Free-spirited Tallulah Weaver inspires Mark to do more than paint. He seeks her out beyond the classroom
walls, though somehow even that encounter doesn’t turn out as he expects. Is she simply fresh inspiration?
Or will Mark finally get past his fears to take the promise of a new beginning she’s offering?
EXCERPT
She was lying atop the platform, the leg closest to her audience bent to hide her sex from their scrutiny.
Soft muscles curved into a full hip, dipping into a very defined waist before blossoming out again into the
ripe mounds of her breasts. Her nipples were hard. Unexpectedly, his mouth watered when he noticed that
detail, but his gaze continued to slide upward.
Past her bare shoulder, she had a tiny mole on her upper bicep.
Along the fall of her dark blonde hair, lying down on the dais meant the gentle waves tumbled over the
platform's side. He couldn't help but wonder how long it fell down her back.
His placement in the semi-circle had Mark positioned near the model's head, which meant that with her face
turned outward toward the class, he was left staring directly into her eyes. They were blue, framed with
thick lashes clearly bereft of make-up they didn't need anyway, but while her features remained completely
placid, her eyes glowed with a playful gleam. It was almost as if she had some secret she was dying to
share, and she was only waiting for the right person to ask for it so that she could spill its delightful
promise.
He was instantly entranced.
The question of what was going on in her head became his newest obsession. What did she see? Did she think
it was weird that there was only one guy in the class? Did she even notice that he was there or did she
disappear someplace else in order to get through the ordeal?
When the instructor quietly cleared her throat behind him, Mark finally broke away from his staring, his
cheeks flaming with embarrassment. God, she probably thinks I'm some letch, he thought. That I'm only
interested in taking a life studies class so that I can ogle the nude model. It didn't matter that he was a
reasonably attractive, youngish man or that he could probably get a date with little to no effort. His
actions spoke louder than words, and at that exact moment in time, they shamed him.
The blank canvas stared back at him, but Mark didn't see it. All he could see was the graceful bow of the
model just a few feet away, the details of her surroundings fading away to be replaced by something more
fitting. Lou wasn't an art class model. She was a siren, cavorting in the sea spray, unaware that the song
she used to amuse herself was causing those nearby sailors who heard her to be crashed onto the deadly
rocks.
The brush was in his hand, the color sweeping in broad strokes across the canvas, before he could stop
himself.
He never looked away from his work. Even when the instructor called the mid-morning break and he heard the
other students stand and stretch, his movements never slowed. They were curious about him, he could tell,
their murmurs rising and falling as they kept their varying distances from his easel, but not one of them
dared to approach. That was likely a good thing. When Mark got into this particular mindset, interrupting
him was the best way to get your head bit off.
He still wasn't done when the instructor called the end of class two hours later. While the others packed
away their supplies, she came around to where he still worked, watching him discreetly from behind until
they were the only two left in the room.
"Is this how it always is for you?" she asked with a smile. "Are you always this intense in working?"
He lied. He told her yes. In part, it was true. The smallest of things could keep him painting for hours,
but this was the first time he could ever remember that thing being a person. Usually, it was a leaf on a
tree, or a glimmer of light across the horizon. True beauty, he had always believed, could only be found in
nature. People were too duplicitous to fall into that same category.
For some inexplicable reason, this Lou seemed to be in a category all on her own.
Though he debated the issue with the instructor for nearly half an hour, Mark was forced to leave his wet
canvas in the classroom, shimmers of blue and green and ivory all fighting to take control of his attention
as he hurried from the building. He couldn't just stop. He had to continue. The picture he had in his head
demanded it.
So he went back down to the docks, staring out over the water as he fought to recreate the magic he'd
witnessed that morning. The colors would be perfect for her, he decided. The contrast of the water flowing
over her soft curves. The dawn's light deepening the hue of her hair. He sketched for hours, claiming line
after line for her, and only left once the setting sun failed him.
It was no wonder that he fell asleep that night with her on his mind. And it was even less remarkable that
he dreamt of her.
