Dane's Storm(6)

She blinked and then shook her head. “No. I”—she furrowed her brow—“um, I’m a student. I get a discount on the class for cleaning up the room when it’s over.” She glanced next to her at the sink where Dane noticed a broom leaning against the wall, a dustpan clipped to the handle. When he looked back at her, he noticed the color in her cheeks had deepened. Regret knotted his stomach. Shit. He’d embarrassed her. Seeking to change the subject, he glanced at the easel to his right, his eyes widening at what he saw.

He glanced at the girl and her eyes moved from the easel where he’d been looking back to him. “We had a model visit the class today,” she explained. “She was . . . obviously . . . well, topless.”

The corners of Dane’s eyes tightened as he turned toward the easel. “I see.” The girl moved to stand beside him, gazing at the drawing. She took her full bottom lip between her teeth, tilting her head. “I’m not exactly an expert,” Dane said, “but I don’t think they’re supposed to be . . . sharp.”

The girl’s lip quirked and then she pressed her lips tightly together as if suppressing a smile, perhaps not wanting to insult the artist in question. “Well, everyone sees the world differently, I guess. He obviously sees a woman’s body as . . .” She furrowed her brow as if trying to come up with the appropriate description.

“Advanced weaponry?”

She laughed, her face lighting up in a way that made Dane’s stomach muscles clench. Their eyes met, and Dane saw the surprise in her wide, dark gaze along with the amusement. She hadn’t expected him to make her laugh and the knowledge that he’d surprised her sent a thrill of satisfaction through him.

He took a few steps to stand before the next easel, bringing his hand to his chin and staring at the next artist’s vision of womanhood—grimacing at the breasts that looked like rotten fruit. “Please tell me this is not how she really looked.”

The girl shook her head, still considering the drawing. “No,” she murmured. “I would have suggested medical attention.”

It was Dane’s turn to laugh. Audra shot him a somewhat guilty smile, her lips tipping up at the same time her brow wrinkled. She was so damn pretty. Those eyes, those lips, that pointed chin. He tore his gaze away as he moved toward the window to stand in front of the last easel in that row. His expression sobered as he gazed at the drawing, the woman’s face turned away, her hair cascading around full, round breasts, nipples exposed through the strands. It was . . . mesmerizing. It looked so real Dane could almost believe it was a black and white photograph if he squinted his eyes. “Wow,” he whispered as he felt the girl’s warmth come up beside him. “This one is incredible.” He glanced at the girl and saw the shy pleasure in her expression, as well as the blush that was back on her cheeks. He turned toward her. “Is this yours?”

She turned, looking at him as she nodded, some elusive energy flowing between them. It felt warm and good, and Dane wanted to step into it, gather it somehow.

He stared at her for a moment. “You’re”—he glanced at the drawing—“amazing.”

She let out a breathy laugh, still looking shy. “Thank you.”

“I’m Dane.”

She smiled softly, her eyes skittering away, but finding their way back. “Audra.”

Audra. Dane returned her smile. He went to move closer to her and knocked the chair in front of the easel, a stack of what looked like sketch pads falling to the floor. “Damn . . . sorry,” he said, bending to pick them up.

Audra sucked in a breath, falling to her knees where the pads had landed. “It’s okay, please. I’ve got it,” she said, a note of alarm in her voice.

“No, it’s my fault,” Dane said, picking one up and placing it on the chair. But he’d set it on the edge and the loose pages from within fell out, raining down on their hands as they both tried to gather the pads of paper. They both froze as a drawing came to rest on the knuckles of Dane’s right hand. It was him from just a little while earlier, feeding that stray that had looked at him with such hungry longing in his gaze that Dane couldn’t resist sharing his sandwich, even though he’d been as famished as he always was after the swim practice he’d just come from.

His eyes flew to the girl’s, and she looked horrified, her throat moving as she swallowed. “I—”

He looked down, noticing that there were several drawings of him—feeding the stray, deep in thought, smiling as he threw a football back to a group of little kids playing in the park. Dane picked one up—he was sitting on the same bench, his hands in his coat pockets as he stared off into the distance, a look on his face that was peaceful, introspective. He remembered that day—remembered the shirt he’d been wearing. It was the three-year anniversary of his dad’s death, and he’d been thinking about him as he watched a family enjoying a picnic in the park. Something about the scene had made him both miss his dad and feel a sense of gratitude that, though he’d lost him, he still had so many good memories of what a good man he’d been. The realization had brought a rightness to his heart, a peace. And the girl, she’d caught that moment. She’d seen something in it that had compelled her to capture it.

He looked up at her and she shook her head, her lip trembling. “I always finish my assignments early. And I sit right by the window . . . I didn’t mean to invade your privacy . . .” Her words were whispered, her expression still wary, fearful, her neck blotchy and her cheeks bright red. She was obviously scared to death of his reaction.