as much, and he made a rude noise.

“We’re friends, Maddy. It’s not mooching.”

“Look, it’s one thing to show up on your doorstep, drink your wine, eat your bread and crash in your bed for a night. But I can’t foist myself on you for weeks at a time. Not unless you let me help you in return. That’s why I offered to model for you. It would be a sort of barter—my body for your accommodation.”

“You don’t need to offer me a deal to stay here. You’re welcome anytime.”

“Thank you. But I can’t live here and not offer anything in return. I know you well enough to know you won’t accept money,” she said. His instant frown was more than enough to prove her point on that score. “And, let’s face it, my cooking skills aren’t exactly great. Please let me do something for you in return for your helping me out.”

“It’s a sweet offer, but I don’t think it’s a good idea. If you really want to help out, I’m sure we can think of something else you can do.”

She studied him, trying to understand his objection. He sounded so adamant, so immovable. Surely it would solve his problem as well as her own?

Or maybe he was just being polite. Maybe she was the last person he wanted to sketch.

“Is it because I don’t have the right body type? It sounded like you were looking for a dancer’s shape,” she asked.

“It’s not that.” He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, the picture of discomfort. “I don’t think it’ll work out, that’s all.”

He was over the conversation, she could tell, but she wanted to get to the bottom of this. She wanted to stay with him, but her pride wouldn’t let her accept his hospitality without some kind of quid pro quo in place.

“Do you think I’ll get fidgety, is that it? I promise I can stand still when I have to.”

“It’s not that.”

She fiddled with the hem of the T-shirt, disappointed. “Okay. If that’s the way you feel, I’ll find a hotel this afternoon.”

He looked annoyed. “Maddy. I said you could stay here, no strings. Don’t be stubborn.”

“I won’t leech off you. I want to help. You’re helping me, why can’t I return the favor?”

“I would have thought that was pretty obvious. You’ve seen my stuff.”

He gestured toward the row of statues. She glanced at them, then shook her head, baffled.

“Yeah. So?”

“My figures are all nudes, Maddy.”

She blinked, then looked at the figures again.

Right. They were all naked forms. Huh.

“Well, that’s no big deal, is it? It’s not like you haven’t seen me naked before. God, I think you know me better than my doctor after we did that season of Wild Swans together,” she said.

Created by an avante-garde Australian choreographer, the ballet had been modern, intimate and daring. She and Max had worn thin body stockings and little else. By the end of the performance, they’d been so in tune with one another it had been hard to work out where his sweat finished and hers began.

“This is different,” he said stubbornly.

She studied him closely and realized that color traced his cheekbones. He was embarrassed. Or self-conscious. Or maybe a bit of both.

“Max, you’re blushing,” she said. Mostly because she knew that nothing would get his back up faster. He might have changed, but not that much.

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re embarrassed at seeing me naked, aren’t you?” She found the thought highly amusing. Had he really become so conservative?

“I was thinking about your comfort, not mine.”

“Then there’s nothing to worry about. Because I’m perfectly comfortable taking my clothes off in front of you. You’re one of my oldest friends, for crying out loud. We used to live together, we’ve danced together. You even held my hair while I threw up after Peter’s birthday party that time. We have no secrets, Max,” she said.

He opened his mouth to object, but she waved a hand. “No. Not another word. You were planning to start this morning, yes?”

“Yes,” he said grudgingly.

“Great. Then I’ll have a shower and we’ll get started.”

She was still smiling when she closed the bathroom door on him.

Really, he was too cute. Worrying about her modesty. Totally wasted on her. Her body was the tool of her trade. She’d performed with dozens of male dancers throughout her career. Hands had caressed, gripped, slipped, pinched and God knows what else over the years. Standing naked in front of Max would be a piece of cake by comparison, and about as eventful for her as going to the supermarket was for other women.

It wasn’t until she was standing in front of him, about to bare all that the first stab of self-consciousness hit.

She hadn’t bothered dressing after her shower. She’d pulled on Max’s oversize bathrobe, laced up the scuffed pair of ballet slippers she carried in her dance bag and stepped back into the main apartment.

He’d set up a stool for himself alongside a small table filled with charcoals, pencils and Conté crayons. A space heater had been turned on to ensure she wasn’t too cold.

She took up position in front of him. Then she suddenly considered that maybe there was a difference between dancing intimately with someone while hundreds of people watched and standing completely naked in front of one man. Even if he was a friend.

Her fingers clenched around the tie on the bathrobe. Her stomach lurched with nerves.

She frowned, trying to work out why she was feeling…well, shy all of a sudden. She’d never been self-conscious about her body in her life. She knew she was in good shape, not an ounce of fat on her, her muscles lean and defined. Okay, she wasn’t exactly a knockout in the rack department, but that had never bothered her before. Big breasts would only have gotten in the way when she danced, and that had always been the most important concern in her life.

But this morning she found herself wishing that instead of her half handfuls she had a little bit more action going on up top. Lord only knew how many women Max had slept with. She’d hate for him to look at her and find her lacking. Unfeminine, even.

She sneaked a glance at the bronze figure she’d admired earlier. Bronze Lady definitely had breasts. A good B cup, maybe even a C. Most of the time, Maddy didn’t wear a bra at all. In fact, she had no idea what cup size she was these days. Which was something of a giveaway in and of itself.

Good grief, girl, get it together. Who cares if you have small breasts? Certainly not Max. You’re a dancer, with a dancer’s body. That’s what he’s looking for. Not tits and ass.

She forced her hands into action, unknotting the tie and almost throwing the robe open in her haste to get the moment of exposure over with.

She took a deep breath and made herself look up to make eye contact with Max. The sooner they normalized this situation, the better.

But he was busy with his supplies, selecting a pencil and sorting his charcoals into order.

Okay. Good. She had a few seconds to get her shit together without him watching her every move.

She slid the robe off her shoulders, letting it pool around her feet. The air was cool on her naked skin and she could feel her nipples tightening. She smoothed her hands down her hips and rolled her shoulders.

“Did you want my hair up or down?” she asked.

Max looked up at last. His gaze swept over her body. She couldn’t read a single emotion on his face and she fought the instinct to cover herself with her hands.

“Up. I need the line of your neck and shoulders,” he said. Then he returned his attention to his supplies.

She stared at him for a beat. Then she gathered the length of her hair and twisted it until it formed a loose knot on top of her head. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest, as though she was waiting in the wings, ready to run onstage and perform.

What had she expected him to say or do at first sight of her naked body? Break into applause? Go slack-jawed with admiration? Spout poetry?

She couldn’t believe she was being so ridiculous. Juvenile, even.

When she focused on Max again, he was watching her, his expression still unreadable.

“How do you want me?” she asked.

He took a few seconds to answer.

“Let’s start with first position, and move on from there.”

She set her heels together and turned her feet out, joining her hands together in front of her and lifting them till they formed a gentle oval in front of her hips.

“Perfect,” he said quietly.

She kept her eyes fixed on a point on the far wall. She could hear the soft rasp of pencil on paper as he began to sketch.

Five minutes passed, then ten. The room grew warmer. She let her gaze drift toward him. He was bent over his sketch pad, his hand moving quickly across the page as he split his attention between her and what he was creating. She wanted to talk, to ask him something to dispel the uncomfortable awareness she was feeling, but he was so inwardly focused she knew conversation wouldn’t be welcome.

She forced herself to think of something else. Automatically her mind reverted to fretting over Andrew and her forced retirement from the company. There was no comfort to be found there, she knew. Instead, she started to make a mental list of her contacts in the various Paris-based ballets. She’d toured the country twice in her career and danced with several French soloists. Nadine, Jean-Pierre, Anna—they were just a few of the fellow dancers she could call on to ask for the favor of hooking her up with specialists. This afternoon, she would—

“Okay. Let’s try some variations,” Max said.

She blinked and let her body relax. “You’re the boss.”

“Third position this time,” he said, eyeing her body assessingly. His regard was slow, steady. “En pointe, for as long as you can hold it.”

“How long do you need?” she asked. She could hear the ego in her voice. He smiled.

“Not long,” he said.

He started sketching, then stopped. “Can you look up for me?”

She lifted her chin. He frowned.

“Try angling your head a little more to the left.”

She shifted. His frown deepened.

“It’s not quite right…”

He stood and moved toward her. She stiffened, quelling the odd urge to retreat. Almost as though she was afraid of him, of his touch. Which was crazy. This was Max, after all. Her friend.

She could feel the heat from his body as he stood in front of her, studying the angle of her head. With her hands raised high above her, her weight supported on her toes, she was as tightly strung as a bow. And very exposed.

He reached out and nudged her chin up with his finger. A little higher. A little more to the left.

“That’s good,” he said.

His gaze swept the rest of her body and she felt a quiver of awareness deep in the pit of her belly. That odd instinct to retreat hit her again.

Then he was turning away, striding back to his sketch pad.

She took a deep breath, then another.

“You okay? Warm enough?” he asked as he took up his pencil.

She realized her breasts had puckered again, her nipples once more begging for attention. She fought a wave of self-consciousness.

“I’m fine,” she said. “You just do your thing.”

He took her at her word. She heard the scratch of pencil on paper and closed her eyes briefly. She felt rattled, off balance.

She forced her gaze to the back wall, concentrating on a crack in the plaster.

This is Max, she reminded herself. Your friend. He held you while you slept last night. He’s always been there for you.

Slowly, by small degrees, she relaxed. There was no reason for her foolish awareness. Not with Max, of all people. He was like a brother to her. Always had been, always would be.

MAX TIGHTENED HIS GRIP on his pencil as he attempted to commit the curve of Maddy’s hip to paper. His gaze kept sliding from the subtle arc of her waist down the flat planes of her belly to the curls at the juncture of her thighs. A neat little patch, waxed into submission, just enough curls there to hint at the secrets they concealed.

His hard-on throbbed. He still couldn’t believe he’d let Maddy bulldoze him into this situation. But she’d been so determined to have her way. And he hadn’t been strong enough to resist the temptation she’d offered. Back in the days when they’d lived together, he’d sketched her. Lying on the couch, asleep. Dancing, the expression on her face full of joy. Laughing, her eyes closed, her head thrown back.