Spicing Up Trouble: a romantic comedy (3 page)

"Excuse me," he said as he hurried away.

The sight of the nude me made him vomit. I stood, wrapped the robe around my shoulders, and sprinted toward the dressing room. I'd grab my clothes and dress on the sidewalk. He must be calling the agency to complain, and they would out me as a fraud.

He rounded the corner and almost knocked me to the floor. The robe swirled around my legs and landed in a puddle at my feet. My right arm went across my chest and my left hand fanned over my womanhood.

"Beautiful," he said under his breath as he swept my hair back behind my ear.

Me? I shivered from his touch. This was why the women looked enraptured in his paintings. They had sex with him before they posed. That would blow the wind in my sails, definitely a step out of character for me.

"Excuse me, I'm being totally unprofessional," he said as he leaned down, retrieved my robe, and handed it to me. "If you're uncomfortable staying and want to leave, I'll understand."

"No, I'm fine," I said as I fumbled with the robe, trying to put it on.

"Okay, let's get started."

I followed him back to the studio and pretended he didn't stir me up. I couldn't comment on my effect on him as I resettled by the pillows. The robe melted off me this time because I wanted him to see me.

"Please support yourself on your elbows," he said.

I stopped trembling, pushed up, and glanced at him.

"Like this, Mr. Cobb?" My voice squeaked.

"I'm Ben. Mr. Cobb is my worthless father," he swallowed hard, grabbed the back of his neck, and pressed down.

I touched a raw nerve.

"Look at me." he said. I only shifted my eyeballs, afraid to move anything else. "I'm going to tell you when to change your facial expressions like be happy, pensive, sleepy, or sad, understand?"

"Yes."

"Please follow my directions, and don't speak or move."

The artist had arrived and was all business. Time for me to do the same.

He hadn't even picked up a brush yet. He slowly surveyed me, back and forth. Finally, he grabbed the palette and put a scowl on his face: cold, stern, and unflinching. I shivered and licked my top lip with the tip of my tongue.

My lips got dry when I felt nervous or afraid or totally freaked out.

"Don't move, I have to concentrate on you," he said in a low voice.

I nailed myself to the floor, only changing when he spoke. I didn't budge for two hours. I cleared my mind to stop all involuntary movement. My nose itched, but I didn't dare scratch it. Other body parts itched too. Maybe I broke out into hives. Could those be power washed out of a painting?

Ben's gaze penetrated my skin. I knew where he focused all the time. When he surveyed my legs, they tingled. My breasts swelled and my nipples were on full alert when he moved up my body. My face burned and, when our gaze met, he entranced me. Classic features chiseled in granite: an edged face, sharp cuts for his chin, his jaw, and his cheeks. A bust of a soldier or emperor, all nobility, power, and masculinity personified. Too much male for me. Perhaps I could take small doses of him until I built up immunity.

"Time for a ten-minute break. Do you want a drink?" he asked as he wandered away to the kitchen.

"Yes, please."

My whole body ached as I snatched the robe and had it back on before he returned. He handed me a water bottle and strolled back to the kitchen. I took a big sip, spilling some on the lapel.

Alexia Hale, the epitome of grace and charm.

As I drank slower the second time, I surveyed my surroundings. I'd been so nervous when I'd arrived that the studio hadn't registered with me. Then for two hours, I'd stared at him. Stunning view of intensity, creativity, and raw male.

The workspace had Spartan-white walls filled with blank canvasses of all shapes, leaning on them. An avocado green refrigerator gurgled in the corner. He stood by the fridge, drinking a cup of coffee, with his back to me.

Forget waiter butts, his butt kicked ass. Give me a man poured into a pair of well-worn jeans. I was a sucker for lust at first sight. I used to believe in love, but the last guy I fell for mooched eight thousand dollars off of me. He cleaned me out with a sob story about his widowed sister and her two adorable children needing emergency roof repairs. He showed me a picture, plucking my heartstrings. I paid him in cash and kissed both of them goodbye. He disconnected his phone, abandoned his apartment, and left me holding an empty bank account.

I lied and told my sisters I broke it off. They knew nurturing was my weak spot. Weren't men helpless and in search of a home-cooked meal? Not the guy in front of me. A true hunter of women. Was I about to be bagged and mounted on a trophy wall?

He must have sensed my gaze and turned to me. I quickly looked beyond him to a door ajar in the back, probably the bathroom. A stripped double bed on the other side of the room looked worn out. Bet it could tell some wicked stories. He sauntered toward me. I peeked up at the glass ceiling, an endless skylight, which flooded natural light into the room.

Who washed the windows? Wonder if he worked today and enjoyed the show?

It was now or never for the interview
.

"I loved your mother's books," I said in my cheery voice. "I had all of them when I was a child. My parents read them to me every night before I went to bed. I memorized them and recited them too. After my parents died, my sisters and I split them up. I have A through G."

He made no response.

Should I keep talking? Maybe he wanted to get back to work.

I put down the water bottle and scooted back to the pillows. My hands were on the robe's belt when he spoke.

"I have a few sets of the original printing. Of course I keep them under lock and key. The set I received as a child was trashed years ago. Her books were the first ones I could read all by myself."

He sat next to me by the pillows, sipping his coffee. His knee inches away from my hip. I loved the cadence of his voice, deep and strong
.
The heat flowing off of him engulfed me. Hot puckered lips enclosed around the cold ceramic cup. I envied that mug and needed to stop drooling.

"I'd like to get started again," he said as he stood.

I waited for him to saunter back to the canvas before I disrobed. It was easier removing my robe the third time. Resuming my position, I didn't shake
.
Maybe public exhibition should be my next profession. That thought made me shudder.

Another hour flew by. He quizzed me on his mother's books. My knowledge of them exceeded his because I stumped him on the color of Frank's eyes.

"Yellow," he said.

"Gold because of the firelight they had absorbed," I said.

"Damn, you're good," he said, sounding impressed.

I may not be up on current events, but I owned children's literature trivia.

Another hour and he put down his brush.

"I'm done," he said.

"All right."

I inched the robe over and slipped it on. I stood stiffly, trudged back to the changing room, and closed the door. My black skirt made my legs too pale, and my white tank top molded to me. Too warm in here to put my red jacket on without leaving sweat stains.

I checked myself out in the mirror. Slightly mussed, but not too shabby for someone who had spent four naked hours with a gorgeous man.

I grabbed my purse, not realizing I'd left it open. The contents blew all over the floor. I picked up bus tokens, used tissues, dry cleaner receipts, and tampons. Shoving everything in and bracing the purse between my knees, I zipped it closed. I opened the door and darted out to make a quick exit.

He stood before the painting, studying it. He glanced over at me and smiled.

Those pearly whites coupled with the dimple were a siren's song. What wouldn't a woman do to please him?

"Do you want to see yourself?" he asked.

Not especially, but to refuse would be rude. I padded over and peered around the huge canvas. Didn't he own any
Mona Lisa
sized ones?

It was only my face. I should say, several poses of my face. Why did I have to be nude for him to sketch my face? Was this how the other portraits started or did he survey my body and reject it, planning to Photoshop my head on the next model? I was thrilled and hurt not to see my nudity captured for eternity.

"So what do you think?" he asked.

Before I could ask where the rest of me was, I bumped into the easel, caught my heel on a table, and caused a plastic water jar to tremble. He leaned over in an attempt to catch it. Too late. The water spilled all over his shirt.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"Don't worry about it."

He picked up the bottom of his T-shirt and slowly lifted it over his head. He dropped the shirt to the floor. Ripples of hard-toned muscle lined his abdomen and black curly hair splayed across his chest. For the first time in my life, I praised my clumsiness.

I had to leave before I licked him up, down, and around like a melting ice cream cone.

"I better go before I trash the place. I meant what I said about your mother's books."

"Thanks, she was a great writer," he said, leading me to the door. "I need you to come back. Have the agency call me with your schedule."

"Sure."

I didn't interview him yet. Dare I try another round of nudity for the sake of my resume?

"I enjoyed working with you. I'm sorry if I came off a bit harsh. I zone out when I paint and forget all about common courtesy." He opened the door and leaned on it.

"No problem, honored to be here."

I offered him my hand. He raised it to his lips, and softly kissed it. I put it to my cheek as I glided out the door.

A quick flash made me think lightning would strike me down for lying and lusting, but there wasn't a cloud in the sky.
I must be hallucinating and hope I never stop.

I floated to the corner and hailed a cab.

"Chicago News Building please," I said to the driver.

My lack of an interview put my day in perspective. I could describe his studio, his demeanor, and my modeling experience, but I didn't get him to answer questions about himself. A few hours of fantasy would cost me dearly. I had become a liar, a loose woman with no shame, and, soon, no job. He probably called the modeling agency by now and thanked them for the face, next time send a suitable body. Although he was nice when I left. He even apologized for taking his profession seriously and kissed my hand.

After the short ride and numerous deep breaths, I arrived at work.

The elevator doors opened, and I shuffled to my office.

"Where have you been? Didn't you clear your morning off with management? Mr. Abram's office called twice looking for you," Gretchen Strom, my assistant, said as I trudged in.

"Sorry, I'll be in the kitchen."

I closed the door quickly and leaned back on it for support. My desk overflowed with recipes. July kicked off the holiday cooking season. Ideas for Halloween treats, Thanksgiving favorites, Christmas cookies, and New Year's hors d'oeuvres would keep me busy. The computer whirred with incoming emails. The message light blinked on the phone.

Good, I was swamped. Much too busy to call Mr. Abram, the new managing editor and Ben's stalker, back.

Two hours later, I lifted my head in response to a soft knock. Gretchen stepped in.

"Jason brought over a painting to go with next month's spread. He left it on the floor for me to trip over. Would you mind helping me hang it? One more thing, the camera guys will be in taking pictures of your pumpkin pies and monster cakes tomorrow," she said.

"Okay. I finished the piecrusts and the pumpkin fillings. The colored frostings are for the cakes. Tomorrow we'll cook in the morning and be ready for pictures by noon. How's Jason?" I smiled at Gretchen.

"Wonderful," she sighed.

My stomach growled. I hadn't eaten since my morning bagel with a smear of jalapeño cream cheese. It was nearly five o'clock: time to go home and gorge on cayenne peppered pecans and a pepperoncini and chorizo omelet.

I hauled out the ladder while Gretchen carried the scarecrow painting. I started to climb the rungs. She handed up the picture. I balanced it and put it on the wall.

"Is it straight?" I asked.

"A little to the left," Gretchen answered.

A cell phone went off with a disco ring tone.

"That's mine. I'll be right back."

I heard the door of the kitchen open, but didn't move. The ladder shifted as I pushed Jason's masterpiece.

"Gretchen," I yelled.

"I've got you," a husky male voice responded.

I peered down. A man clad in black clutched the ladder and looked up my skirt.

Benjamin Nance Cobb.

He or his hologram stood in my kitchen.

"I found your business card on the floor in the dressing room. I'm keeping the fifty-six cents and the coupon for a free air freshener," he said.

Damn my purse.

"I'm sorry I didn't explain immediately." I started my descent.

I stepped off the ladder and stared at the floor like a guilty child. Ben folded his arms across his chest.

"Start from the beginning and leave out the lies," he said.

He didn't ask for much, just my soul bared along with my body.

"I'm sorry. A reporter was chosen to infiltrate the modeling agency you use in order to get an interview. She left the paper, and I got picked for the job because I'm a blonde. I don't blame you for being mad. I'd be furious and would probably sue."

Why did I include that part?

"Alexia, you don't want to know me when I'm angry. You were the bait. I want the big fish. Who sent you?"

A conspiracy theory? This wasn't sophisticated enough for espionage or hooking worms.

"Wallace Abram is a senior editor of the paper," I said.

"The paper was bought a few months ago, right?"

"Yes, the McGlynn Holding Group is the new owner."

"The tabloid boys. They terrorize people in New York and Los Angeles, and now they are in the Windy City. Thanks for the information. Do you want a check or cash?" he asked, taking out his wallet.