Every Second Counts (14 page)

“No. The favor I have to ask.” When she looked up, she expected to see Ryder’s usual smug grin. Instead, her expression was serious.

“Bridgette, I regret a lot about this afternoon. If I can do something to make it up to you, just ask it.”

“It’s not for me.” It seemed important to say that. She didn’t want this to be a personal favor. “It’s for the art department. The college trustees plan to siphon money from existing departments to fund the new areas of study in an effort to enroll more students. The cuts they want to make in the art department are just unacceptable. We’ll lose almost fifty percent of our art scholarships and ten percent of our faculty, including my artist-in-residence position.”

Ryder shook her head. “Eleanor would have been furious. The reputation of the art program is what put that college on the map.”

“Exactly. I’ve been appointed to organize an auction to raise money for an art endowment independent of the college’s finances, money the trustees can’t touch.”

“You’re going to auction off the art in the gallery?”

“No. Everything in the gallery technically belongs to the college, not the art department. We have to solicit artwork donated specifically for the endowment. Dean Blanchard was told you’re heir to your grandmother’s estate, and he’s hoping I can talk you into donating a painting or two.”

Ryder nodded and rocked in her seat thoughtfully. “That old house is filled with art. Not just Eleanor’s.”

“Can I tell the committee you’ll make a donation?”

“I want two things.”

“What?” She was confused.

“I want you to be my date to the auction.”

“It’ll be formal. No cowboy boots.”

“I’ve been to gallery openings. You’d be surprised how well I clean up.”

“Okay. I’ll go to the auction with you, but you should know that I’ll have duties to take care of—circulating among the guests, sucking up to big donors and such.”

“Understood.”

“What else?”

“I want to model for your class again tomorrow night as we originally agreed. Afterward, we can go to the mansion and you can pick out what you want for the auction.”

She frowned. “Marc, I told you—”

“Do you want a donation?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then I’ll see you in class tomorrow night.” Ryder stood. “I’ll let you finish your dinner so you can go to your meeting.”

“Tomorrow, then.” What else could she say?

The room was already darkened and the students were busily sketching in their individual pools of light. Ryder lay on her back, her far leg bent to turn her body slightly toward the students. One hand lay across her perfect belly, her fingers just touching the dark curls at her apex. The other formed a fist, gripping the sheet draping the padded bench. Her head was thrown back, hanging slightly off the end, her lips parted, her eyes closed.

Bridgette had intentionally arrived late to avoid talking with Ryder, but she couldn’t boycott her own class. She moved silently among the students, taking notes. Halfway through the two-hour class, the buzzer sounded and she stepped onto the stage to draw the curtain. This time, she stayed in the classroom and turned up the lights while Karen slipped backstage to assist Ryder.

“How many of you figured out last week that this model is female?”

Two of the six students raised their hands. One was a male graduate student, the most experienced and most promising artist in the group. The other was a young woman Bridgette suspected was a lesbian.

“What tipped you off, Julie?”

The girl wrinkled her nose. “She wasn’t hairy like a man. I guess that was the big thing.”

“Male swimmers sometimes shave down for competition. Professional dancers wax their backs and chests to be smooth for their performances. So that’s a guess, not conclusive evidence. What else?”

Julie shrugged and struggled to put her impressions into words. “I dunno. I could just tell. She’s got a lot of muscle, but still different from man.” She lifted her chin as if daring anyone to make a rude remark. “My girlfriend is a basketball player at Tech. Her muscles are hard, but there’s still something about her that’s softer, smoother than a man.”

“Your instincts are good, but I’m looking for something a little more specific. Jason?”

“I think it was the smaller feet, the hands, the wrists, and the contour of the torso that gave it away for me.”

“Explain that for the class.”

“Even though the model has dark hair, there was no visual trace of hair on her fingers or toes. Men who shave down usually forget that part. Also, you can see the finer bone structure of the model’s wrist and hands.”

“It’s not typical, but some women do have large hands and feet. What about the contour of the torso?”

“Although she has narrow hips for a woman, the spine curves more than a man’s typically does and accentuates the tilt of the pelvis. Also, the helmet didn’t hide her neck. The curve into the shoulder and the lack of a prominent Adam’s apple is indicative of a woman. You can discount each of these things individually, but they add up to the subject being female.”

“Very good.” She clapped. “Let’s take a ten-minute break and come back for one final pose.”

As the students filed out, she resisted the impulse that tugged her toward the office where she knew Ryder would be resting and hydrating. She didn’t want to be alone in that small room with Ryder naked under a thin robe. Instead, she walked around the room, writing and attaching Post-it notes of her observations on each student’s sketch. When they all had returned, she lowered the lights and then sat on her desk at the rear of the room.

At her nod, Karen pulled the curtain back to reveal Ryder, sitting on the low bench, her feet crossed at the ankles, her body slouched to the left, propped up by one arm. Her right hand rested casually on her right leg, and Bridgette instantly imagined her own fingers resting on the smooth, warm thigh. Her breath hitched when Ryder’s hot gaze found her in the darkness and blazed with desire as palpable as a touch to her skin. Without breaking their connection, she reached for her pad and charcoal. Then she mentally stepped back and began to draw.

She was so absorbed, she barely registered the sound of the buzzer and the overhead lights flicking on an hour later. She continued, filling in the details that were burned into her memory.

“Still up for a shopping trip through Eleanor’s collection?”

She looked up from the naked Ryder in her drawing to the live version clothed in jeans and her usual black T-shirt. She couldn’t stop her smile.

“Is your entire wardrobe jeans, white shirts, and black T-shirts?”

“I prefer to keep my life as simple as possible.”

She carefully closed her sketchbook so the drawing wouldn’t smear and slid it into her shoulder bag. There was nothing simple about what was going on between them.

*

Ryder unlocked the door and moved through the downstairs, flicking on lights.

“She has artwork in almost every room, so you may want to take notes about what you like and where it’s located.”

Bridgette pulled a notepad and pen from her bag, immediately looking at the large abstract hanging on the opposite wall. “Is that one of your grandmother’s?”

“Yeah. It’s from her Jackson Pollock stage. Eleanor may be best known for her impressionist paintings, but her personal favorites were always abstracts.”

She stood before the canvas, evaluating the brushstrokes, the mixture of colors.

“She was an abstract kind of person. Complicated…like you.” Ryder was standing behind her, too close. Goose bumps ran down her arms and raised the fine hairs on the back of her neck. She ignored the comment and jotted down a few things before moving to the next painting.

“Have you always called your grandmother by her first name?” She wasn’t judging, just curious.

“She didn’t like being a grandmother. She said it made her feel old.”

“You mean she didn’t like to be called Grandma because it made her feel old.”

Ryder opened a door and led her into a sunroom filled with soft pastel paintings. “No. She didn’t like
being
a grandmother. I think my parents dumped me here to get back at her for my mother’s childhood.”

She stopped writing and stared at Ryder. “So you grew up here? Where were your parents?”

Ryder shrugged. “Traveling around the world. Italy, Greece, Ireland, China. They live in South Africa now. At least that’s where the card was postmarked last Christmas. My father makes his living in the import-export trade. When I was old enough to go to school, they decided it would be better if I lived in one place rather than following them around.”

“My parents lived all over the world, too, but my brother and I were always with them.”

Ryder waved her hand, dismissing the conversation. “Eleanor’s studio is upstairs. We can take the back staircase from the kitchen.”

Like Bridgette’s studio, floor-to-ceiling windows covered one wall of the huge room. A large cabinet built into the wall was still packed with art supplies. Everywhere, blank and finished canvases were stacked in wire racks and against the walls.

“She was very prolific.” Bridgette sorted through some finished canvases, pulling several out of the rack for a better look.

“Eleanor was bi-polar. When she was depressed, she would stay in her bedroom for weeks, painting maybe one canvas by candlelight. But when she was in a manic phase, she painted incessantly, hardly stopping to sleep or eat.” Ryder sat on a tall stool positioned next to an easel with a half-finished canvas. “She would paint fast and furious, picture after picture. Consequently, some aren’t very good, and others are incredible.”

She stopped sorting and looked at Ryder. “Who took care of you? Did she have a housekeeper?”

“Nah. She had a cleaning service that came once a week. She would lock herself in here or in her bedroom while they were in the house.”

She couldn’t imagine what it must have felt like to be a small child in that big house with the only adult locked in a dark bedroom or painting away her days and nights. She’d had a wonderful childhood, living in fantastic places with her very nurturing parents and a loving brother.

“Who fed you? Put you to bed? Got you up and ready for school every day?”

“I didn’t need anybody to take care of me. I took care of myself.” The bitterness in her words surprised Bridgette. The crack in Ryder’s confident, casual façade was like a blast of chill air. “I mean, she didn’t let me go hungry. I was only six years old when my parents dumped me, and Eleanor knew she couldn’t take care of me when she was depressed. The first thing she taught me was how to make a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. When she was in her manic phase, she would overstock the pantry and fridge with things I could get for myself.”

“Marc.” She put her notepad down and went to her, but Ryder got up and walked to the windows to stare out at the night.

“Anyway, I was about thirteen when Eleanor signed me up for riding lessons at the equestrian center. It saved my life. It wasn’t long before I was practically living there. Kate Parker never asked questions or turned me down when I wanted to stay overnight. Sometimes I’d stay a week or more, and Eleanor never seemed to notice I’d been gone.”

Her heart ached for that lonely child, for this adult she hadn’t realized was scarred by life, too. She wrapped her arms around Ryder and pressed her length against the stiff back. Ryder’s hands were cold as they pressed over hers.

“That’s where I met Tory and Skyler. They were a few years older, but I tagged along behind them like a bratty little sister.” She took a deep breath and let it out. “They’re like family to me, and I guess I’m still a bit of a brat.”

She turned, her eyes imploring, the calluses on her fingers rough as she stroked Bridgette’s cheek. “I am so, so sorry about that thing with Alex. I wouldn’t normally care. But for some reason, I want you to think better of me.”

“Marc.” The voice that had screamed for her to run away was no match for the inexplicable force that compelled her to touch, to feel this woman.

Ryder shivered. “I want to kiss you.” Her breath whispered across Bridgette’s face.

“Yes.”

Ryder’s lips were reverent, brushing, touching so softly that she wanted to weep. She pressed her hips against Ryder’s heat. She wanted more. She wanted Ryder to thaw the cold places she had guarded for so long. She wanted to heal Ryder’s wounds.

“Please, Marc.”

She was swept into Ryder’s strong arms and they were moving out of the studio and down the hallway. The pulse throbbing in Ryder’s neck tasted of salt and sweat. She shuddered as she flashed back to her classroom and the gorgeous body stretched naked under the hot stage lights.

She was on her feet again and Ryder’s mouth found hers. Slowly their tongues danced. She pulled at Ryder’s T-shirt, snaking her hands under it. The bands of Ryder’s abdomen jumped under her fingertips.

“Bridgette, Bridgette. Wait.” Ryder grabbed her hands and held them tight in hers. “I want…I need you to know something first. But I’m afraid you’ll take it wrong.”

“What is it? What do I need to know, darling?” They were standing next to a bed, and she blinked to adjust to the muted light coming from the hallway.

Ryder’s eyes darkened at the endearment. “We can stop now and you can walk out the front door. But the paintings, any of them or all of them if you want, are yours.”

“You think I would sleep with you because I want your paintings?” She felt like she’d been slapped and tried to pull away, but Ryder wouldn’t release her.

“No. I don’t,” she said quickly, and then her tone softened. “That’s what I need you to know. I
don’t
think you would sleep with me in exchange for Eleanor’s art.” Ryder slowly released her hands and pulled her close. “This is about, I don’t know, whatever this is that draws us to each other.”

She rested her head against Ryder’s shoulder. She felt it, too, but didn’t dare speak of it. That would make it too real. Instead, her answer was a kiss, long and soft.

They undressed each other slowly, kissing and touching leisurely.