The Reluctant Nude - Meg Maguire [22]
Her eyes darted between each of his. “It’s hard to say after only two sittings.”
“How is it so far?”
“It’s odd. It’s a bit like being the subject of a scientific experiment, I guess. Except you don’t necessarily want to study me.”
“I don’t mind. You might prove interesting,” he said, teasing.
“I don’t have any scars or disfigurements.”
“I might not be doing this if the money wasn’t so very convenient, I admit that. But this is not torture for me, either. Perhaps you’ll prove to be some middle ground for me.”
“Middle ground between what?”
He thought. “Between the insanity of the commercial art scene and the insular, self-indulgent little world inside my own head, yes?”
“I suppose.”
He cleared his throat. “I have something I must break to you, now.”
“Oh?” Her lips pursed, distrustful.
“I already know that you will hate it.”
“Just tell me.”
He looked at her squarely and wound one of her curls around his fingers. “I will have to touch you.”
She jerked upright, making him yank her hair, hard. “Ow! What? Touch me how, exactly?” She rubbed her scalp.
Max sat up too, hugging his knees and studying her. “Just that. My hands on your body. Not sexual. Just touch.”
“Now?” she asked, glancing frantically around the beach.
“No, not now. Not even this week. But eventually.”
“God.” She looked anxious but not horrified. “Is this another of those ‘this is just the way I work’ caveats?”
He nodded.
“You touch all your models, then?”
He nodded again.
“God.”
“I did not think you’d be pleased about it.”
Fallon shook her head. “Jesus, you are really weird, you know that?”
“I am whatever way I am.”
“See? You say things like that. You’re very weird.” She fell silent, seeming to meditate on her contempt for his weirdness.
“Well, I have warned you now.”
“Fine.”
“Would you like to end this sitting for the day? To go and contemplate the ways in which I displease you?” Max made no attempt to hide how entertaining he found her discomfort.
“I would, as a matter of fact.” She stood and he led them back to the studio, where she rinsed her hands and shouldered her bag.
“Ten o’clock?” she asked, arms crossed protectively over her modest chest.
“Yes, perfect.” Max held the door open and she departed.
He stood on the front steps with his hand in his pockets, watching her stride up the dirt road toward town until she was out of sight. Above him, the clouds broke open and the sun streamed down like some cheap imitation of the divine. He smiled.
Chapter Four
“You are going to kiss my feet for this,” Max said smugly. From across the studio he waved a pair of still-fidgeting crabs at Fallon.
“You haven’t me made a lousy meal yet.”
“And I never shall.” He busied himself with pots and pans, and soon the air smelled of shellfish and sherry and rosemary.
The afternoon of the second Friday in September found them breaking for a late lunch. Modesty was a distant memory for Fallon, at least with the strange man she’d grown so oddly accustomed to these last two weeks. She pulled her sweater on as Max smiled from where he stood at the kitchen counter, his face almost belonging to a friend now. Almost.
Fallon had slipped into a routine of sorts. Though she was bound by her own desperation to spend the first six hours of each day at the studio, evenings were hers. At Rachel’s prompting, she’d made a conscious decision to view the experience as a sort of vacation. Technically it was unpaid, though on the other hand, what she stood to gain from Donald Forrester by cooperating was invaluable.
She tossed a drop cloth over the clay-encrusted worktable. This had become her customary chore, as had gathering the utensils and napkins. On the whole, she was comfortable here now. The only exception was the dust from the dried clay. Since Max had switched exclusively to sculptural studies from sketches, Fallon found it necessary to ditch her contact lenses in favor of glasses.
“I like those.” Max pointed at her cat-eye frames as he set a bottle