Driven to Distraction (Silhouette Desire S.) (11 page)

When the session ended she headed for the shelter of the side porch. And wouldn't you just know it? Ben had beat her there. He was staring out at the distinctive profile of Pilot Knob, barely visible in the distance. Before she could sneak away he said, “I guess we'd better talk.”

“Um…not really. I mean, I don't have anything on my mind.” She waited, scarcely breathing, then added, “Do you?”

He blinked. Was that confusion she saw on his face? Surely not. Hunter was the kind of man who never put a foot wrong, literally or figuratively.

“Oh, well…I guess we do need to talk about the forgery.” Maggie the magnanimous.

“Maggie, what happened—I don't want you to think—”

But before she could discover what it was he didn't want her to think, Charlie emerged from the house. “Now we're even out of beer!”

Saved by the bell. It was clear from his expression that Ben was thinking the same thing she was. “I could go get some,” Maggie volunteered. “Make out a grocery list and I'll be glad to go.” Forty-five minutes there, half an hour to shop, forty-five minutes back…that should allow her plenty of time to put what had happened into perspective. Getting over it was another thing altogether.

Ben said, “I'll do it. I need a few things, anyway.”

“Add it to the list,” Maggie said without meeting his eyes.

Ben thought, dammit, she had no intention of hearing him out. Not that he knew what he was going to say, but she couldn't just ignore what had happened. She wasn't that kind of a woman, that much he did know.

She huffed up a little bit, turned to go and caught her shoe on the door sill. Lunging away from the porch rail, he managed to catch her. “Easy there, you don't want to tear up the woodwork.”

Her face turned pink and he thought she was going to slug him. Instead, she laughed. “Don't say it. I need to lose these shoes. Well, I hate to disillusion you but I can be just as clumsy barefooted.” She looked pointedly at his slick-soled, slant-heeled boots. Shaking her head, she said, “You'll get yours, just wait.”

“Hey, these are my good luck boots.”

And then they both laughed, not that it was particularly funny, but as a relief valve, laughter served the purpose. Ben held on to her arm, but gently—not like he was trying to take control. Women like Maggie, he told himself, needed delicate handling. Needed someone to smooth the way before they charged out to save the world.

Charlie was in the kitchen scribbling on a strip of paper. Glancing up, he said, “Skim milk, too, but wait'll after the next session. Silver's brought down some mattes. He's going to show us how to crop out the bad parts.”

Still a little self-conscious, Ben said, “Hey, as long as we're here, we might as well learn how to crop out the bad parts, right?”

“I think he means the bad parts of our paintings,” Maggie said dryly.

“I knew that.” He took the list Charlie gave him and tucked it into his pocket.

Both Suzy and Ann were at the table when Maggie slid into place a few minutes later. Other than looking tired, Ann looked perfectly healthy. “I heard Perry did the loosening up thing this morning,” she said softly.

“You should've been here,” Suzy said. “I thought for a minute I was back at the Fit'n Trim Gym. Bend, sweep to the left, sweep to the right, twenty reps and then stand up and do it all over again.”

“He's a good teacher,” the quiet brunette said. “He's been drawing and painting since he was in grade school. He actually did a year at Pratt and met some of the big name artists.”

Suzy said dryly, “I toured the capitol once, but that doesn't make me a politician.”

At the front of the room, Silver had placed one of his own watercolors on a standing easel. He held up a small matte, then moved it over first one section, then another. “What we're looking for is something that can be salvaged even if we have to sacrifice those parts that aren't working.”

Maggie wondered which parts of this week she would salvage, given the chance.

“Think of it as mining for precious gemstones.” Silver shifted the small horizontal matte to frame a log tobacco barn, a dead tree and part of a cornfield, blocking out the farmhouse that had been the center of interest.

She would salvage today. Wise or not, she would
salvage every single moment she spent with Ben Hunter.

Suzy said, “I still don't know exactly what he means by not working.”

“Do you care?” Maggie whispered back.

“You have a question, Miss Riley?”

Well, heck. She might as well get something out of this blasted class after all the money she'd wasted on it. Mary Rose would just have to take her word for what a creep the man was, because so far Maggie hadn't come up with a scrap of proof in spite of Suzy's efforts. “I said I'm not sure what you mean by not working.”

“Come closer, dear, perhaps it's your eyes that aren't working.”

Or her brain, Maggie admitted ruefully. The implication was clear, and not all that unfounded.

Over the next several minutes the class was treated to a demonstration of how elements as small as a speck of bright color or a broken cornstalk pointing the wrong way could lead the eye out of the picture plane. It never occurred to Maggie to ask what a picture plane was. She really didn't care.

While Perry droned on and on about muddy colors and paint quality—about the difference between planned bleeds and unplanned blotches—Maggie wondered where Ben was. He hadn't joined the class. She listened for the sound of a vehicle leaving the parking lot, but all she heard was the rumble of distant thunder.

By the time Silver relented, her head was reeling with useless knowledge, her feet were killing her and all she could think of was that Ben had made love to
her and she was probably doomed to spinsterhood. No other man could ever come up to his standard. It had nothing whatsoever to do with technique, but with the man himself. Whatever it was—chemical, biological or something more mystical—she was stuck with it.

She was packing up her material with some vague idea of leaving for good when Perry Silver's mellifluous voice rang out again. “There's a truism among artists. When the general public likes your work, you're in trouble. Do you know what I say?” He looked expectantly at his disciples. “Faugh on that. Perry says, faugh, faugh, faugh!”

Faugh?
Now there was a word for you, Maggie thought, amused. This entire week, she had to admit, had been a learning experience. A few of the lessons she could have done without.

“I paint for the masses,” the instructor announced, “not for the elite. If the general public appreciates my work, I know I've succeeded.”

Then he'd obviously succeeded, scam or no scam. She'd heard nothing but raves from most of his students, several of whom would probably part with enough money to buy whatever he was selling.

Finally the last class of the day ended. The last as far as Maggie was concerned, at any rate. Tonight's session she would skip, if she were still here. For all the progress she was making, either as a painter or a sleuth, she might as well pack up and go home.

Ben was waiting for her when she emerged from her room a few minutes later. Without a word spoken on either side, he steered her to the front door. And like the dumbest lamb in the flock, she went.

The western sky had blackened, creating a dramatic backdrop for the narrow streak of late sunlight that gilded the treetops. Instead of lingering to appreciate the view, he nodded toward the arbor on the edge of the clearing.

Maggie was suddenly reluctant. She'd heard of butterflies in the belly. Hers tended to go for the brain. If he wanted to act as if today had never happened, two could play that game. Affecting an offhand manner, she said, “Maybe we're doing the man an injustice, did you ever think of that?”

“Who, Silver? Yeah, I thought about it. According to Janie, the guy really does know his stuff. He's won a whole bunch of awards in the state and local arena. The only thing I have a problem with is selling reproductions and claiming they're a great investment.”

Pausing to finger a pebble from her sandal, Maggie steadied herself by clinging to his arm. Straightening, she said, “Okay, so maybe he's the next best thing to whatsisname, that guy who paints the four-eyed, dissected ladies. Maybe he's even made a fortune selling his stuff—and I'm sorry about your grandmother, I really am—but that doesn't mean he's in love with Mary Rose and not her trust fund.”

“So what are you saying? There's no such thing as love at first sight?”

Her heart shifted into overdrive. “Pure urban myth,” she said breathlessly.

“Okay, then what about this one? When it comes to love, rich women don't stand a chance.”

Halting, she turned to face him and then wished she hadn't. It was almost impossible to think clearly when she was this close. Her hormones had taken
over earlier today. Now it was time for the gray cells to step forward. “All I'm saying is that if Perry made as much money on art as the Dilyses have on pickles, there's a slight chance he truly loves her for herself. I really, really hope that's the case, honestly, I do. But I don't think so.”

Ben's eyes narrowed. “Has he come on to you?”

“Do I look rich? Of course he hasn't, but I asked Suzy to—to sort of flirt with him, drop a few hints about her family's business.”

“The hell with that, has he made a move toward you?”

Maggie looked at him as if he'd lost his wits. “For Pete's sake, why would he go after me when he could have someone like Suzy—or even Ann?”

He shook his head slowly. “You still don't get it, do you?”

“Sure I get it. Whenever I want it.” And then, hearing what she'd just said, Maggie slapped a hand over her mouth, inwardly cursing her tendency to resort to glibness when she was nervous. “I mean, I can get a date any time I want one, but that's not why I'm here. Oh, shoot!” She closed her eyes. “You get me so mixed up!”

A slow grin spread over his face. “Good. I'll take any advantage I can get.”

“Oh, no you won't.”

“We need to talk about that, too, but let's get this other stuff out of the way first. How old is this friend of yours?” They had stopped a dozen feet away from the arbor.

“I already told you, she's twenty-five. A
young
twenty-five.” She tapped her foot, daring him to challenge her. If he thought she was making too much of her own maturity, he didn't mention it. Just as well. She could still clobber him.

Mature. Right.

“Any reason she can't think for herself?” His tone was suspiciously reasonable.

“Other than the fact that her father's always treated her like a hothouse rose, I can't think of any. I keep telling her she needs to move into a place of her own, but she's afraid of hurting her folks' feelings.”

Ben did something with his mouth that was both maddening and provocative. She knew what that mouth could do, dammit. She didn't need to be reminded. “Tell me something,” he said. “Do you still live at home?”

“That's different.”

“I expect it is,” was all he said. With an arm at her back, he steered her toward the vine-covered arbor. If she had a grain of sense she'd turn around right now and go back inside. Any talking they did needed to be done in plain view of anyone who cared to look. There was safety in numbers.

“I've known her forever.” Maggie had this habit of filling any uncomfortable silence with words, whether or not they were relevant. “When we were little we used to play together. My dad does all Mr. Dilys's insurance, did I tell you that?”

His arms moved to her shoulder as he led her over a patch of rocky terrain. She could smell his pine-scented soap. When she'd stripped off her clothes earlier, she had smelled something earthy and green.
Never would she be able to look at moss in the same way.

Rather than break away and run back to the house—her first impulse—she focused on not tripping and tried to ignore the feel of him, the scent of him, and how comfortable the weight of his arm felt on her shoulder. She wanted desperately for him to approve of her, which was a bad sign. An incredibly bad sign, because for the most part, Maggie didn't give a hoot what anyone thought of her. Her father called her heedless, and she had to admit that the trait occasionally landed her in trouble.

“What a pair you must have made,” Ben mused. They were only a few yards away from the shadowy arbor, with its cozy two-person swing.

“We still do. She writes letters to my column under an assumed name when things are slow so it looks like I've got this huge readership, and I take her to places she's never heard of and introduce her to some really neat people.”

Ben shook his head. “I'd like to meet a few of what you call ‘neat people.' Sometimes a woman can fall in with the wrong crowd and find herself in more trouble than she bargained for. You ever think about that?”

“All the time. For instance—”

But before she could get to her “for instance,” they arrived at the arbor and stopped dead. Ben said, “Charlie, what are you doing out here?”

Someone laughed, a soft, husky sound that identified her even before the peach colored hair came into view.

“'Scuse us,” Ben said, and backed away. As they
turned toward the house again, Maggie told herself she wasn't disappointed, not really. If she had a single grain of sense—which at the moment, was debatable—she'd call it a lucky reprieve.

Ben chuckled and Maggie said, “Maybe we could make reservations. For the arbor, I mean.”

Kick yourself, woman!

“Good idea. I've got an even better one. How about we head for town, pick up whatever groceries are on the list and have dinner while we're out?”

Spending time alone together was like waltzing through a minefield. Maggie knew it. She had a feeling Ben knew it, too, unless today had meant no more to him than scratching a temporary itch.