The Unquiet - J. D. Robb [151]
“The feldspar in the granite contains some radioactive components. All natural rock material does.” She glanced down to find her pad open to a clean sheet and a favorite 2B sketch pencil in her hand. “Granite is formed when cooled volcanic magma hardens over thousands and thousands of years, millions sometimes . . .”
Her gaze barely left his face as her hand guided the pencil down the page—over, across, and diagonally. She caught the strong lines of his chin and the softly squared symmetrical angles of his cheeks that had struck her that first day. But after that it got . . . well, it went all wrong.
“. . . and as the granite breaks down over time the thorium, radium, and uranium release a colorless, odorless radioactive gas . . . you’ve heard of radon, right?”
“Sure. My mother has a detector in her house.”
But her outline of his lips was a little askew and not full enough. Her hand slipped, not once but three times, as she attempted to capture the mold of his hair around his face and near his ear. She accidentally drafted a notch, a bump, on the bridge of his nose—she botched the rhinoplasty, and in the end even his eyes, his very best feature in her opinion, looked like someone else’s.
“. . . and in 2007 the Marble Institute of America announced the amount of radiation and radon released from granite countertops was inconsequential.”
Ivy looked up when she became aware of the silence—their eyes met and he shrugged, saying, “Of course, there are those rare instances of young children growing buck teeth and rabbit ears, but like I said before, it beats fins and gills.”
She stared at him as if she’d just woken up. “What?”
He laughed. “That’s an interesting method of keeping your eyes from glazing over when you’re bored. Do I get to see it?”
“Oh no. I wasn’t bored I . . . No. It’s not very good.” Blood rushed to her face and burned in her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I like your face.”
He grinned. “I like yours, too. Without remorse.”
“No, I meant . . . I doodle. I draw a lot. All the time. Too much, probably. Even when I’m watching TV, but it doesn’t mean I’m not paying attention.”
“That’s a relief. I’d hate to think I wasted all that hot air for nothing.” She could tell he was still teasing her. He stood, took a step, and then held out his hand for her pad. “Mind if I look?”
“Yes. No. Not ordinarily, but this one didn’t turn out . . . it doesn’t even look like you. I’m better with still life. Faces are harder.” And they were, but she had a real talent for drawing them . . . usually. “If you have the time, I’d love to try again. I can do better than this. Much better.”
“Come on. How bad can it be? I promise not to laugh.”
With care he pulled the pad from her grasp and turned it over. Embarrassed and dissatisfied, she waited with dread for his reaction. Here was a chance to impress him with her skill and talent and she hands him a . . . a stupid doodle!
She watched the animated face she’d been enjoying as he studied the sketch. The confusion in it she’d anticipated, but there was also a moment of recognition that not only surprised her but flattered her as well. She hadn’t expected him to recognize anything of himself in the portrait. Yet, in the next second when he looked at her with raw pain and disappointment in his eyes, she began to panic. When his emotions finally settled on anger, she was stunned.
“I can do better.” But she didn’t want to try—clearly he was touchy about his looks.
“I think it’s time for you to leave.” He ground the words out as if speaking was the last thing he wanted to do—pinching her head off appeared to be at the top of his list. “If you’re caught on my property again, I’ll have you arrested.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Pack up your junk and get out.”
SIX
“ Are you crazy?” she asked, even as she started gathering her supplies. “It was just a sketch. Not a very good one, I admit, but—”
“Look, lady, I don’t know who you’re working for or what you’re up to, but it’s over. And I’d start packing up over at the Rossinis’,