Chapter Ten
Marama
The moment that Spencer reasserts dominance over his desires is obvious; the shutters come down over his eyes, his expression hardens, and he tears his gaze away from mine.
He looks back at the painting. “So is that it?” he asks gruffly. “Are we done?”
It’s best this way. And I’m not shocked.
The man has closed billionaire-dollar deals without breaking a sweat.
He obviously keeps a tight grip on his diet and exercise, which most middle-aged men struggle to accomplish.
He’s a force of nature, and he’s not going to give in to his earthly cravings just for me.
The depth of my disappointment does surprise me, though, and with it comes a touch of pity.
While we were talking, I saw the hunger in his eyes when I spoke about being wanted and needed.
He doesn’t realize it, but for some reason, with me, his poker face is awful.
I can feel his desire, for me and for the affection I spoke of.
I don’t think this guy has been loved or wanted for a long time—maybe never, and that makes me sad.
“You have somewhere you need to be?” I ask.
“No.”
“Then no, we’re not done. First, I’d like to take some photos, with your permission.”
He frowns, but says, “Okay, if you must.”
I pick up my phone and bring up the camera. “You don’t like your photo being taken?”
“Not particularly.”
“Why? You’re a gorgeous guy.” I take his arm and steer him back into the sunlight.
“Well, thank you. But I don’t like looking at myself.”
Puzzled, I don’t reply, and spend some time getting him into the right position, so he’s lit properly.
Stepping back, I start taking photographs.
If only I’d been able to do this when I was a girl!
I take some front-on, both from a distance and zoomed in, causing him to look into the camera with an exasperated expression.
Then I move to the side and capture him from various angles, not just his face, but his shoulders and arms, the angles of his body, the way he holds himself, his legs and feet.
He was wearing Converses when he arrived, without socks, so now he’s barefoot.
His feet are tanned and attractive, the toenails neatly clipped.
I don’t have a foot fetish as such, but I feel a desire to kiss and caress them.
I move a little closer to him and spend some more time taking pictures close-up.
His blue eyes are vivid and full of life, with long dark lashes.
Laughter lines have creased the edges, even though he insists he doesn’t smile much.
I take a lot of photos of his hair, especially the silver flashes at the side.
They’re definitely going to feature in the painting.
“You’re making me uncomfortable,” he says after a while, when I’m close up, pointing the camera at his face.
“I’m sorry. I’m nearly done.” I learn more about this man with every second that passes. This is making him feel passive. He doesn’t like being examined. I think he feels vulnerable.
I take the last few photos and slide my phone into my pocket. I’m enjoying his presence in the studio, the masculine energy, and I like the way he looks at me. I know nothing will come of this, but I don’t want him to go. Is that so terrible?
“How are you feeling?” I ask. “I’d like to start your portrait. But I understand if you’d rather get going. I can do it from the photos if I have to.”
He hesitates. “I shouldn’t.” His eyes meet mine.
“Shouldn’t?” I taunt. “Doesn’t sound like a word in Spencer Cavendish’s vocabulary.”
He gives a wry smile. Then, to my surprise, he says, “Okay.”
“You’ll stay?”
He gives a reluctant nod.
My heart soars. “Want another coffee?”
“Yeah, okay.”
“Come on then.”
We return to the kitchen, and I start making the coffees. He spots a book on the kitchen counter—a big, coffee-table book by Dorling Kindersley called The Tree Book. “This yours?” he asks, leaning on the counter and pulling it toward him.
“Yeah.” I wait for him to mock me for looking at trees.
Instead, though, he starts flicking through it and says, “Does it give you inspiration for your artwork?”
I nod, starting the espresso pouring. “This might sound weird, but when I paint, I like to get beneath what we can see. I took a course on the body, so I can understand bone structure and how muscles are attached to the bones. And I like reading about plants, trees, and leaves, and understanding what makes them grow.”
“It’s all part of your spiritual side,” he says, studying a photo of an oak tree, with its accompanying diagram explaining its parts. “The artist Edgar Payne said, ‘Art is the reproduction of what the senses perceive in nature through the veil of the soul.’”
“That’s it exactly,” I reply, pleased he understands and agrees.
“Will you be including much foliage in my portrait?”
“I’m not sure yet. Are you interested in the environment?”
“Very much so.”
I steam the milk. “Are you religious?”
“No. If I was… I’d be pagan. Nature spirits and forest deities.”
“That surprises me. You don’t strike me as the type to dance naked in the moonlight.”
“You have no idea what I get up to in the privacy of my own home.”
I giggle and pour the milk over the espressos. “I’d like to see that.”
He gives me a side glance. “I bet you would.”
I grin at him and pass him his coffee. “Come on, back to the studio.”
“You want me in the chair?” he asks as we return.
“Please. Are you comfortable enough?”
“Yes, I’m fine.” He sits back in the chair. “If I nod off, though, I apologize if I snore.”
I laugh and sit back at my easel. I have an idea, and I want to try to capture it in light pencil before I start painting.
Because the portrait will only be from the shoulders up, I let him move freely in the chair. He sits with one ankle resting on the other knee, and swaps sides occasionally, but mostly he seemed relaxed and comfortable.
I sketch for about an hour, while we chat about this and that.
It surprises me how easy he is to talk to.
He seems to have relaxed a bit, maybe now he thinks he’s safe and I’m not going to make a move on him.
He’s surprisingly funny and knowledgeable about all sorts of things, and we talk about music, movies, and travel.
He’s been to Europe many times, and we compare our favorite cities, and talk about the art galleries we’ve visited.
Even though he doesn’t paint, he obviously loves art, and he asks me a lot of questions about how artists work.
When I finish sketching and all the proportions are laid out again, I give him five minutes to get up and walk around the room while I start drawing in some foliage around him. His mention of being interested in paganism and the Green Man has stirred something inside me.
Spencer wanders around, looking at some of the books, then, while I get my paints ready, unscrewing the tops and squeezing a little of the acrylic out, he says, “You mind if I take a look? Or would you rather I don’t see it until the end?”
“No, I don’t mind.”
He comes to stand behind me. He’s very close; I can feel his body heat near my back and shoulder, and I can smell his cologne. He studies the canvas, then reaches out and gestures at a line to the left. “Is that going to be a tree?”
I nod. “I’m going to paint you as Tāne Mahuta.”
Tāne Mahuta is the god of the forest in Māori mythology. It’s also the name given to the largest living kauri tree in New Zealand, which stands in the Northland’s Waipoua Forest.
“Are you comparing me to a thousand-year-old tree?” Spencer asks.
I chuckle. “He’s also called the Lord of the Forest. I thought you’d like that title.”
“I do, as it happens.”
“I’ll fill the rest of the canvas with the tree and its leaves.”
He surveys it, then nods. “I confess I’m relieved. I thought you might make me a devil or something.”
“I did think about it.” Guilt makes me shift uneasily on the stool as I think about the other painting that’s forming in my mind. But I push it away. I’ll worry about that later.
“Is that a bird in the background?” He leans forward to investigate the drawing, and at the same time rests a hand on my back.
I inhale, shocked at how I react so quickly to his touch. Goosebumps jump out on my skin, and hairs rise all over my body.
“Um… yes. Tāne Mahuta is the god of all the forest including the birds.”
“Mmm.” For a moment, he stays where he is, looking at the sketch of the bird, or pretending to anyway, because something tells me he’s feeling the electricity sparking between us as much as I am.
His hand doesn’t move on my back, but I’m acutely conscious of the warmth of his skin, and the fact that this is the first time he’s touched me.
Eventually, unable to stay still, I look up at him, and find my gaze level with his jaw.
It looks smooth, not showing any five o’clock shadow yet, even though the day is wearing on.
He smells so good… I want to lean forward and press my lips to his skin, then kiss down his neck to his Adam’s apple and touch my tongue to the hollow at the base of his throat.
He turns his head a fraction, and looks into my eyes.
Oh wow. A jolt of electricity shoots through me like a touch of static, and my nipples tighten in my bra.
He doesn’t look surprised or alarmed. Instead, there’s a kind of lazy heat in his eyes as his gaze drops to my mouth.
I wait, and the seconds tick by without either of us moving.
“Are you going to kiss me or not?” I ask. I meant it to sound seductive, but it comes out as a breathless squeak.
He inhales, then huffs it out. “Not.”
“Spencer…”
He straightens, walks back to his chair, and sits. Then, glaring at me, he adjusts the front of his trousers. Ohhh… he has an erection. Oh my.
We study each other across the few feet that separates us. My heart is racing. He looks a little sulky, as if his conscience is giving his libido a stern talking to. I can’t help but feel smug that he’s struggling.
“Don’t smirk,” he says.