That was how she wanted to paint him. And she did want to paint him, she realized. If only they could smooth over the circumstances of their first meeting. Maybe if she explained about Liz and her warped sense of humor.
“Why am I telling you this?” he asked abruptly.
“I don’t know. Look, Mr. Raines, this is an awkward situation, but we can make the best of it. You paid for the portrait, and I made a commitment to deliver it. I would like to keep that commitment.”
“Can you paint?” he asked, crossing his arms and leaning against a timber that supported the hangar.
Bridget looked up nervously, afraid the timber would give way and the roof would crash down on them. “I brought my portfolio with me if you’d like to—”
“Nah.” He sighed. “I guess there’s nothing to do but go ahead with it. What do you do, snap some instant pictures or something? I can get cleaned up.”
Bridget was horrified at the thought. “I don’t work from photographs,” she said, “except as a supplement. Paintings done that way often turn out flat, and the people don’t look right because a camera catches a single moment that may or may not reflect the subject’s true essence.”
“True essence, huh?” He took a couple of steps closer, until he invaded her personal space. “You think I have a true essence?”
Bridget tried to swallow, her mouth suddenly dry. Yes, he had an essence, all right, one that was all male. Standing this close, she could even catch a tantalizing hint of his scent, a combination of starch, soap and hard work. Everything in her that was female responded, reminding her just exactly what she’d been missing of late.
Still, she stood her ground. “I paint with a live subject. A quality oil portrait requires a commitment of a great deal of time and energy from both artist and model.” She usually developed a unique intimacy with every subject she painted, too, but she decided not to elaborate to that degree with Nick Raines.
“Look, ma’am—”
“Bridget.” He’d obviously forgotten her name, though his had been branded into her memory. Someday when she was senile, his name would be the only thing she remembered. “Bridget Van Zandt.”
“Look, Bridget, I really don’t have hours to spend posing for this picture. Isn’t there any other way?”
“No.” On this she wouldn’t compromise. Her soul went into every painting she did. She had to do each portrait the best she knew how—especially one that might end up having high visibility. If she did a second-rate job on it, the negative publicity could ruin her business.
“Hell. My mother already has a space cleared on her wall for this thing. Guess we’ll have to do it your way.”
“It won’t be that bad,” she said, more eager than she ought to be. Hadn’t she, a few minutes ago, been hoping “Mr. Quinn” would elect not to do the portrait after all? “A couple of hours here and there. My schedule is flexible. We’ll work around yours.”
He nodded. “Okay.” The hard lines of his face softened. “You’re being very reasonable about this, after what my brother did to you. You, um, aren’t actually planning to sue him, are you?”
Anger rose up again. She consciously tamped it down and took two slow, deep breaths. “No, I’m not planning to sue anybody. The incident at the Oilman’s Ball was an unfortunate misunderstanding involving my identical twin sister. Please, can we forget about it?”
He actually chuckled, but he didn’t agree to drop the subject forever. Then he sobered. “Um, by the way, how is the baby? You’re looking a little pale.”
“Am I?” She wasn’t surprised. She’d had a terrible shock to her system. And having him speak so casually about a baby she’d scarcely mentioned to anyone…
“You are pregnant, right? I mean, you didn’t make that part up too?”
Chapter Three
“Yes, I’m pregnant, and can we just drop it, please?” Bridget said.
Judging from the warning flash in her eyes, Nick decided he’d better leave well enough alone. “Understood,” he finally said. “So, how do we proceed?”
She relaxed a bit. “I’ll leave my portfolio in your office. Go through it at your leisure. Pick out the portraits you’re drawn to, the ones you really like. Be thinking of how you’d like to be portrayed—how you’d like to be remembered for posterity. I’ll call back in a few days and we’ll meet again, to mull over ideas. Is that satisfactory?”
“Yes, that meets with my approval,” he said, matching her ultraprofessional, formal tone. Two could play at this game. Even as he tried to one-up her, he found himself fascinated with her, with the way she stood up for herself without being rude. He’d thought her too forward and brassy when he’d first met her, but in this case first impressions were wrong. She didn’t come off that way now.
“You’ll hear from me.” She turned and walked away with a clipped, no-nonsense gate. He watched her, focusing on the sway of her slim hips. How would she look in a few months, when her pregnancy advanced? Would she waddle?
Oddly, he found the mental picture pleasing when it shouldn’t have been. Since when did the thought of a pregnant woman get him excited?
With a shrug he returned his attention to the engine of the old Dehavilland Comet he’d been working on when Bridget had appeared. Bridget. How had he ever forgotten such a cute name? It wouldn’t slip his mind again.
A lot of other things slipped, though. Like his wrench. Suddenly he had fifty fingers, all of them coated with butter. He found himself looking up things in his repair manual that he should have known by heart. That infernal woman had ruined his concentration.
After an hour he gave up and went back to the office to check up on Dinah, his new receptionist. She was punctual, pleasant and a hard worker, but she lacked something in the initiative department. If he didn’t specifically tell her to do it, it didn’t get done.
“Is everything all right?” he asked.
“Sure. Phone doesn’t ring much.”
That was because most of Peachy’s customers retired along with him.
“Oh, Mr. Raines? I don’t want to be a bother, but my chair is broken.” She pointed to a stack of kindling in the corner. “I’ve been using this stool, but my back—”
“Good heavens, Dinah, order yourself a new office chair. A nice one.” Nick took a good look around the office and winced. This was what Bridget Van Zandt had seen. This was her first impression of his business. “While you’re at it, order yourself a new desk and a couple of customer chairs. Then call a carpet place. And a painter.” He sniffed the air. “And a No Smoking sign.”
Dinah’s eyes lit up like Christmas morning. “Really?”
“Really. I’ll sign the purchase orders. Do it up nice.”
“Yes, sir! Oh, Mr. Raines, did you see these pictures?” She pointed to an open photo album on her desk. He recognized it as Bridget’s portfolio. “They’re beautiful. I can’t wait to see what she does with you.”
That statement planted all sorts of images in Nick’s fertile mind, none of them involving oil paints and canvas. “Let me see.” He leaned on a corner of Dinah’s desk and flipped through the album. It took only three or four flips for him to admit that he was impressed. The portraits were beautiful—so realistic the models could almost walk off the page. These people breathed with energy and personality. He almost felt as if he knew them, just by studying their portraits.
He