‘Sorry?’
She turned back to look at Brice McAllister, only to find he was already engrossed in the sketch-pad resting on his knee as he sat across the room from her. ‘I didn’t realise you had already started,’ she murmured slightly resentfully, knowing she had been caught off guard as she’d looked out at the beauty of the garden.
‘Only roughly,’ he dismissed, giving her his full attention now, looking very relaxed in blue denims and a black tee shirt. ‘And yes, I look after the garden myself, It’s often a welcome relief after being in my studio for hours. Do you garden?’
Her expression became wistful. ‘I used to.’
‘Before pressures of work made it impossible,’ Brice McAllister guessed lightly.
A shutter came down over her eyes. ‘Something like that,’ she answered noncommittally.
The fact that she no longer gardened had nothing to do with work commitments, and everything to do with the fact that she no longer lived alone in her little cottage. But she was not about to explain that to Brice McAllister.
She was only here at all today under protest, because last Friday she had been given no choice but to agree to the appointment. Part of her knew that she probably also owed Brice a thank-you for not telling Richard how she had been avoiding his phone calls all week. But there was something inside her that wouldn’t let her say the words…
“‘Something like that”?’ Brice repeated softly.
Sabina shifted uncomfortably. ‘I’m not sure I’m going to be any good at this; I’m simply not good at sitting still.’ She grimaced.
He nodded. ‘Stand up and move around if you prefer it; I’m not sure sitting down is the right pose for you anyway,’ he added frowningly.
Sabina wondered as she stood up to move restlessly about the room exactly what pose he did think was right for her?
Brice McAllister’s studio was a cluttered and yet somehow orderly room, canvases stacked against the walls, paints, pencils, paper, all neatly stored on open shelves, with the minimum amount of furniture; just the chair he sat in, a large, paint-daubed table, and the couch Sabina had been sitting on.
‘Here we are.’ Mrs Potter came back in with a laden tray, putting it down on the table, sandwiches and a fruit cake also on the tray.
‘Thank you,’ Sabina told the other woman warmly.
‘Help yourself,’ Brice McAllister invited dryly once his housekeeper had left the room.
She poured the tea into two cups before helping herself to one of the chicken sandwiches; she hadn’t thought she was hungry, but one bite of the delicious sandwich told her that she was.
‘Do you often miss out on lunch?’ Brice McAllister watched her with brooding eyes.
Sabina shrugged. ‘Sometimes. But I usually make up for it later,’ she assured him dryly. ‘I don’t starve myself, if that’s what you’re thinking; I’m naturally like this.’ She indicated the slenderness of her figure.
‘And very nice it is too.’ He nodded. ‘When’s the wedding?’
Sabina blinked at the sudden change of subject. ‘Sorry…?’
‘Richard implied your portrait is a wedding present to himself.’ Brice shrugged. ‘I was merely wondering how soon I have to finish it,’ he added derisively.
She frowned. ‘I think you must have misunderstood him.’ It had never even been discussed between them that their ‘understanding’ might lead to marriage…
‘No?’ He raised dark brows. ‘Richard gave me the impression it was imminent.’
‘Did he?’ she returned evenly, equally sure he must have misunderstood Richard.
‘I thought so,’ Brice continued determinedly. ‘There’s rather a large difference in your ages, isn’t there?’
Her cheeks flushed resentfully. What business was it of this man if there was an age difference between herself and her fiancé? Absolutely none, came the unqualified answer!
‘Spring and autumn,’ Brice added derisively.
Her mouth twisted. ‘At twenty-five I’m hardly spring—summer would be more appropriate,’ she bit out shortly. ‘And surely age is irrelevant in this day and age?’ she added challengingly.
‘Is it?’ he returned softly.
Sabina frowned across at him, more disturbed by what he had said than she cared to admit. She and Richard were friends, nothing more; Brice must have misunderstood Richard! Mustn’t he…?
‘I thought I came here so you could sketch me, Mr McAllister—not question me about my personal life!’ she snapped agitatedly.
‘The name is Brice,’ he told her smoothly.
‘I prefer Mr McAllister,’ she said tautly. What she really preferred was to keep this man very much at a distance!
He gave an unperturbed shrug. ‘Whatever. Could you stand over by the fireplace?’ he bit out curtly, once again frowning down at his sketch-pad.
Almost as if that very personal conversation had never taken place, Sabina fumed inwardly as she moved to stand beside the unlit fireplace.
‘Yes,’ Brice breathed his satisfaction with the pose. ‘The clothes are all wrong, of course—not that you don’t look lovely in them,’ he added as she raised her brows. ‘They just aren’t right for the way I want to paint you.’
‘And what way is that?’ Sabina rasped impatiently.
He didn’t answer her, frowning across the room at her in between making rapid strokes with his pencil on the pad in front of him.
Sabina remained standing exactly as she was, recognising that transfixed look from some of her photographic sessions; a master was at work, and for the moment she, as a person, did not exist.
Which was fine with her. She was here under protest, and the last thing she wanted was any more personal conversations with Brice McAllister while she was here. Especially of the kind they had just had.
‘Will there have to be much of this?’ she finally felt compelled to ask him an hour later. The fireplace was really rather nice, but after looking at it for the last hour she definitely knew it didn’t hold much scope for the imagination!
Brice looked up at her frowningly, his thoughts obviously still engrossed in his sketching. ‘Much of what?’
‘These sittings—or, in this case, standings,’ she added wryly. ‘Will I need to do many of them?’
He put the sketch-pad down on the table beside him, flexing stiff shoulder muscles as he did so.
He really was a very handsome man, Sabina acknowledged grudgingly. Those dark, brooding good looks were almost Byronic, that over-long dark hair giving him a rakishly gypsy appearance. Although Sabina was sure the romantic Byron had never quite had that totally assessing male look in his eyes. Deep green eyes that even now were trying to look past her façade of politeness to the inner Sabina!
‘Why?’ he finally drawled softly.
She shrugged. ‘As I’ve already explained, I’m—’
‘Rather busy,’ he finished derisively. ‘Yes, you have explained that. Several times, as I recall,’ he added mockingly before picking up his cup and drinking the now cold tea in one swallow. ‘The question is, why are you so busy?’ He looked at her with narrowed eyes. ‘As I understand it, you’ve been one of the top models in the world—if not the top model in the world,’ he allowed mockingly, ‘for the last five years. Why do you need to keep working at the pace that you do?’
Because work stopped her from thinking, from remembering, meant she was too tired at night to do anything more than fall into bed and go to sleep!
But none of those thoughts betrayed themselves in the calmness of her expression. ‘So that I remain one of the top models in the world,’ she replied dryly.
Brice pursed his mouth. ‘And is that important to you?’
Her cheeks became flushed at the mockery in his tone. ‘Is it important to you to be one of the world’s most sought-after artists?’ she returned caustically, deeply resenting the slight condescension towards her career that she sensed in his tone.
Okay, so it didn’t need great intelligence to initially become a model, just the right look, and a certain amount of luck, but it certainly took more than those things to remain one. She worked hard at what she did, never gave less than her best, and she deeply resented his implication that it should be otherwise. She had always regarded herself as something of an artist too, in her own way.
‘Touché,’ he allowed dryly. ‘I just can’t imagine doing what you do, day in and day out.’ He shrugged.
Sabina narrowed cornflower-blue eyes on him. ‘Are you meaning to be insulting, Mr McAllister, or does it just come naturally?’ she said slowly.
He grinned unabashedly. ‘A little of both, probably.’
She shook her head, incredulous at his arrogance. ‘You just don’t care, do you?’ she murmured slowly.
He looked puzzled. ‘About what?’
‘About anything,’ she realised in wonder.
How she wished she still had that tolerantly amused outlook to life, that she could laugh at herself as well as other people. But she knew that she didn’t. That she never would have again, thanks to—
No, she wouldn’t think of that. Couldn’t think of that.
‘I think it’s time I was going,’ she decided abruptly, glancing pointedly at the gold watch on her wrist. An engagement present from Richard. That, and his diamond engagement ring, were the only two pieces of jewellery she ever wore.