Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

" Y ou despicable low-life."

Ariel slashed at the canvas with her brush, streaking across the blank expanse while glaring daggers at the sketch of Cooper propped next to it.

She'd been trying to capture his likeness on canvas all morning and had tense shoulders, a tight neck, and three ruined canvases—all recycled, thank goodness—for her trouble.

Her muse had deserted her.

Unfortunately, she had a sneaking suspicion her muse had hitched a ride on the despicable low-life's broad shoulders and cruised straight out the door.

She'd tried everything: burning her favourite lime and tangerine candles, dabbing neroli—her favourite scent—on her pulse points for inspiration and to calm her mind, wearing her lucky holly garland on her head, and a five minute meditation that usually worked wonders if her imagination clogged.

The result? Nothing helped. And to make matters worse, Sofia had called, gushing about some fancy charity event at her sister's place where everyone who was anyone would see the portrait and inundate Ariel with work—she wished—and imploring her to finish it a week early.

Which gave her exactly six days to get the portrait finished.

It would've been a cinch if she had a normal model and not some delusional businessman happy to whip off his clothes to get what he wanted.

Staring at the sketches of Cooper, she could've happily drawn devil's horns and pointy fangs on his smug face, but they were all she had…and that wasn't much.

Sighing, she closed her eyes, trying to conjure up the memory of his form, hoping to translate it to canvas. Deep blue eyes, too long dark hair, strong jaw, broad chest, great pecs, tapered waist, long legs…

To her annoyance, she recalled images of Cooper's amazing body too readily. Excellent for finishing the portrait; disastrous for her peace of mind.

The wind chimes over the front door tinkled and her eyes opened.

"Can I help you…" she trailed off as the object of her vivid recollection a second ago strutted into the gallery, the epitome of the slick businessman she now knew him to be: fancy suit, white shirt, duck-egg blue tie that matched his striking eyes. He looked amazing but she preferred him in jeans and T-shirt.

Are you insane?

She didn't prefer him at all. Or was that in nothing at all?

"Go away," she said, planting both hands on the counter and glaring at him with as much disdain she could muster.

"No can do."

He stopped on the opposite side of the counter and Ariel wished it was wider. He was too close, too masculine, too everything.

"I have a proposal for you."

"After two nights? Wow, you must be really desperate to get your grubby hands on this place, but sorry, I wouldn't marry you if you gargled a litre of turpentine and painted the street red."

He grinned, a cocky smile that screamed ‘bring it on.' "I'm not here with a marriage proposal. You strike me as a smart woman and in the interests of your business I thought you should hear me out."

"You thought wrong," she blurted, not ready to hear anything he had to say.

She was too angry with him: angry he'd lied, angry he'd ruined a project so vital to the viability of the gallery, but most of all, angry with herself for the slight, inane leap of joy she'd experienced when he'd come back.

He ignored her petulant outburst. "This will only take five minutes of your time. Believe me, it's important."

She wouldn't believe him if he was the last man on earth, but something about his steady gaze and open expression had her shrugging her shoulders and leading him out the back.

"Five minutes," she said, propping on her ergonomic stool, not caring if he stood or sat. He wouldn't be around that long if she had any say in the matter.