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I linger near her studio door. I should turn back—there’s other work to be done. Hellie’s not the most important thing in my world, not even the top ten.
But I can’t help myself.
I peek inside, breathing softly so she doesn’t notice.
The girl’s sitting at a drafting table, hunched over a large sketchpad. She’s got charcoal in her hand, and she’s making these quick slashes with the tip, then longer lines with the side, filling in shades of light and dark. On an easel to her right is the reference book, open toThe Concert.
She’s sketching it.
A practice run. Getting the feel for the composition. I stare at the way her arms move, her shoulders, her back, the muscles in her hands. The concentration on her face is magnetic, the intensity of her stare, the way her tongue pokes out from between her lips ever so slightly. She’s whispering to herself, muttering something I can’t hear.
It’s incredible, watching her work. I’ve never been this attracted to a woman before—it’s her focus, her determination. And, yes, it helps that she’s sexy as fuck, the sort of woman that draws looks wherever she goes, only she’s so used to dressing in nothing but sweats and big sweaters it’s easy to forget that she has an incredible body.
Lean and toned. Light brown skin. And that raven dark hair. I want to wrap my fist in that hair and taste her lips.
But most of all, I want to stay here and watch her work.
Instead, I move away. If she catches me, it might ruin the moment, and right now things are delicate. Whatever Ren said to her, she’s finally breaking down and making the right choice.
I want her to work.
Hell, I want her to survive this.
But that can only happen if she obeys me.
“Asshole.”
I stop in the hall. It was her voice, clear as day.
I turn halfway back, and I hear it again, louder this time.
“I know you were watching, asshole.”
I smile to myself, my heart racing in my chest.
My little devil girl.
Chapter11
Hellie
Ifind Erick down in the kitchen. Whatever he’s eating smells incredible. He takes small bites from a large bowl while reading the paper on a large tablet. Marina’s at the stove, whistling to herself. Outside, the sun’s setting.
“Here, asshole.” I toss the drawing down onto the table in front of him and flop into the chair opposite. “Take a look.”
He stares at me for a long moment. I should really try to be less abrasive, but I’m exhausted from working all day and I haven’t really eaten anything. Besides, he’s my freaking kidnapper, and I don’t really owe him anything.
Marina comes over with a bowl and a glass of wine. “Enjoy,” she says, smiling warmly as she pats my shoulder. I’m too starved to wait—I start shoveling forkfuls with rice, beans, shredded pork, guacamole, and fresh vegetables.
“Holy crap,” I say as the flavor hits me in the skull and my stomach growls. I gulp down some wine and keep eating. “Marina, this is so good!”
“Glad you like it,” she says and sounds like she means it.
Erick’s staring at my sketch.
“It’s rough,” I say with my mouth full. “Just blocking it out. Getting the forms. If you think it sucks, I don’t really care.”
He says nothing. Only keeps staring, which makes me unreasonably mad. The least the guy could do is say something. I mean, I get it, he’s got a lot riding on whether I can convincingly fake an old master’s painting style, but to hell with him. I worked hard on that stupid charcoal piece, and even though it’s pretty basic, it’s got all the right elements in place.
