Scandalous (4 page)

Looking around I said, “I don’t understand. Are these the finished paintings?” Maybe he was a minimalist selling blank canvases on stretchers with pretty frames.

“No,” he breathed, staring at me, watching my reaction carefully. I stood in front of a large bay of windows; the light spilling through behind me. His eyes lingered a beat too long before moving to a curtain that spanned across the back wall. “This is one of my finished works.” Clasping the curtain in his hand, Jack slid it back. As he revealed more and more of the painting, I found myself walking toward it, eyes growing steadily wider, lips parting further and further.

It was evocative and alluring, sensual. It was a myriad of contradictions and promises—a moving story told in paint. There was an abstract quality to
the work, but not so much that I couldn’t tell what it was. The painting was of a woman, her form captured in wide brush strokes of soft color. The curve of her figure, the expression on her face, and the long hair that drifted down her back made me stare at it. Sensual was the tame word to describe what he painted. It was raw emotion and full ecstasy, captured on canvas.

I couldn’t breathe. My face felt hot. I was certain my cheeks were burning. “Jack, this is...” I searched for the right word, but couldn’t find one. Stepping closer, I shook my head whispering, “carnal, raw, evocative, and... sexy as hell.” My eyes were locked on the painting, on this vision of beauty that he created. When did Jack learn to do this?

His hands were behind his back. Jack was smiling, watching me, standing next to me. “Cursing preacher?”

I shrugged, not looking away from the painting, “I never really had a tame tongue.”

“I remember,” he said softly. “That mouth of yours used to get you in trouble.
Frequently.”

My eyes were wide when I turned and looked at him. The expression on his face only deepened my blush. He was genuinely amused, watching my eyes devour his painting like I couldn’t get enough.
“Preacher girl, I think you like naughty art,” he laughed, a dimple showing as his smiled deepened.

Trying to defend myself, I said, “It’s not naughty. It’s...” but he didn’t let me finish.

“Then why are you beat-red?” He laughed, “It’s kind of cute. I haven’t had this much fun showing my work to anyone in a while. And I never thought I’d be showing it to a nun, and hear her say it’s not dirty.”

The corners of my mouth twisted up into a smile as I turned my blushing face in his direction, “It’s not dirty!” I protested. “It’s beautiful.
Shockingly sensual.
I just didn’t think you could paint something like that.”

“Why’s that?” he asked, the smile fading from his lips.

I shrugged, “I don’t know. I just... I’ve never seen anything like it before. There’s so much here. It has the timeless quality of an Old Master’s painting, but it has some of the qualities of Pollack’s work. It’s beautiful.” His lips were parted, watching me as I spoke; taking in my every word like it was air. Jack and I
were
a thing that never happened. We went through high school and he was one of my best friends, but there was more between us. Shaking the
thoughts from my mind, I asked, “How did you make this?”

He arched an eyebrow at me, and turned away. “It’s um, not what you’d expect.”

I laughed, “What do you mean? You didn’t use a paint brush?” I was joking, but he shook his head.

“No, it’s not like that,” he stated, running his hand through his hair. Not looking at me, he stepped toward the painting, looking at it, recounting how it was made. “It’s more... unconventional, which is why I always have a female assistant at my studio. It maintains propriety, and that’s the difference between my art selling for millions and nothing.” Jack was staring at the
painting,
his jaw tightening like something was bothering him.

“What do you mean?” I asked, turning to look at him. His hands were shoved into his pockets, as he gazed at his sneakers briefly, looking at me from under his brow. He still looked like the boy I knew, not the millionaire man that he was supposed to be. Oddly, Jack seemed to hide his wealth. Getting closer to him, I could see he was wearing the same brands he used to wear. Nothing appeared to change.

His blue gaze pierced mine, “Reputation is the only thing keeping these paintings from being considered porn. Everything rides on my reputation.
I don’t touch my models, I don’t screw the models, and I don’t use the same model more than once. And there’s always a schoolmarm type sitting here during the shoots. Those things protect my reputation, and keep these as art—sensual representations of the human form.” Jack walked next to the painting on the board, and picked up a pile of pictures. They must have been shot with his camera. I didn’t really get what he was saying until I looked at them.

Keeping my face still, I flipped through the pile. From one picture to the next, my heart raced harder. When I got to the end of the stack, I looked up at him, eyes wide,
“
You weren’t kidding. You don’t use a paint brush.”

He shook his head, taking the stack of pictures back. His fingers brushing mine without meaning to. A jolt passed between us. It was like it was before, years ago. I gasped, trying to ignore it. Jack did the same, “The models are the paint brush.” He pressed his lips together, glancing at me, as if my approval mattered. “Fine art has always had nudes at the center, and this, this is a similar take on that.”

My arms folded across my chest, trying to ease the swirling sensation in my stomach. I wasn’t sure if this was scary or fascinating.
Probably a little of both.
Glancing at him, I asked, “You paint them? And then what?”

Nodding, he walked down the length of the painting, his hands in his pockets. “I paint the model’s body, using the color palate I need, and then I instruct her, and tell her what to do.” He turned back to me, leaving some space between us, “It’s kind of like a life-size stamp. She lies down on the canvas and moves across it as directed. I shoot while the painting is being made,” he pointed to the large camera fixed to the ceiling, “and then go back and hand-paint the rest. And this is the end result.” He gestured to the finished painting next to him.

Heart racing, I pressed my lips together and asked, “What is it that you want me to do?”

His gaze locked with mine. My stomach stirred. His voice was cool, confident, “I want you to be the
marm
. No one will question anything with preacher-girl here. Especially if you think these are Kosher.” His eyes were twin lakes of endless blue. The spinning sensation abruptly stopped when he said
marm
. So that’s how he saw me.

I swallowed hard. I wanted the job, hell I needed the job, but I didn’t think I could take being around him every day. Before I realized what I was saying, I heard my voice speaking, “I don’t know.”

“Why not?” he asked.
“It’d be perfect.” Jack pulled his hands from his pockets, drawing my eye to the spot where his dark jeans hugged his narrow hips. The tee shirt he wore made his eyes seem deeper, darker than possible. The soft smile on his lips was electric.

Crushing the feelings he was arousing, I turned away, staring at the art on the wall. I couldn’t believe that he still had this effect on me. It was the same way it was the last time I saw him. That moment came rushing back. It was summer, about ten years ago. We stood on the beach, the waves crashing onto the sand behind us. Jack had a horrible reputation during high school. If a girl looked his way, he had to have her. And he did. That didn’t jive with my idealistic tendencies. I wanted a
soulmate
, someone who only felt whole when he was with me. Jack wasn’t that person. I’d never met my
soulmate
, and still haven’t. But that night, I felt different. Something happened. We were inches apart and I felt my lips drifting toward his. My hands were tangled in his hair, his hands at his sides. Our eyes were locked, saying everything in silence. As our lips were about to meet, I stopped. Jack hadn’t moved, and I didn’t want to kiss him if he didn’t want it. A kiss meant something to me, and he knew it. I’d told him over
and over again how a kiss should mean something, that sex wasn’t a sport. It was more than that.

The kiss never happened. I remained still, feeling his breath drift softly across my lips and his silky hair in my hands. He was a breath away, so close. His eyes were lowered, like mine, watching my lips the entire time. My fingers slid down the side of his face, slowly. When my hands reached his chin, I released him. The moment shattered. The kiss was lost, never to be given, never to be taken.

That was so long ago. Why was it bothering me now? Shoving the memory aside, I said, “I just... I need to think about it.”

He stepped in front of me, blocking my view of the painting, looking down into my face, “What’s there to think about? It pays better than the other job, and you’d have less people to deal with.
Just me and the model.”
He pressed his lips together, “Is it because it’s too much? Does the idea of being around nude models bother you?” A normal person would have nodded and said
yes, naked people make me uncomfortable
, and then continued to point out that no one sits next to the naked guy on subway. For some reason, I didn’t say that. I felt compelled to tell him the truth.
Stupid Abby.

Glancing up at him, I found myself answering before I intended to, “No. I’ve never had issues with that about art. The human form is one of the most beautiful things in creation.” I was a total freak. In Texas, I kept my opinions on art to myself, because they didn’t really jive with the culture. They thought nudity was scandalous, as if bare skin was inherently evil and needed to be instantly covered in denim, gingham, and large bows. I thought Jack’s painting was interesting—a moment in time, captured in paint, showcasing what people perceived as beauty. Clothing would have ruined it.

“Then what is it?” Jack asked, deadly serious, voice hushed. Before I could answer, he added, “I swear to God, when I heard your voice coming from that room, I couldn’t believe it. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up before I even saw you. And then, when I opened the door, and saw you sitting there with Gus... it was like seeing a ghost.” There was an expression in his eyes that made me melt.

“I feel like a ghost, Jack.” It was strange we were using the same word. It felt like my life was stamped out and I was the walking dead. At the same time, seeing him again, it was too much. Everything was rushing back. Just standing here with him had me in overdrive, trying to fend off that look. Taking this job
would save me from one thing and screw me with another. I looked away from him, toward the door, my stomach twisting over and over again. Crap. I couldn’t do this. “Thanks for the offer, but I think that I’ll have to find something else.” I couldn’t be in the same room with him. It wasn’t the idea of him painting these sensual images, or the naked models, or any of that... it was him.

It was Jack.

“If that’s what you want, Abby… but would you do me one favor before you totally turn it down?” his voice was soft.

I glanced up at him, my hand on the knob, ready to run, ready to walk away from Jack and never look back. But that tone, that soft questioning sound of his voice stopped me. It sent currents straight to my heart, melting me, making me want to give him anything he wanted. Turning I said, “Sure. What is it?”

“Come to the session later tonight and see what it is that you’d do. Talk to the woman you’re replacing. I think you’d really like it. It’s a good job. We start at 8pm. See you then?” Jack’s demeanor changed from boyishly shy to bold.

Maybe being around Jack wouldn’t be so bad? If he was working, he wouldn’t have time to run his
sapphire blue eyes over my body and make my heart pound in my chest. He couldn’t make me question every decision I’ve ever made. Going against my better judgment, I said, “Okay. I’ll try it.”

CHAPTER SIX

I drove back to Kate’s thinking I was insane, and she told me as much as soon as she got home from work. Kicking off a pair of commuter shoes, she said, “What the hell are you thinking? You can’t take a job like that. Your church won’t take you back after that. The whole thing sounds indecent. And I’m a New Yorker! Those Texan crack-pots think dancing is evil, Abby. You live in that little
Footloose
town, for
christsakes
! Use your brain!
Naked women rolling in paint is
way worse than dancing!”

I rolled my eyes, cringing as she said it. No doubt she was right. Back in Texas, anything even remotely sensual was evil. That explained all the clothing starched into sandpaper. Nobody wanted to touch that. But what she said was the perception that Jack tried so hard to diffuse, and I wasn’t going to back down. There was nothing wrong with his art. “You don’t get it Kate. It’s not like that. The paintings were
so raw that it was shocking. It showcased beauty, not lust.”

Rolling her eyes, she said, “You’re a girl, Abby. Guys look at naked chicks and lust. Believe me. You’re in uncharted waters here—unless you did it with some random guy and forgot to tell me.” Kate walked into the kitchen while we were talking, shirking off her jacket and draping it over the counter.