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Rubbing a troubled and curious hand round the back of his shirt-collar, he felt the skin between his brows pucker again. How had Maya come to know such an acclaimed artist and sit for him? More than that, why was she living in a one-roomed studio flat in a hardly prosperous area of Camden when she had in her possession a portrait that was without a doubt…priceless?
The noisy whirr of a hairdryer briefly distracted him. Casting a quick glance over his shoulder, Blaise returned his stunned attention back to the portrait. Captivating didn’t come close to describing it. Even if you didn’t know the girl whose cat-like almond-shaped green eyes gazed back at you with the kind of wounded glance that made a man feel personally responsible for whatever had hurt her, and broke something open inside him that he’d probably prefer not to have disturbed, you’d know you were witnessing something quite extraordinary.
The door opened and the sitter for the portrait—now clothed in light blue denims and an ethnic patterned silk top, with her pretty feet disturbingly bare—ventured an uncertain smile in his direction. The second her shy glance met his, a deep, magnetic tug of pure, undiluted sexual awareness made everything inside Blaise clench hard.
‘This is you…right?’ Fielding the sensual heat that now gripped him with a vengeance, he indicated the painting he’d been studying. Her tentative smile vanished.
‘Yes.’
‘The artist is world renowned…how did you come to sit for him? Was he a friend of your family’s, perhaps?’
Maya’s ensuing heavy sigh was laced with irritation.
‘People are always so impressed by fame and celebrity, aren’t they? It doesn’t always follow that the person concerned is the best example of a decent person you could know or even like. Why don’t people ever think about that? Because in my book that’s the thing that really counts.’
CHAPTER FOUR
‘I HEARD that Alistair Devereaux had his challenges. He must have had to take his own life.’
Maya winced. ‘So you know about that?’
‘He was probably one of the most inspirational and influential artists of his generation. How could I not have known that he’d killed himself?’ Blaise’s brow creased. ‘But you still haven’t told me how you came to sit for him.’
Eight years he had been gone, but the pain never seemed to lessen… Maya experienced the familiar tumult of despair and shuddering shock that she always felt when the subject of her father’s death came up, and she restlessly linked and unlinked her hands as she mentally stumbled to stay upright against the great swell of hurt that surfaced in her heart. She could see that Blaise was clearly puzzling over how on earth someone like her could have sat for one of the country’s most illustrious artists, and she couldn’t help resenting the unspoken judgement that out of habit she naturally assumed.
‘He was my father.’ An edge of defiance underlined her tone.
‘Your father?’ Genuinely taken aback, Blaise stared.
‘That’s right.’
‘I wasn’t aware that he’d left children behind.’
‘Well, he did…me.’
‘But your name’s Hayward, isn’t it?’
‘After he died I started using my mother’s maiden name.’ Maya lowered herself into the armchair because her legs suddenly felt disconcertingly wobbly. Visitors to her humble little home inevitably remarked on the portrait—why should Blaise Walker be any different? The picture was the only beautifully crafted thing in the room, and therefore it was bound to draw attention. But most of her friends didn’t even know who the artist was, and Maya had not been in a particular hurry to enlighten them.
Now, linking hands that were suddenly icy, she watched silently as her enigmatic visitor lowered his tall, fit frame onto the couch, moved cushions out of the way to get comfortable, then briefly speared his fingers through his hair.
‘Why? Because it was difficult to live with the attention from the press and the public?’ Blaise speculated.
‘Something like that.’
‘What about your mother? Presumably she must have outlived him?’
‘No. She died when I was four. I hardly remember her.’
‘That’s tough.’
Silence, then…‘So you were left on your own?’
‘I managed.’ Embarrassment was crawling over her skin with debilitating heat, and Maya shrugged. Then, riding the crest of her unease, she observed her handsome visitor with a steely look. She’d had enough of this awkward exchange, and the truth was after the week she’d just had she was in no mood for playing games with anyone—least of all with another man who was possibly only after one thing.
