Beguiled and Bedazzled Page 4

  ‘Well, there wouldn’t be much sense either in giving him a birthday present only to take it back again so you could exhibit it,’ Colleen replied.

  ‘I don’t know why not. Well ... I suppose I do, but it isn’t the hassle you’re thinking it would be. Your father might be quite pleased by such an arrangement.’

  ‘And he might not; my father is a wonderful man but he has some very, very strange ideas about some things.’

  Which caused Devon Burns to say something that erupted into a coughing fit; unfortunately. It seemed to Colleen to have been totally centred around the word ‘hereditary’. She scowled at him, but he only cleared his throat once more and returned her scowl with a look of bland innocence that was even more phoney.

  Then that look changed too, and now she couldn’t read it at all. And Burns obviously wasn’t going to enlighten her; he just kept looking, his amber eyes roving her face and hair and body with an apparent idle curiosity that Colleen somehow knew was anything but idle.

  There was something in that look which reminded her of the way he had begun to scan and survey the Huon pine slabs; his eyes seemed to lose focus slightly, as if he were looking into her, not just at the exterior. And it was very, very disconcerting.

  Then he shook his head, for all the world as if to clear his vision, and looked over at the logs, then back at her; then he walked round her, and for a fleeting instant Colleen was certain that he intended to reach out and touch her face in the fashion of a blind person but without the manners. Instead, he smiled a gentle little smile to himself, then to her.

  ‘I guess it comes down to the fact that there’s only one way to satisfy both of us, and that would be to finish off one of these pieces in time to have it in the exhibition and then give it to your father,’ he said. ‘Assuming, of course, it was a piece you wanted for that purpose. And that you could afford it.’

  He softened that last bit with a slow grin, then went on, ‘The problem is that it puts me in a very tricky position; I don’t like the concept of working to such a deadline ... or to such restrictions. It could — and I’d be unfair if I didn’t warn you about this — stuff up the entire project, because if it goes wrong in my head it’ll never come good here.’ And he wiggled his fingers expressively.

  ‘I can understand that, I think,’ Colleen replied, but cautiously, because he was up to something now and she knew it, but didn’t know what.

  ‘So one condition would have to be that you don’t get to see whatever I’m doing until it’s done, whether we make the deadline or not. Nobody else will either, if that’s any consolation, because I want to avoid anybody else’s vibes, good or bad. The same reasoning makes some writers refuse to talk about work in progress, in case it talks them out of what they instinctively might have done right.’

  ‘Agreed.’ Making decisions had never been hard for Colleen; she had learned the art the hard way, over years in a rough business. This one, anyway, was easy.

  Devon Burns nodded polite acceptance of her alacrity, then smiled.

  ‘The other condition might be ... more difficult,’ he said.

  ‘I suppose you expect me to just give you the wood?* she suggested, hoping against hope that it could be that simple and having already decided to do that anyway, especially if it gave her a fighting chance to provide her father with the birthday present she wanted for him.

  His eyes laughed as he shook his head.

  ‘Nothing as easy as that,’ he said, ‘especially since you were going to do that anyway.’

  Colleen couldn’t help but smile.

  ‘You’re dangerously sure of yourself. Or don’t you know it’s very risky to take a woman for granted? Some girls I know would have changed their minds after a comment like that just to be spiteful.’

  True, but I fancy you’re not one of them. In fact I could almost see you agreeing to my second condition sight unseen.’

  ‘Then you’re a dreamer and a romantic as well as an artist,’ Colleen retorted. ‘I didn’t come down in the last shower, you know.’

  ‘Not that so much; I just thought since you were so damned determined to make sure you got this present for your father...’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘No, I’ll have to show you,’ he said, rising to his feet with the lithe ease of a great cat. ‘Come along and we’ll see how serious you are about all this.’

  Colleen followed him round to the far side of the house, where she was marginally surprised to see what an extensive indoor studio he had created. The structure was a large, octagonal room with a fireplace in the centre and large windows that opened in every facet and matching skylights, to ensure, she presumed, the controlled lighting he required. All the windows had provision for heavy drapes and were screened for summer as well. Despite the fact that several were now open, it was noticeably warmer inside than out.

  Burns waved vaguely to a carving bench in one corner, the only obvious seating, then stalked to the other side of the room and gathered a rough-carved wooden figure in his arms so that he could carry it over and place it on a waist-high platform.

  ‘I hope you realise that I don’t like talking about work in progress either,’ he muttered, not quite meeting Colleen’s eyes. ‘But in this case...’And he shrugged as if to lessen the sin.

  "Then don’t,’ Colleen insisted, rising to move closer to the life-sized figure. Surprisingly little work had yet been done on it, she saw, but even that was sufficient to begin to show what Burns had seen in the wood itself. It could be nothing else but a mermaid or some sort of sea-nymph, rising from what would become waves. Only the hair had been carved in any detail; the face was still blank, the upper body virtually untouched, and the lower section only roughed out to provide some form of scale.

  As she peered at the raw sculpture Devon moved the carving bench over beside the pedestal, and with a rueful smile gestured for Colleen to seat herself once again. The implications were all too obvious.

  ‘You ... you want me to pose for this, to model?’

  ‘It needs you,’ he said simply. ‘It already has your hair; I noticed that when you first arrived. I had to stop there, and now I know why — I was waiting for you.’

  ‘That’s ... that’s ridiculous—’ she began, then halted. Not for her to question the logic or lack of it displayed by an artist of this man’s calibre. Already she had seen a shadow of something — dismay, anger, a closing-in? — flicker through those amber eyes. It was neither safe nor sensible to say anything further.

  They stared at each other, neither ready to speak. Colleen wanted to look again at the fledgling statue but could not free her eyes from Burns’ compelling stare. The whole concept of this project having waited for her, she thought, was insane at best. But if it would ensure that he completed her father’s birthday present on time...

  ‘Before or after you do my father’s present?’ she asked, carefully keeping her voice calm, noncommittal.

  ‘During, actually, I suppose,’ he said. ‘But this one I really want for the exhibition after it, so of course you would have priority; I promised you that anyway.’

  ‘And how often, or how long, or ... whatever ... would I be expected to pose? I have my own business to rebuild, you know; I couldn’t just drop everything and drive out whenever you felt like doing a few moments’ work.’

  He grinned. ‘That isn’t the way I usually work anyway. Of course we’d have to look at the logistics. If you’re serious, that is; I wouldn’t want to get halfway through and have you change your mind just because your father’s present was done.’

  ‘I wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘OK, but will you do this?’

  Colleen thought for a moment, tempted and terrified at the same time. Then she nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, and then more firmly, ‘Yes. I will.’

  His grin reminded her, just for an instant, of the way his dog had looked at her. She could almost imagine the tongue lolling.

  ‘You’re here now; want to make a
start today?’

  ‘Fine,’ she said, feeling nothing of the kind, suddenly.

  ‘Good,’ he said, turning to pick up a soft pencil. ‘Then take your clothes off, please, and we’ll get on with it.’

  ~~~

  He had to fight to keep a straight face as Colleen’s beauty was transformed by a swift series of expressions.

  For just an instant, he wished that he could take back the words, but only just for that instant. Then his instincts as a game-player took over and he became enthralled by working out Colleen’s reactions, trying to predict what she’d say, how she’d say it ... how she would finally decide to cope!

  He needed her face. More than needed, he realised — he had to have it; hers was the face that was trying to escape from the timber. No question ... already the hair he’d completed was her hair, already he could see the first line of her figure in the wood. She was the siren ... or would be!

  And so beautiful. An unusual beauty, heightened by the underlying strength. He had only a vague memory of the news stories surrounding her court battles, but seeing her in the flesh, talking to her, he could imagine only too well the toll it must have taken, the stresses and strains.

  So what do you do? You go and add a few more with your damned silly games, he told himself, still watching Colleen Ferrar, fascinated now by that face, by the resolve behind her eyes.

  She was a professional and she knew that he was ... she’d sought him out on that basis. And her experiences in the rag trade wouldn’t have left her with many hangups about nudity, not that he needed much, really, to complete the siren.

  For an instant, a warning flashed across his mind — a vision of Lucinda, her beauty warped by her madness, which had been fuelled by his uncanny ability to draw that very insanity from the timber itself. But he shrugged it off mentally, if not physically.

  No, he thought. This wasn’t the same ... couldn’t be the same. Would not be the same! And, besides, he needed Colleen Ferrar if he was to get the best from the siren, not that he’d ever quite admit just how much he needed her.

  And I’m coming to rather like you too, he thought, looking at her again, silently willing her to accept the challenge, join the game.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Colleen almost bit her tongue in surprise, then almost bit it again as she clamped her jaw shut to prevent herself from babbling.

  He must be joking, she thought. He just had to be joking. Except ... the look in those damned amber eyes said that he wasn’t joking at all. Those eyes that seemed to be able to see right through her now seemed to be doing exactly that, moving over her body with studied casualness, disrobing her in the process. Then they returned to meet her startled gaze.

  ‘Problems?’ And Devon Burns shrugged, the corners of his mouth lifting in what could have been either a grin or a sneer.

  He’s enjoying this, she thought, and momentarily hated him for it.

  She met his eyes, although she had to force herself to do it. To have him so able to affect her without so much as touching her was maddening. She could feel her tummy churning, all fluttery, and knew that it was a totally involuntary reaction to the man himself.

  Her nipples strained against the restraint of her bra, and she knew it was because he somehow managed to touch her with his eyes, a touch as tangible as if he had plucked at her nipples with his fingers ... or his lips.

  A sane person, she thought, would simply get up and walk out; there were other presents she could get for her father, and to stay here under this man’s influence was so obviously dangerous, so foolhardy, but also somehow so deliciously tempting...

  In that moment of hindsight it seemed ridiculous not to have realised that he would expect her to pose for the body of the sculpture as well as the face. She hadn’t, of course, but that was hardly his fault. And he had, she realised, given her every opportunity to avoid the commitment.

  She had no illusions about the propriety of it all — the man was, after all, an artist. Besides, there were far more tempting bodies available than her own, of that she was quite sure. Devon Burns almost certainly had his choice, and, judging by his reputation, he took that choice as often as not. No, she decided, a deal was a deal was a deal...

  ‘No, I don’t have any problems,’ she finally managed to reply. It was difficult to speak at first, but the respite had gained her control over both tongue and thoughts now. ‘It’s just that... Damn it — do you really expect me to take all my clothes off in front of that bloody dog?’

  Burns’ laughter was a booming, roaring gust of fresh air through the studio; it was as if he had suddenly thrust open all the windows, all the skylights. He looked at the red dog, suddenly alert at the noise, then looked at Colleen, who was slightly taken aback by his reaction, and then he laughed again, even louder.

  But when he spoke it was to the dog rather than Colleen.

  ‘Well, my boy ... consider yourself told,’ he said. ‘And here I thought I was the dirty old man. But she’s right, you know. If you start developing a taste for tender young maidens, Lord knows what you’ll bring home next.’

  He ushered the dog to the door, shooed him outside, then turned back to stare at Colleen through eyes still alight with humour.

  ‘Right, then. You’ve disrupted my privacy, corrupted the tender young mind of my dog, tried to seduce my answering machine... What other tricks have you got up your sleeves, Ms Ferrar?’

  ‘Only an arm or two,’ she replied, attempting to match the apparent lightness of his mood. Then she began, slowly and quite deliberately, to unbutton her blouse. ‘And not even that in a minute. I suppose it would be silly of me to ask you just how much you expect me to take off?’

  ‘You can stop right there,’ he replied, voice gruff now, almost, she thought, edging into anger. ‘I was only stirring you a bit, as I suspect you knew very well. The time will come, obviously, when you’ll have to reveal all for the sake of my art, but for now I’m more interested in your face than the rest of you, pleasant as I’m sure it is.’

  Colleen paused with her fingers on the lowest button, so surprised at his remark that she wasn’t sure that she’d heard aright. And, although she did her best to hide it and was fairly certain that she had succeeded, she was grateful beyond belief for the reprieve. Immediate hindsight made her wonder what sort of insanely dangerous game she had been playing; vanity made her wonder at Burns’ refusal to continue it.

  He was staring at her again, holding the pencil to his lips and touching the end of it with his tongue, his eyes out of focus again. What did he see? she wondered. He was looking at her, and yet somehow he wasn’t; he was seeing into her, or through her, or ... something.

  Moving over to the supine, partially carved figure, he made a few markings, then directed Colleen to look one way, then another, then up, then down, all the while making what seemed to her to be more mental observations than markings on the wood.

  But in his close attention he offered her a wonderfully unique opportunity to observe him as closely as he did her, and she took every advantage. The intent concentration furrowed his brow, giving those eyes an even more predatory look that was only enhanced by the great, beaky nose. And it seemed as if he talked silently to himself as he worked; every so often his teeth would bare in something approaching a smile, and she found herself wondering what errant thought had created the gesture.

  And those hands! Long, lean fingers, obvious in their strength, moving with a sureness and delicacy of touch that belied their size. There wasn’t a thing about him that didn’t somehow fit that overall impression of alertness, of being super fit, poised for immediate action or reaction.

  He was like a great, predatory animal, so quick and decisive in his movements that he made even his big dog look slow and clumsy.

  And he loved the wood he worked with. It was clear in his every movement, in his very expression as his eyes moved from herself to the figure he was working on, she thought. Even as the pencil in one hand swept out to mark some effec
t he wanted his other hand didn’t just hold the figure steady, it actually seemed to caress it, to seek some communion with the grain, the texture, the very essence of the wood.

  For a moment Colleen couldn’t help but let her imagination wander; she closed her eyes and let her mind feel those grateful fingers stroking her as they did the figure for which she modelled.

  She wasn’t totally inexperienced with men, although she had spent so much time and energy building her career that there had been little time for them. Except for Andrew, of course, and she didn’t, wouldn’t, let herself think of him. But somehow she knew that this man, this strange-eyed, predatory man with the artist’s fingers and eagle’s eyes, was different, was like nobody she had ever met, certainly like nobody she had ever been touched by.

  In her mind she envied the statue he was working on, idly wondering if the wood could somehow appreciate his touch, the attention, the genuine feeling he had for it. Empathy, she thought. And envied even more.

  She disappeared into her own mind, lost in daydreams of Devon Burns as a lover, his strong fingers caressing her. Without ever having known it, she could feel his touch on her breasts, across the flatness of her tummy, down the softness of her inner thighs. Her lips moved, moulding themselves to his kiss; her fingers clenched, mentally experiencing the coarse texture of his dark hair, the flowing lines of his whipcord muscles.

  She could feel his breath warm against her skin, hear him whispering her name, breathing it out in tones that no one had ever used before. Tones of passion, knowing, longing...

  ‘You can stop now. Or come up for air at least.’

  The voice was the same, yet different. Now those gravelly tones held a note of sour amusement that effectively ruined the aura of her daydream. And when she opened her eyes to look at him there was a similar note in the expression of his amber eyes.

  ‘Lucky bloke, the one you were dreaming about.’

  ‘How did you know...?’ She paused then, struggling to hide her feelings, to retreat from what she thought must be obvious in her eyes. To have him realise that he was the subject of her daydreams would be humiliating in the extreme.