While I was still incapacitated, he observed, "If you"re going to ask about the "Made in Russia" thing, I should tell you I have no idea of the story behind that. I didn"t ask. I"ve learned that sometimes it"s better not to know!"
I shook my head, wiped my streaming eyes and took the plunge.
"Okay. Thank you. What I really wanted to ask...what I"m trying to work out...oh, dammit! What are you doing with me?" Hmmm. It didn"t come out quite the way I"d intended.
"Nothing. Yet." He grinned lasciviously. "What did you have in mind?"
I ignored this sally. "So, you"re not interested in Miss Slavic Nude in a more than professional way, then?"
"No." He hesitated. "Not interested in her, or any of my other clients in more than a business way. Look, I don"t usually date customers. But I have to say, I was very tempted to break that rule for you. I - "
For a long moment he searched for words. "The time you came in to start the tattoo on your ankle...ah, Remy, I don"t know how I kept my hands off you before that, so close to your, um, your, well, that first time you came in. The scent of your hair so close, that incredible view down your shirt, your blushes."
He laughed, as much, I thought, at himself as anything, and went on. "You were lovely. Then when you came back and those pretty legs were exposed, I"m sorry. I knew I was making you squirm, but I couldn"t help myself. You felt so...good. I wanted to ask you out, but there was my stupid rule, then when you asked me it just seemed like fate. Meant to be. And here we are."
"Just where are we?" I had to ask, had to hear him say it.
He made an exasperated noise. "I"ve fallen for you. Here, let me show you something that might convince you."
He stood up and tugged his shirt out of the waist of his jeans, slipping it over his head in one fluid movement. Disrobing so abruptly was not at all what I"d expected.
"Er, um, that"s alright, you don"t have to prove anything-" This was not at all what I"d antic.i.p.ated.
"Sshhh. Hush for a moment. You need to see this." He dropped the shirt to the floor.
Not taking my eyes off him, I scrabbled after it, not sure exactly how I was going to accomplish it but determined to get him dressed again before this went any further.
"I"m sure there is, but, um, now may not be the right time-"
He turned away from me, revealing his bare back, and my mouth shut with a snap mid-stall.
Etched on the smoothly muscled skin of his torso was a lusciously naked beauty, a lovely zaftig woman, all ample curves and dimples, smiling like a fox in the henhouse, her generous body inked in loving detail. She looked proud and confident. And dare I say it? She looked rather like me.
"That"s not new, is it? When did you get that?" I was burning with curiosity, and more.
"No, she"s not new. She"s been with me a long, long time. She"s the woman of my dreams." He hesitated, turning to face me again. I was having a hard time paying proper attention to his words while confronted with his semi-nakedness. He sank back onto the couch and took both my hands in his.
"Can"t you get it through your head? You"re the one I want. You"re the one I"ve been dreaming about, not a skinny girl with bad taste in tattoos."
"Oh," I said, in a very small voice.
"Oh? Is that the best you can do?" He was laughing at me.
There were no words to express what I was feeling, but action speaks volumes. I launched myself into his arms, and all of a sudden neither of us was laughing.
His bare chest was hard beneath my fingers, the silken skin warm and smooth. Long lashes brushed his cheek as his eyes half closed under my touch. His hands snaked about my waist and under my blouse to find my own bare skin, and the sensation was as electrifying as the first touch of ink had been, but far more pleasurable.
As I bent my head to his, I saw my long auburn elflocks brush about his shoulders, raising a trail of goose b.u.mps in their wake. Matching goose b.u.mps wended their way along my spine as he swept his hands up my back, drawing me closer.
Our lips met, and I felt as if the clocks stopped. His lips were soft and expert, waking a pa.s.sion in me that had been dormant for too long. I met and matched the soft foray of his tongue along my upper lip, my hands hard on his shoulders, urging him on. He needed little encouragement and with a lithe movement deposited me beneath him. The long luscious length of his body hard against mine took my breath away.
He laid a hot path of kisses down my throat, paused and teased his way back along the slope of my collarbone and the curve of my neck. The spicy-sweet scent of him intoxicated me.
Burying his face in my hair, lips against my ear, he whispered: "What are we going to tattoo on that inviting hide next, Remy, my sweet?"
Hmm. I could see it now: I was destined to become the Ill.u.s.trated Woman.
About the Author.
Elizabeth Angus was born in Melbourne, Australia, sometime in the swinging sixties, and has lived there most of her life. There are thus forty-some years of odd and varied information crammed into her brain, snippets of which emerge at odd moments in both writing and conversation. She has been writing for as long as she can remember; even before learning that the odd little squiggles in books were words, she was making up stories in her head. Though she"ll read anything if desperate, her preferred genres are science fiction, fantasy and mystery, preferably with some romance thrown in. Her favourite colour is purple, except for the days when it is black. Or red. Or green. Apart from writing, her pa.s.sions are travel, quilting and art, not necessarily in that order. If she could live anywhere in the world apart from Australia, it would be Canada. In order to eat and pay the bills, Elizabeth"s working life has been spent in libraries, but she is currently searching for a more lucrative and less fulltime career in order to spend more time writing and fuel her escalating shoe addiction.
A WORK OF ART.
Judy Bagshaw.
Dedication.
To my many big beautiful friends. I think you"re all works of art!
DARBY MARSHALL SHIFTED on the hard wooden stacking chair, trying to find any position that would be comfortable. She was tired, she was bored, and she asked herself for the umpteenth time what had possessed her to bring her fractal art to a community craft sale. Especially one where the seating was designed by some size nothing s.a.d.i.s.t to torture her size twenty-six b.u.t.t. Thankfully the day was almost over.
She was more accustomed to having her work-her paintings and sculptures-in galleries. To have allowed herself to succ.u.mb to doing a favor by taking a table-well, it irked.
She looked around at the other vendor"s tables scattered around the community center hall. They appeared to be doing a brisk business. Although she"d had lots of lookers, she hadn"t had any takers. She couldn"t blame her lack of customers on the weather. It was a perfect September day. She sighed and changed position once again.
She perked up a little when a young couple stopped at her table.
"Your pictures are so...um...unusual." The girl flashed her a too-bright smile.
Darby inwardly cringed, but plastered a similar strained smile on her own face.
"Thank you," she replied, standing. "It"s fractal art. I design it on the computer."
"No kidding." The young man picked up a picture and stared at it for a long moment. The piece was a vivid blue with various sized circles ringed in orange and yellow. "Way cool. I didn"t know you could do stuff like that on the computer."
"Oh yes," Darby said. "In fact-"
"How much is this one? It"s kind of pretty," the girl said, annoying Darby with her rude interruption. She held up a whimsical piece Darby called "Strawberries and Cream" that looked almost satiny in texture with vivid red stylized berries scattered on the creamy background.
"One hundred dollars framed and signed," she replied. "I"m offering a bargain just for today."
"Bargain?" the girl squealed. "It"s not that pretty." She dropped it back on the table, nearly sending several of the fractals to the floor. The couple strolled off shaking their heads and muttering.
Darby slumped back with a sigh. She wasn"t surprised. It was a craft show after all. People wanted to get something for next to nothing. Her sister, Connie, had told her this would happen, but Darby, being Darby, wouldn"t listen.
She had always been like that, strong minded and charging into things without thinking them through. She had the kind of personality people described as a force of nature. They were drawn to her enthusiasm and innate optimism.
She had convinced herself that her work would speak for itself, and people would be happy to own a piece of original artwork. After all, her acrylics and sculptures sold well at the shops and galleries around town. Besides, she had been kind of badgered into taking a table by her parent"s obnoxious neighbor, Sylvia Donaldson, the mastermind behind the whole affair. Sylvia had a way of wearing you down and guilting you into volunteering against your better judgement. Connie called her the "Terminator." As kids, Darby and her sister had been railroaded into all sorts of things from serving tables at community suppers to collecting junk for the church white elephant sales. As if reading Darby"s mind, Sylvia bore down on the table.
"Darby dear. How are we doing?"
How Darby hated that annoying singsong voice. "Gee, Sylvia, I don"t know how "we"re" doing. I"m doing bupkis. It seems that fractals aren"t the flavor of the day."
"Well, they are rather different, aren"t they?" Sylvia remarked dismissing Darby"s work with a flick of her hand. "Maybe you should"ve brought in some of those lovely ceramics and wonderful paintings like you have for sale at the Griffith gallery instead of these...things."
"Clay sculptures," Darby said, her cheeks growing red.
"What, dear?"
"Clay sculptures. I don"t work in ceramics."
"Of course." Sylvia giggled. Darby winced at the sound. "Silly me. Well, people like that sort of thing."
"Yes, but I doubt they"d be willing to pay what I charge for an acrylic or a sculpture."
"Well, they don"t seem to want to pay for these fractures, either. Such a pity." Sylvia"s expression was one of compa.s.sion for the downtrodden.
"Fractals," Darby said.
"What?" Sylvia didn"t wait for a reply. "I have a suggestion, dear. Next year perhaps some pretty little landscapes, or pictures of flowers. Everyone loves flowers."
Oh, bite me. Darby thought. She fumed in silence. Sylvia, perhaps sensing that the conversation had run its course, sailed away like some great ocean barge. The long silk-screened scarf she wore looped around her neck billowed in her wake like a flag in the wind.
"There will be no next year," she said with firm resolve.
"As cheerful as ever, I see." The familiar voice grabbed Darby"s attention.
"Hey, Nathan." She stood to hug her sixteen-year-old brother.
"I gather old "sobersides Sylvia" is the reason for that black cloud snapping lightning over your head."
Darby laughed a great belly laugh that had the vendors at the surrounding tables looking at her. "I"m glad you"re here, little brother. I"m bored to tears, and there"s still an hour to go."
"Unfortunately, I can"t stay," he said. "I"m off to soccer practice, but Mom wanted me to tell you she expects you at dinner tonight, and won"t take no for an answer."
"Yeah, like I"d have a choice."
As strong willed as she was, she couldn"t rival the original...her mom. Mrs. Marshall ruled her home and family with an iron fist in a velvet glove, and her family adored her. Darby chuckled and shook her head. It looked like she"d be dining with her family.
She stood up to straighten her table, pausing here and there to run a critical eye over the display. Overall, she was satisfied. The fractals were bright and new, and that excited her. She enjoyed the unpredictability of the medium, the surprises that appeared each time a fractal was rendered.
She had worked hard for what she had and was now lucky to have reached a point at age twenty-seven where she could demand respectable prices for her work and make a decent living. She had several of her acrylics and sculptures in galleries, even the prestigious Griffith gallery. The fractals, she was sure, would be just as successful once they caught on. She needed to arrange a showing to introduce them to the art buying public. But until then, this craft show was the gallery and the locals, her customers.
She looked up and caught Sylvia"s eye across the hall. The older woman waved. Darby plastered a tight smile on her face. This was not the venue for her work, that was for sure.
She had just settled herself back in her chair when a man walked up to her table. He was an ordinary looking sort, yet something about him captured Darby"s interest. Perhaps it was the intensity with which he examined each fractal on her table. Or maybe it was the quiet confidence apparent in his posture. She sensed that here was someone who appreciated and understood art. Though he wore wire-framed gla.s.ses and looked comfortable in black slacks and a blue checked short-sleeved shirt, she could easily imagine him in a business suit, headed to an office.
"Nice work." He continued to scrutinize each piece on display. He lifted up a piece she called "Lace Corset", a Victorian inspired garment in gold on a purple background. She liked it because the corset looked full-figured. She noticed that he smiled when he viewed the name.
"Thank you." Darby was both relieved and energized that someone was at last taking genuine notice of her work.
"What"s the medium? I can"t seem to tell. Is it watercolor?"
She chuckled. "They"re fractals. I created them on the computer using a mathematical equation as my starting point. Once the image was generated, I did a little manipulating until I got a composition that pleased me. There"s a stylized feel to the work that I like. I mean, that one doesn"t look exactly like a Victorian corset, but the impression is there."
"Interesting," the man said, giving her a warm smile that caused her pulse to flutter. She was finding it hard to think straight.
"Then I printed it on my inkjet printer, using a special watercolor paper that absorbs the ink and allows it to bleed slightly, creating the watercolor effect you notice."
The man looked up, and Darby got her first good look at his face. It was a nice face, and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes bespoke a sense of humor. Intelligence shone from his warm brown eyes. He was smiling, and the way he leaned in so close to her made her feel as if he had a genuine interest in what she had to say. Her pulse began to speed up.
"Is there anything that can"t be done on computers anymore?" He stroked a thoughtful finger along the frame of the piece.
"It seems that way doesn"t it?" She noted that he was about five foot ten, her height, and a little soft around the middle, built to use his brain, not his brawn. He was the type that was usually described as a teddy bear...soft and cuddly. She felt a flush rise to her cheeks at the notion of cuddling up to this stranger. She hoped he didn"t notice. She stuck out her hand. "I"m Darby Marshall."
His handshake was firm, and Darby felt his grip long after their hands had parted. "Martin...Thomas. Nice to meet you, Darby." He scanned the rest of the room. "This doesn"t seem like the best venue for your type of art."
"I agree. But it"s a way to get my work out there. It"s also a favor to my parents" neighbor."
"Darby dear."
"Speak of the devil." She jerked her head at Sylvia as the older woman once again sailed up to her table.
With a perfunctory nod to Martin, Sylvia began her oral a.s.sault. "You haven"t made a single sale all day, have you?" Sylvia"s loud clear voice was in contradiction to her conspiratorial body language. "Poor thing. I hope you"re not too disappointed."
"Of course not, Sylvia," Darby gritted her teeth. "There"s nothing better I like to do with my Sat.u.r.days than-"
"Actually, she has made a sale." Martin feigned innocence at Darby"s incredulous stare.
"Oh?" Sylvia said. Darby could swear she sounded almost disappointed. "How nice."
"Yes," Martin continued. He held up Strawberries and Cream and the Victorian Corset. "I"ll take these two, Darby, and I"ll let you know on that other one."
"Okay." In her shock, she nearly choked on the word.