Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

T he man was a menace.

The harder Ariel tried to concentrate on sketching, the more Cooper would smile, smirk, or chat.

She could strangle him with her bare hands.

Though she didn't want to get that close, considering he wasn't wearing any clothes—bar the requisite boxers, which she'd insisted he keep on again.

Chicken.

"Tell me more about this painting. Where's it going to hang?"

She silently cursed as her charcoal slewed. He'd spoken just as she'd captured the curve of his hip—and butt—but she didn't want to dwell on that piece of anatomy. Time enough when she'd have to study it, without the cover of navy cotton boxers.

"This is a private commission, a gift for a friend's sister, so it will hang in her home."

"This isn't the fabled friend-of-a-friend and it's actually for your private collection?"

His smug chuckle made Ariel grit her teeth, as she wondered if the use of duct tape over a model's mouth would be frowned upon by any worker's union.

"Sorry to disappoint, but this sort of art doesn't do it for me." Liar.

"Then what does?"

Damn it, she'd been the queen of quick comebacks all her life. She had to be, living on the streets. But this guy fired back with a skill to be envied.

"None of your business, Mr. Shy-and-Retiring, before whipping off your clothes in record time."

He pretended to pout. "Hey, that's not fair. You practically shoved me behind that screen, and I was absolutely terrified you'd actually rip them off me if I didn't hurry up."

His cocky smile showed her just how terrified he'd been at the thought of her tearing off his clothes, while simultaneously doing crazy things to her insides: her stomach flipped and somersaulted, a reminder she hadn't eaten dinner. She'd tried before Cooper arrived, but the thought of seeing all that gorgeous expanse of bare, tanned skin again had ruined her appetite.

"You wish," she said, aiming for a frown but failing miserably when their gazes locked over her easel and something zinged between them, a zap of invisible electricity that made her heart join her stomach in the gymnastic stakes. "Don't you ever shut up?"

Ariel's retort sounded short and sharp in the loaded silence, and she ducked behind the easel, buying valuable time to gather her wits and get her breathing under control. Alongside her pounding heart, her lungs had joined the party and deprived her of much-needed oxygen.

Must be more of those nasty paint fumes affecting her again.

Yeah, right.

"It's pretty boring sitting here doing nothing but pose for you," he said. "A little conversation breaks the monotony."

He sounded reasonable enough and she snuck a peek, wondering if he was being serious or teasing her again. To her mortification, he caught her furtive glance and winked, exacerbating her embarrassment.

Yeah, she could definitely strangle him.

Once she'd captured his exquisite body on canvas, that is.

"Have you always been an artist?"

She picked up a charcoal nub, determined to ignore him, but his question seemed innocuous enough and his voice had lost its teasing lilt.

"I loved drawing as a kid. I graduated from chalk drawings on sidewalks to etchings on paper. When other kids were playing hopscotch, I'd be sketching their faces. Later, I did a bachelor of arts to help with the teaching side of things if I ever chose to go down that path, but basically, I've worked alongside Barb here forever. We loved art so much…"

Her fingers stilled as she wondered what had possessed her to reveal so much to a guy she didn't know, a guy she didn't even particularly like that much.

The cosy ambience of the studio at night seemed conducive to shared confidences, but Cooper wasn't a friend and she'd be smarter remembering it.

"Anyway, that's it for now. I think I've done all I'm going to do tonight. It's been a long day." She didn't look at him as she wiped her hands on a dusty rag, wishing he'd hurry up and get dressed so she could shove him out the door.

For a guy she hardly knew—and didn't want to know—Cooper had her in a spin, answering questions she'd usually ignore, deriving comfort from confiding in another human when she had so little social contact with anyone.

What a sad case.

"Ariel?"

"Yeah?"

She looked up, grateful he'd slipped into jeans and a white T shirt quickly, sensing her need to get rid of him without delay.

"Whatever happens, you should be proud of what you've done with this place."

"Thanks," she said, surprised by his serious expression and somewhat confused by what he'd said.

But she was too tired to think about it let alone ask him to explain as she hurried him to the door, flicking the lock and all but wrenching it off its hinges in her haste to see the back of him.

As the door swung open and a chilly gust of wind blew it out of her hands, Chelsea Lynch, her protégée, rushed into the gallery in a flurry of turquoise denim, red pashmina, emerald scarf, and floppy fuchsia beanie.

Cooper took a polite step back, nodded at Chelsea, and turned to Ariel. "I'll see you tomorrow. We really need to talk."

Ariel flashed him a tight smile, thinking her talking days with the too good-looking model were over if she had to finish his portrait with her sanity intact.

Chelsea's head swung between the two of them, her eyes wide with shock, her mouth hanging open before pointing an accusing finger at Cooper and shouting, "What's he doing here?"

"Cooper's a model."

"Like hell he is."

Chelsea unwound her scarf in furious swirls, not taking her flashing hazel eyes off Cooper for a second. "He's the scumbag who's been buying up the street and I bet he has his sights set on this place next."

Ariel's protest died on her lips as she saw Cooper's stricken, guilty expression a second before she acted on instinct, her palm landing squarely in the middle of his broad chest and shoving him out the door.

Hard.