The Reluctant Nude - Meg Maguire [15]
“No one forced her,” he said evenly. “And I’m not treating her like a medical anomaly.”
“I think you are.” Fallon stared at the journal, irritation snowballing into anger.
“I don’t do grotesques. I study what I feel is beautiful.”
“How is that beautiful? I bet she’d get rid of that scar in a heartbeat if she could.”
“Loss is beautiful,” Max said solemnly, breaking eye contact. “What she’s got is an extraordinary proof of loss.”
“That just seems really callous. Sick. Dwelling on someone else’s pain for your own pleasure. Or fascination, or whatever.”
His eyes snapped back to hers again. “I don’t exploit people, if that is what you’re implying. Unlike some men. I would remind you that you’re here under duress, arguably exploiting your own body in exchange for a payoff.”
“Are you calling me a prostitute?” Fallon was almost tempted to laugh. And even more tempted to hit him.
He smiled. “I have studied plenty of prostitutes, Miss Frost. Be assured you lack any measure of their charm.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Pardon me?”
Max turned away, busying himself unlacing his shoes. Fallon spun on her heel and marched to the screen door, hurling it shut behind her with a disappointingly quiet slam.
Fallon made it nearly all the way back to town before she calmed enough to remember her priorities, swallow her pride, and return to the studio. She rang the bell, face hot with humiliation.
Max’s distant shout came through the window. “Yes, come in.”
Fallon entered and closed the door with intentional gentleness. As she turned her midsection jolted—in her absence Max had drawn a bath in the tub that sat beneath the far windows. Propped on the rim, his muscular shoulders and arms gleamed wet in the sun. His hair dripped, slicked back from his face.
“Um,” Fallon began then stopped. She became very interested in the ventilation system.
“It is nine fifty-six,” Max announced, voice lazy. “So your sitting has not even begun yet. I think we should pretend that little outburst never happened, don’t you?”
Fallon had no clue if he was being snide or gracious. “Fine.”
“Very good.”
There was a sloshing noise as he stood, and Fallon spun around just in time to preserve his privacy and hide her own furious blush. The rear of the cottage faced east so his body was largely silhouetted, but it was bright enough for Fallon to have taken in far more details of Max Emery’s lean, chiseled chest and abdomen than she cared to. There followed rustling and the rush of draining water.
Max spoke a short time later, sounding amused. “You’re safe now, my little Puritan.”
Fallon turned to find him dressed in jeans and an undershirt once more, tugging on socks. He grinned at her, and she could still see droplets of water along his neck and arms and face.
“I apologize for making you slam my door.”
“Well…I’m sorry I slammed it,” she replied, feeling idiotic.
“No matter. Are you ready to start the sitting? You want coffee first?”
“No, I’m ready.” She’d reached the depths of her own humility back on the dirt road.
Max dragged the worktable over to the brightest part of the studio, and Fallon removed her jacket and shoes. As he hefted a bag of clay from a shelf, she stripped her shirt off. She unzipped her pants and let them drop, folding them neatly as Max strapped on his tool belt. He turned to find her in her underwear, shaking faintly but determined to see this through.
His eyebrows rose. “Well.”
She reached behind to unhook her bra. She set it atop the other items, pretending she was at the doctor’s office. Sliding her panties down her legs, she crouched as demurely as she could manage and added them to the pile. The air of the studio felt cool and dry on her skin.
“Where do you want me?” she asked with affected calm.
Max mimicked her casual tone. “Wherever you like. Get comfortable. I’ll do another bust.”
She nodded. “Um…”
He looked up from where he’d begun kneading clay on the tabletop. “Yes?