He sounded pissed. Probably because he was.
She’d moved on to inspect his smaller, earlier works. He shuffled from foot to foot, then shoved his hands into his back pockets. They weren’t as good as they could be. He’d been learning his craft when he made them, honing his skills. He should have destroyed them. Or put them in storage somewhere.
Maddy’s eyes were warm when she looked at him again.
“Max. I don’t know what to say. These are really, really good.”
He was embarrassed by how much her praise meant to him.
“Thanks.”
She stroked the bronze figure again. “Losing this life model is a pretty big deal, yeah?”
“It’s a setback. It took me a while to find her. The series is dance-based, and ordinary models aren’t up to it.”
“Dance-based.” She looked at the bronze woman again. “Like this?”
“More dynamic. I want to capture that moment when dance becomes more than just movement,” he said. Then he stopped. Could he sound like any more of a tosser, crapping on about his work like some beret-wearing poseur?
She looked at him. There was a new light in her eye, as though she’d made an important decision.
“Use me,” she said.
“Sorry?” He actually shook his head, convinced he hadn’t heard right.
“You need a new life model, right? Someone to portray a dancer. Why not me?”
Chapter Three
HE WAS GOING TO SAY NO. Maddy could tell by the way his eyes darkened and his jaw tensed.
She had no idea if she was the right model for what he wanted to do. But as soon as the idea popped into her head it had felt right. Especially given the realization she’d woken to this morning.
“Before you say no, hear me out,” she said. “I decided something this morning. I’m not going to take this forced retirement lying down. I’m going to get a second opinion—hell, a fifth and sixth if I need it. I’m going to keep doing my rehab work and I’m going to find a way to dance.” She said it like a challenge, daring him to disagree with her.
She’d given up too easily; the thought had been waiting for her, fully formed, when she opened her eyes and blinked at Max’s ceiling half an hour ago. Dr. Hanson was one doctor, and she’d allowed his opinion to count for more than it should. She wasn’t prepared to give up. Not yet. Not until she’d explored every avenue. Her future happiness depended on her efforts.
Only when Max nodded slowly did she release the breath she’d been holding. If he’d looked disbelieving—God, if he’d laughed—she wasn’t sure what she would have done.
“I think that’s a good idea,” he said.
She smiled.
“Thank you. I needed to hear you say that. The thing is, most of the top dance medicine gurus are here in Paris. I couldn’t be in a better place, even if I only came here because you were here. I’m going to call around today, try to get an appointment.”
“That might take a while. Months, even.”
“I know. I’m going to lean on some old colleagues to put in a word for me, see if I can’t jump the waiting list.”
“Stay here,” he said. “It’s no palace, but it’s a roof.”
She felt a rush of gratitude. The idea of staying with Max was infinitely preferable to twiddling her thumbs in a faceless hotel room for weeks while she gnawed her nails to the bone waiting for another specialist’s pronouncement. But she couldn’t mooch off him.
She said as much, and he made a rude noise.
“We’re friends, Maddy. It’s not mooching.”
“Look, it’s one thing to show up on your doorstep, drink your wine, eat your bread and crash in your bed for a night. But I can’t foist myself on you for weeks at a time. Not unless you let me help you in return. That’s why I offered to model for you. It would be a sort of barter—my body for your accommodation.”
“You don’t need to offer me a deal to stay here. You’re welcome anytime.”
“Thank you. But I can’t live here and not offer anything in return. I know you well enough to know you won’t accept money,” she said. His instant frown was more than enough to prove her point on that score. “And, let’s face it, my cooking skills aren’t exactly great. Please let me do something for you in return for your helping me out.”
“It’s a sweet offer, but I don’t think it’s a good idea. If you really want to help out, I’m sure we can think of something else you can do.”
She studied him, trying to understand his objection. He sounded so adamant, so immovable. Surely it would solve his problem as well as her own?
Or maybe he was just being polite. Maybe she was the last person he wanted to sketch.
“Is it because I don’t have the right body type? It sounded like you were looking for a dancer’s shape,” she asked.
“It’s not that.” He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, the picture of discomfort. “I don’t think it’ll work out, that’s all.”
He was over the conversation, she could tell, but she wanted to get to the bottom of this. She wanted to stay with him, but her pride wouldn’t let her accept his hospitality without some kind of quid pro quo in place.
“Do you think I’ll get fidgety, is that it? I promise I can stand still when I have to.”
“It’s not that.”
She fiddled with the hem of the T-shirt, disappointed. “Okay. If that’s the way you feel, I’ll find a hotel this afternoon.”
He looked annoyed. “Maddy. I said you could stay here, no strings. Don’t be stubborn.”
“I won’t leech off you. I want to help. You’re helping me, why can’t I return the favor?”
“I would have thought that was pretty obvious. You’ve seen my stuff.”
He gestured toward the row of statues. She glanced at them, then shook her head, baffled.
“Yeah. So?”
“My figures are all nudes, Maddy.”
She blinked, then looked at the figures again.
Right. They were all naked forms. Huh.
“Well, that’s no big deal, is it? It’s not like you haven’t seen me naked before. God, I think you know me better than my doctor after we did that season of Wild Swans together,” she said.
Created by an avante-garde Australian choreographer, the ballet had been modern, intimate and daring. She and Max had worn thin body stockings and little else. By the end of the performance, they’d been so in tune with one another it had been hard to work out where his sweat finished and hers began.
“This is different,” he said stubbornly.
She studied him closely and realized that color traced his cheekbones. He was embarrassed. Or self-conscious. Or maybe a bit of both.
“Max, you’re blushing,” she said. Mostly because she knew that nothing would get his back up faster. He might have changed, but not that much.
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re embarrassed at seeing me naked, aren’t you?” She found the thought highly amusing. Had he really become so conservative?