Dad by Default

On the canvas, roughed-in male and female shapes blazed with sensuality. Yvonne could feel their body heat and the texture of the sand, and smell the suntan lotion.

A laptop computer on an adjacent table displayed the image that served as inspiration. It showed a pair of sunbathers on a beach, the man applying lotion to the woman’s bikini-clad figure as they lay sprawled in careless intimacy.

When a floorboard creaked beneath her, the painter froze. Then he laid down his brush and swung around.

It was, amazingly, Connor. He appeared as shocked as Yvonne.

The suggestiveness of his creation made her aware of him in a new way. Aware of the rough masculine texture of his cheeks and the curve where his throat disappeared into the open shirt collar. Aware of the denim clinging to his thighs and the gleam of white teeth between parted lips.

Instinctively, she toyed with a strand of hair. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here.” He frowned. “What about you?”

She couldn’t make sense of his statement. “You can’t live here. This is Beau’s attic.”

“He rented it to me.”

“You mean as a studio?” But that wasn’t what he’d said. “You can’t live here! This is the Johnson house!”

“You two weren’t speaking,” he answered quietly.

“We made up. Sort of.”

“Your uncle wanted a tenant. I needed a place close by and the space accommodates my hobby.”

They stared at each other. Both breathing fast, for some reason. She’d just climbed the stairs. What was his excuse?

How bizarre that Beau hadn’t mentioned renting the place. “He claimed you were a raccoon and sent me up to investigate.”

Connor burst out laughing. “I like that old man!” About to disagree, Yvonne recalled the tender scene in her daughter’s room. “He has a few good qualities.” She eyed the canvas. “You did the painting of the Allens, didn’t you?” That was where she’d seen the style before.

“Guilty as charged.”

“Incredible.” She indicated the pictures on the easels. “Do you always work from photographs?”

“Mostly.” His cheek, she noticed, bore a colorful smear.

His subjects were all people. No landscapes or abstracts.

Yvonne circled to examine a nearby work in progress. Charcoal lines roughed out the figure of a woman walking a small dog directly toward the viewer. Even at this incomplete stage, she could visualize the alluring sway of the lady’s hips and hear the click of the dog’s toenails on the sidewalk. “You’re brilliant.”

“That’s very flattering.” He seemed uncomfortable at being complimented.

“I don’t flatter people. It happens to be true.”

“Thanks.”

Another painting, completed and hung on the wall, showed a rear view of a partially draped female. To Yvonne, the style appeared less developed than his current work, so perhaps it stemmed from an earlier period. Yet it had a nearly three-dimensional quality lacking in the pictures derived from photos. “Was that a live model?”

A nod. “From art class.”

“You ought to use more models. They give your work extra depth.”

“It isn’t practical,” Connor replied. “Too expensive. It’s not as if I were a serious artist.”

“You could’ve fooled me.”

“I don’t suppose you’d…” He shook off the notion. “Never mind.”

“I’d what?” Had he nearly asked her to model? The prospect gave her a small thrill.

Even now, she felt his artistic eye examining the contours of her body as if he were touching her through the light summer dress. Her breasts tingled as she imagined his strong hands arranging her in a pose.

When he met her gaze, Yvonne caught an answering glint of hunger. He was seeing her as a woman now rather than as a model.

In the quiet room, she could hear his heart beating. Or was that her own pulse?

She wished he would…do what? Nothing she dared put into words.

Despite her reservations, she treasured the awareness of sexual allure. A man hadn’t appealed to her this strongly since…ever.

Yet he was Connor Hardison. Dr. Wrong.

He blinked as if pulling back, and cleared his throat. “So you’re doing a good deed for your great-uncle. You planning to drop by the house every night?”

Oh, right. She hadn’t explained the ticklish part. “I’m staying here for a few weeks.”

Judging by Connor’s stunned expression, that rocked him. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I’d never have signed a six-month lease if I’d known.”

“Beau got the screwy idea that his family owes him something,” she explained. “It came out of nowhere.”

He gave a reluctant chuckle. “I may have accidentally reinforced that idea yesterday. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but he ended up firing his aide, and now this.”

“You must have quite a way with words.” She didn’t know whether to resent Connor’s interference or be glad he’d found her a place to stay. “He went from considering me a pariah to insisting I move in.”

“You could have said no.”

“I did, at first.” She shrugged. “My apartment suffered water damage this afternoon. I figure Bethany was better off here than at a motel. And Beau’s taken a liking to her.”

“You brought your daughter?”

His surprise annoyed Yvonne. “What should I do? Leave her in a storage locker?”

“I didn’t mean it that way.” After collecting his brushes, Connor moved to the sink. “Still, holding down a job and raising a baby must be hard enough without taking on additional responsibilities. Are you sure you aren’t overdoing it?”

“I’ll manage,” she persisted. “I always have.”

“It can’t be easy.”