"No one goes in there but me and an occasional model."
"Perfectly understandable," she said smoothly. "Still, I'd be grateful if I could just have a peek."
A calculating glint appeared in his eyes. "How grateful?"
"What do you mean?"
"Grateful enough to pose for me?"
"You don't give up, do you?"
"It's part of my charm."
If they'd been at the B &B or by the stream in the meadow, she might have been able to refuse, but not here. That mysterious space where he created some of the world's most beautiful art was too near. "I can't imagine why you'd want to sketch a fat, over-the-hill, forty-five-year-old woman, but if that's what it takes to see your studio, then, yes, I'll pose for you."
"Good. Follow me." He vaulted from his chair and headed for a set of stone steps that led to the catwalk. As he reached it, he glanced back at her. "You're not fat. And you're older than forty-five."
"I am not!"
"You've had work done around your eyes, but no plastic surgeon can cut away the life experience behind them. You're closer to fifty."
"I'm forty-seven."
He gazed down at her from the catwalk. "You're making me lose patience."
"Air could make you lose patience," she grumbled.
The corner of his mouth curled. "Do you want to see my studio or not?"
"Oh, I suppose." Frowning, she swept up the steps, then followed him across the narrow, open structure. She glanced uneasily down at the living area below. "I feel as if I'm walking the plank."
"You'll get used to it."
His statement implied she'd be coming back, an impression she immediately corrected. "I'll pose for you today, but that's all."
"Stop irritating me." He'd reached the end of the catwalk, and he turned toward her so he stood silhouetted against the stone arch. She felt a tiny erotic thrill as he watched her approach with his legs braced and his arms crossed over his chest like an ancient warrior.
She gave him her diva's gaze. "Remind me again why I even wanted to see it."
"Because I'm a genius. Just ask me."
"Shut up and get out of my way."
His laugh held a deep, pleasing resonance. He turned away and led her around a curve of wall into his studio.
"Oh, Liam…" She pressed her fingertips to her lips.
The studio sat suspended above the trees in its own private universe. It was oddly shaped with three of its five sides curved. Late-afternoon light glowed through the northern wall, which was constructed entirely of glass. Overhead, the various skylights had shades that could be adjusted according to the time of day. The layers of colorful paint splatters on the rough walls, the furniture, and the limestone floor had turned the studio into a work of modern art all its own. She had the same sensation she experienced when she stood inside the Getty.
Half-finished canvases sat on easels while others leaned against the walls. Several large canvases hung on special frames. Her mind whirled as she tried to take it all in. She might not have had much formal education, but she'd studied art on her own for several decades, and she wasn't a novice. Still, she found his mature work difficult to categorize. All the influences were evident-the teeth-gnashing of the Abstract Expressionists, the studied cool of Pop, the starkness of the Minimalists. But only Liam Jenner had the audacity to superimpose the sentimental over those decidedly unsentimental styles.
Her eyes drank in the monumental, unfinished Madonna and Child that occupied most of one wall. Of all the great contemporary artists, only Liam Jenner could paint a Madonna and Child without using cow dung as his medium, or smearing an obscenity over her forehead, or adding a flashing Coca-Cola sign in place of a star. Only Liam Jenner had the absolute self-confidence to show the cynical deconstructionists who populated the world of contemporary art the meaning of unabashed reverence.
Her heart filled with tears she couldn't let herself shed. Tears of loss for the way she'd let her identity get swallowed up by Craig's expectations, tears of loss for the son she'd given away. Gazing at the painting, she realized how careless she'd been with what she should have held sacred.
His hand curled around her shoulder in a gesture as gentle as the wisps of blue-gold paint softening the Madonna's hair. His touch seemed both natural and necessary, and as she swallowed her tears, she had to resist the urge to curl into his chest.
"My poor Lilly," he said softly. "You've made your life even harder for yourself than I have mine."
She didn't question how he knew, but as she stood before that miraculous, unfinished painting and felt the comforting hand on her shoulder, she understood that all these canvases were reflections of the man-his angry intensity, his intelligence, his severity, and the sentiment he worked so hard to hide. Unlike her, Liam Jenner was one with his work.
"Sit," he murmured. "Just as you are." She let him lead her to a simple wooden chair across the room. He caressed her shoulder, then stepped back and reached for one of the blank canvases near his worktable. If he had been any other man, she would have felt manipulated, but manipulation wouldn't occur to him. He had simply been overcome with the need to create, and for a reason she couldn't fathom, that involved her.
She no longer cared. Instead, she gazed at the Madonna and Child and thought about her life, richly blessed in so many ways but barren in others. Instead of concentrating on her losses-her son, her identity, the husband she'd both loved and resented-she thought of all she'd been granted. She'd been blessed with a good brain and the intellectual curiosity to challenge it. She'd been given a beautiful face and body when she'd needed them most. So what if that beauty had faded? Here beside this lake in northern Michigan, it didn't seem quite so important.
As she gazed at the Madonna, something began to happen. She saw her herb-garden quilt instead of Liam's painting, and she began to understand what had eluded her. The herb garden was a metaphor for the woman who now lived inside her-a more mature woman, one who wanted to heal and nurture instead of seduce, a woman with subtle nuances instead of splashy beauty. She was no longer the person she'd been, but she didn't yet understand the person she'd become. Somehow the quilt held the answer.
Her fingers twitched in her lap as a rush of energy shot through her. She needed her sewing basket and her box of fabrics. She needed them now. If she had them-if she had them right now!-she could find the path that would unlock who she was. She jumped up from the chair. "I have to go."
He'd been completely absorbed in his work, and for a moment he didn't seem to comprehend what she'd said. Then something that almost looked like pain twisted those craggy features. "Oh, God, you can't."
"Please. I'm not being difficult. I have to-I'll come right back. I just need to get something from my car."
He stepped away from the canvas. Left a smudge on his forehead as he shoved a hand through his hair. "I'll get it for you."
"There's a basket in my trunk. No, I need the box that's with it. I need-We'll go together."
They ran across the catwalk, both of them on fire to get this done so they could return to what was essential. Her breath came in little gasps as she raced down the steps. She looked for the purse that held her keys but couldn't find it.
"Why the hell did you lock your car!" he roared. "We're in the middle of godforsaken nowhere!"
"I live in L.A.!" she shouted back.
"Here!" He snatched the purse from beneath one of the tables and began rummaging through it.
"Give it to me!" She grabbed it away and dug herself.
"Hurry up!" He seized her at the elbow, shoved her toward the front door and down the steps. On the way she found the keys. She broke away from him and flicked the remote that opened the trunk.
She nearly sobbed with relief as she grabbed her sewing basket and pushed the box of fabrics at him. He barely glanced at it.
They fled inside again, rushed up the stairs, raced across the catwalk. By the time they got to the studio, they were both struggling to breathe, more from emotion than exertion. She collapsed into the chair. He rushed toward the canvas. They gazed at each other. And both of them smiled.