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I quickly redirected my gaze to meet hers. “No—they’re perfect.”
Grace blinked twice.
“I mean, your positioning is perfect,” I said.
She gave me a dubious look. “Uh-huh—if you say so.”
What did she mean by that?
Grace tilted her head to the side, listening to the song from Pavarotti. “So, you speak Italian then?”
“Yes,” I said. “Also French and Spanish.”
She nodded, but didn’t say more.
I tried making more conversation to put her at ease.
“Puccini’s Turandot is one of my favorite operas,” I remarked over the soaring Italian vocals. “It’s about a defiant princess who challenges her suitors to answer three riddles, with death awaiting those who fail. I like to joke with Adriana that the opera is based on the true story of her life.”
Grace simply blinked at me.
No response, not even a hint of a grin.
“Adriana is kind of the rebel in the family,” I explained.
Still nothing from her.
At least I thought it was funny.
I focused on my work rather than on her puzzling behavior.
“All right, let’s get down to business,” I said. “I’ll start with a preliminary charcoal sketch and then move on to watercolors. If time becomes an issue, I can always snap a picture and finish the rest on my own.”
“Sounds good,” Grace replied, her shoulders tense, her jaw clenched, and her breathing shallow. She went right back to fidgeting.
It was utterly baffling.
I reached for my charcoal pencil and became absorbed in capturing Grace’s likeness on canvas. The sweep of her jawline, the waves of her hair, the sparkle in her eyes. I wanted to portray the spirit within as much as the external beauty. As I sketched, I glanced at her rose-colored cheeks, the curve of her body, her sexy lips, her graceful neck, and even lower to her . . .
Realizing my thoughts were drifting into dangerous territory, I gave myself a mental shake.
Focus, Oliver.
This is about art.
Not . . . whatever else you’re thinking.
This was going to be more difficult than I thought.
“I appreciate your modeling for me,” I said, hoping some conversation would clear the naughty thoughts that were floating around in my head. “I know you lost a bet, but this is one of my genuine passions.”
Grace nodded. “How old were you when you first started painting?”
“Five,” I answered. “I started with my fingers, then worked my way up to brushes.” I grinned proudly. “We used to have a Royal Academy of Arts, much like the one in London. It was my favorite place to visit on the island by far.”
“What happened to it?” Grace asked.
I frowned. “It was destroyed when Mount Verdana erupted. It’s my dream to build another one, but focused more on classes for children. I think the arts are an important part of a child’s life. It helps them express themselves when they don’t have the language level to do so yet.”
