Finding The One (Meadowview Heroes 1; The Meadowview Series 5) (9 page)

“Aw, kiddo, come here,” he said, his heart twisting inside of him as he gathered his sister up in his arms. Their father had always been hands-off, but their mom…god, it was so unfair Doe had to go through her transformative years without their mother. An older brother was a poor substitution.

“Can I do something to make it better?” she asked, sniffling and rubbing her nose against his shirt.

“That’s okay. I need to make it all up to her somehow. And get her forgiveness. Beg, grovel, buy her flowers and candy and a pony.”

Doe pulled out of his embrace and stared at him, her gaze intent, searching his face. “Wow. You like her, don’t you? She’s more than one of your one night stands, isn’t she? And she’s more than your perfect model, too.”

“She hates me.” He clenched his jaw and looked away. Even if that were true, he was pretty damned sure that after what had transpired today, Trudy would want him far away. Antarctica, probably.

But he couldn’t let her go. No way. His professional photography career, although not exactly the path he’d prefer, paid the bills, and well. But when the Warrior Woman images had finally swirled into cohesion in his mind, relentlessly demanding to be captured film, he’d known he had what he needed to survive, but not to thrive. He needed his art.

And that meant he needed Trudy. She
was
his Warrior Woman. She was his new muse.

But she was also the vulnerable and tempting woman that had gotten under his skin.

“You just need a plan,” Doe said. Nanny trotted up to stand beside them, sneaking bites of greenery.

He shoved a hand through his hair. “I can call her agent and get her address. Go see her. Apologize profusely for my idiocy and the nefarious shenanigans of your goat.”

“That’s a start. You might need flowers, too.”

“And if she doesn’t want to see you?”

“I don’t know what it’s going to take, but I’ll figure it out. I have to.” He thrust a hand through his hair.

“What about Warrior Woman?”

“I caught a few photos of her before she started yelling at me. I’ll see if the positions I saw in my head translate on film. Pretty clear she’ll want out of the contract if I don’t think of something fast. I’m going to look at the photos and see if I’m close to capturing my Warrior Woman series the way I envision it in my mind, though.”

“You will,” Doe reassured him. “You’re brilliant. You’re the only one who doesn’t believe in yourself.”

“Me and a half-dozen art critics.”

“Over one show, Mac, four years ago. And they were right. That show sucked. Your earlier shows were so much better.”

“Thanks for the brutal honesty.” He ruffled her hair, which oddly, she allowed. “But you were a kid. What do you know about my earlier shows?”

For a moment, Doe hesitated. When she spoke, her voice was tight. Thin. “She was my mother, too. I saw those shows you did back then, when she was dying. The critics called your pictures haunting, and it’s true. But haunting in a good way. They were full of emotion. I can close my eyes and see your photographs of her in my mind, feel them. And I do. Every day.” Doe spoke so quietly Mac almost didn’t hear her.

He was about to say something, but Doe clicked her fingers to Nanny and peeled off, heading up the hill to the pond on the far side of the property. He sucked air into his lungs, ready to call her back, but changed his mind. Better to let Doe console herself at the pond, surrounded by wildflowers, in the very place their mother had loved. He’d talk to Doe later.

Instead of going to his darkroom and preparing the chemicals to develop what few photographs he’d shot of Trudy, he wandered back toward the dais, drawn to where he’d seen his Warrior Woman through the lens of his camera.

Maybe the images of Warrior Woman in his head hadn’t translated to film and this whole problem keeping Trudy in her contract would be resolved. It had been years, his touch could be off. Maybe he no longer had the artistic eye that had captured what critics had called “brilliant” images of his mother and the others in the cancer ward. Of their children they knew they’d leave behind, playing outdoors in the hospital playground, happily living in the moment. Of their parents, husbands, wives, brothers, sisters, pacing hospital corridors, seated in the cafeteria vacantly eating what had to taste of sawdust, all wearing hope and dismay and fear and faith.

After their mother had succumbed to cancer, Mac immersed himself in a life of numb living. Unable to support himself with the money he made as an art photographer, he took on contracts for fashion photography. In the wild world of fashion, he easily succumbed to alcohol, late night partying, and meaningless sex—although he never promised women anything more than that, and they always left satisfied.

His next art photography show sucked, though. The photographs illustrated all his technical skill, but none of the emotion that had been exhibited in his earlier works. The critics panned his work, and he’d given up.

But now, four years later, images of a woman, strong, fighting, challenging life, filled his mind daily. His mother’s spirit, maybe, or the spirit of the other mothers, sisters, and daughters he’d photographed—he didn’t know. All he knew was that if he could translate those images onto paper, he’d have regained his artistic side.

A light breeze ruffled the leaves of the trees. The clouds that had been building up off to the west had moved in and now covered the sky, giving everything an eerie yellowish cast. He swept a hand over his face.

Seeing Trudy standing nude in the pose he’d titled
Warrior Woman in Victory
, his heart had leaped. He thought she’d agreed to be his model. He’d been filled with hope, excitement, with zaps of anticipation shooting through him. And then she’d freaked out and he’d found out why.

The least he could do was go see her. Apologize for his part in oh so many things. Mistaken identity. Naughty goat. Bad sex.

A grin caught at the corner of his mouth. And maybe even ask for another do-over. It couldn’t hurt, right?

T
rudy sipped
her latte and quietly swore. The barista at The Sacrificial Bean, the coffee shop close to her loft, had a tendency to zone out while steaming milk, bringing it to scalding temperatures. A fact Trudy remembered too late to stop from burning her tongue. She was a little surprised to find herself thinking that Delilah at the diner in Meadowview probably wouldn’t burn her customers tongues with overly-hot coffee. She tried to focus on something other than Mac’s town but the sound of friendly diners bidding her good luck and goodbye filled her mind.

Nope, not today. She wouldn’t think of Mac today. Not at all. This would be a Mac-free day.

Pulling the lid off the latte, she allowed white wisps to escape into the crisp morning air. Although spring was in full bloom, mornings were still a mite bit nippy. She cradled the drink in both hands and leaned her face into the steam, enjoying the heat and mentally mapping out her day as she slowly walked down the street, heading back to her loft.

Tomorrow she’d call Lisa and find out from her agent how everything had gone so wrong. How she’d ended up posing naked for a photographer—
Mac
—instead of his father, the famous sculptor. She’d find out what happened to the letter Mac claimed to have sent along with the contract. But today…today she’d regroup, de-stress, and allow all the tension to escape from her body. She placed the plastic lid back on the cup and put a cheerful smile on her face. After yesterday’s disaster, today would be a good day. She’d make certain of that.

Ten minutes later, coffee barely gone, Trudy tipped her chin up to the sun, grateful for the sense of happiness its warmth brought. In the distance she could hear Griswold, braying out his morning welcome. She’d have to bring him a carrot or two later in the day. As annoying as he could be when he woke her up, the guy was still lovable. She tossed the empty coffee cup into a recycling bin, then turned the corner to her loft.

And gaped.

There, leaning against her front door, his hands tucked neatly into jeans pockets, stood Mac.

Her smile froze, then faded. Oh, goodness gracious. This was
so
not what she wanted for her day. Had he seen her? Could she tiptoe away?

Too late. Mac had already caught site of her and was waving, a big dopey grin on his face.

She couldn’t make a run for it. Well, she could, but she’d look foolish and he’d find her anyway. There was no escaping. She’d have to meet him head-on. Nerves charged through her and her tummy did that now-familiar flip-flop thing and her breath went shallow. Damn it. Here she wanted to be all angry at the man and her body wanted to jump him. She sighed, resigned, and continued forward.

At her door, she stopped and tipped her head upward, forcing a glare she didn’t really feel onto her face. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “One would think I’d been perfectly clear yesterday: I don’t want to see you.”

“I came to apologize.”

She raised an eyebrow.

He waggled his in return.

She motioned at him to scoot away from her door, but he stood firm.

Ugh
.
The man clearly wanted to stay. And judging from the tingles flittering throughout her tummy, her body was siding with Mac (damn those hormones!). She cleared her throat, mentally informed her mind to control her instincts, and said, “Look, Mac, I think you’ve done enough damage already. Please leave.”

Mac shifted his weight onto his other hip, but didn’t move away from her door.

At least now he wasn’t standing directly in front of the doorknob. She shoved the key into the lock. Mac still leaned against the door, a fraction of an inch from her, hands still in his jeans pockets. So close, she could take in the jump of the muscle in his jaw. See his chest move as he breathed. Breathe in his scent as it wafted over her. Those darned tingles in her belly increased, causing her breathing to go shallow.

“Um…could you scoot aside?” she managed ask.

Mac refused to do as she’d asked. Instead, he spread his hands wide and said, “Trudy, just hear me out. Please.”

“Is that what will it take to get rid of you?”

“Yep. Let me in and I’ll say all I need to say in five minutes.”

Trudy raised her brow. “Then you’ll leave?”

Mac swept two fingers in the air. “Scout’s honor. Although to be honest, I never was a Boy Scout. Now, Doe and I both were both in 4-H, however.” He stared off in the distance, as if in reflection. “What was that motto? Head, heart, hands—”

“Mac—focus!”

He started, then riveted his gaze on her face. “Health. That was the fourth. Yes, I’ll leave in five minutes. Promise.”

Trudy closed her eyes, and with two fingers rubbed the spot in the middle of her brow. “Fine. Come on in.” She opened the door, then stepped aside and indicated for Mac to come into her living room.

There, she grabbed her favorite wing-backed chair and perched herself on the edge, then watched as Mac settled himself comfortably in the middle of her sofa, crossing his legs at the ankles and spreading his arms wide, draping them over the sofa’s back. Wow. The man was so incredibly sexy. Although yesterday she’d been yelling at him too much to take in how gorgeous he really really was, today…well, today was a different story.

Sort-of. There was the whole fact that he’d laughed at her after sex to deal with. Her face heated at the thought of her humiliation. Better to focus on the contract and how to get out of it.

“First,” he said, sending her a mega-watt smile, “I need to apologize. Or explain, really.”

She responded by raising an eyebrow. “You already told me there was a letter that explained the contract was with you, not your dad. Not sure we need to go over that again.”

He shook his head. “There was more in the letter. I had two whole paragraphs in there about the other night, when we were in bed—”

Trudy started to rise, but Mac held up a four fingers, indicating he still had four minutes left. She settled back down on the chair. She’d all but promised him five minutes.

“When we were in bed,” he repeated, “the sex did suck, but I want to make something absolutely clear: it didn’t suck because of you.”

Wait…what? Of course she’d been responsible. She turned her head away, trying to hide her blush behind the heavy curtain of her hair.

“Trudy, I didn’t give you what you deserved, and I want to apologize.” Mac spread his feet wide and leaned forward, his forearms braced against his thighs. His voice took on a tone of earnestness when he said, “That bad sex wasn’t about you. Not at all.”

She shook her head and opened her mouth to speak, but Mac cut her off before she could get a word in edgewise.

“I’m serious. You said something yesterday that made me realize you’d taken on the blame of our really bad, no good, lame-assed sex, and I have to set the record straight. It wasn’t your fault. No way, no how.”

Trudy lifted her brow. “But I thought…”

He shook his head. “I felt bad that night, right after we’d finished. After all, I’d knocked you down onto the bed, caused the lamp to break, nearly cracked your skull open with mine, and then I pulled your hair out by the roots.” He ran a hand through his black hair, spiking it in various directions, then added, “Not to mention that I couldn't even manage to get you undressed, then succeeded in giving you what had to be most underwhelming orgasm any woman’s ever experienced in the history of humankind.”

At Mac’s use of the word “underwhelming,” Trudy suppressed a giggle. “Not exactly butterflies and glitter,” she admitted.

“Exactly!” Mac leaned forward. “You ‘ooped,’ if I remember correctly. No woman should ever be reduced to ‘ooping.’ Screaming, sobbing, gasping, yes—but ‘
ooping’
?” He shook his head. “Oh, hell. That was
my
bad, dearest. Not you. No way should you ever think that our crappy night in bed had anything to do with you.”

Could he be serious?

He added, “I figured when you took off that you were thoroughly disappointed in me. Disgusted, even—”

“No,” she interrupted. “I thought
I’d
blown it.”

Mac leaned forward and caught her hands in his. He turned her hands upward and ran the pads of his thumbs in small circles in the palms. “Nope, it was all me. You were amazing.”

Her hands warmed under his touch. She kept her gaze low, on his hands, noting the length and strength of his fingers, a small scar on the back of his right hand, his tanned skin contrasting with her light palms.

Mac leaned forward, close enough for Trudy to get a whiff of his hair. Her tummy flip-flopped.

“Trudy, there were moments that night of absolute sensory overload. We hit a few great highs as well as a couple of lows. The chemistry between us nearly melted the place down.” He slowed the movement of his thumbs, then ran them up her wrists.

Trudy sucked in her breath at the sensuous touch.

“I think we have something here.” Mac shifted his legs, bringing his knees in contact with hers. “And I think you feel the connection as much as I do.”

Heat spread throughout her body. She flicked her gaze upward to see Mac still staring at her hands. She absorbed him with her stare, taking him all in. He opened his mouth, as if to speak. Instead, he hesitated, touched the inside of his teeth with his tongue. His soft, soft tongue. A tongue Trudy wanted against her lips, in her mouth, on—

Rebel, she thought. Her body was rebelling against her mind. So the bad sex that night hadn’t been her fault. Good—one issue taken care of. She still had to deal with the fact that she’d walked out on a job. She tugged her hands out of Mac’s and leaned far back into the wing-backed chair. One at a time she pulled her feet up under her until she sat curled up in a near fetal position, knees at her chest, arms wrapped tight around her shins.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“So…where does that leave us? I know I signed that contract, but I really do have issues about posing nude for a photographer. I can’t do it, Mac. I just can’t.”

* * *

M
ac shifted
, leaning back into the wingback chair, rather perplexed. Trudy could turn hot or cold in seconds, but he didn’t think she was meant to be capricious—rather, she seemed to be hiding something. He frowned, then said, “I guess I don’t get it. Even if you were contracting with a sculptor, artists often take photographs of the poses. My dad certainly does. And you said you were you planning to allow him to photograph you, right?”

“Yes, but that’s different…” Trudy refused to look at him. Instead she stared out the window, gazing out over the rustic scene behind her.

He followed her gaze—was that a
donkey
outside? He shook his head. Didn’t matter. He turned back to Trudy, who still wouldn’t meet his gaze. He’d met quite a few art critics who didn’t believe photography could be considered art. If Trudy was one of those snobs, well…

“For your information,” he said, knowing he sounded puffed-up but not caring, “photography as an art form has been in existence for almost a hundred years. Ever heard of Alfred Stieglitz?” When Trudy didn’t respond, he continued, almost desperate to make his point. She might not ever model for him, but he wanted another dating do-over. And if they were to date, he wanted her to know who he was. And respect what he did. “Stieglitz started the whole art photography movement over a hundred years ago with his famous photograph, ‘The Steerage.’ You ever hear of Dorothea Lange? Imogen Cunningham? Ansel Adams?”

Trudy tipped her head in a nearly imperceptible nod.

“We’re artists, Trudy.
Artists
.” Excitement filled his voice. “What I do with a camera, film, and a darkroom is as equally valid in the eyes of the art world—well,
most
of the art world—as what my father does with marble and sandstone. I really want you to understand that. To see art the way I see it. Photographs can be beautiful. And they can really show the truth about someone.”

Trudy dropped her forehead into her hands. Her shoulders started to shake—little tremors at first, then stronger. He narrowed his eyes. Was she laughing?

“You may not agree,” he said almost stuffily, “but I’d rather you not laugh at me.”