Twin Expectations

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 recognized the subject in one of the paintings, a local matron named Velma Hampton. The woman was not classically attractive, yet Bridget had managed to catch that spark of humor and openness that shone from within.

“I like this one, don’t you?” Dinah said, pointing to a cowboy. He stood by a worn wooden fence, holding a coil of rope and gazing out at a field dotted with cattle. “I think you should do yours outside. Maybe with one of your planes.”

“Now that is an excellent idea.” If he had to spend hour upon hour posing for this asinine portrait, at least he could do it outside, in comfortable clothes. And when it was done, his portrait would stand out among the coat-and-tie Statler men hanging in his mother’s library. “Call the Van Zandt woman and tell her I’ve decided what I want. Make arrangements for her to meet me at dawn at my house—you remember how to get there, right?”

“Yes, but why don’t you call her yourself?”

“That’s what I hired you for,” he quipped.

The fact of the matter was, Bridget unsettled him. He would undoubtedly be spending a good deal of time with her, and he intended to keep their relationship cool and professional. He was sure that was how she wanted it, too.

DAWN. Dawn! What had Bridget been thinking to blithely agree to such insanity? She couldn’t possibly be presentable by 7:00 a.m., not if she had to stick her head in the toilet every five minutes. Unfortunately she didn’t have Nick’s home phone number, so she couldn’t call and cancel. She would just have to pull herself together or stand him up, one of the two.

Dripping from her shower, she glared at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were puffy and her skin was pale. Makeup helped, but not much. She threw on the first clothes she could find, a pair of faded jeans and a white ribbed shirt.

Then she remembered that Liz had said the shirt made her breasts look bigger. Forget that. She didn’t want Nick to think she was advertising. Initially she’d been intrigued by him—and still thought he was gorgeous—but since the Oilman’s Ball she’d put any thoughts about getting to know him better right out of her mind.

She chose a red cotton blouse and a studded denim vest instead. By the time she’d dried her hair she felt almost presentable, though certainly far from her best. She tied her hair back with a red ribbon.

What did it matter, anyway? she grumbled as she gathered her sketch pad and pencils, a Polaroid camera, some light-reflecting boards, and an industrial-size bottle of Tums. He didn’t have to look at her while she was painting him. And since he was the one who had specified this uncivilized hour, he could suffer the consequences.

Over the past few weeks Bridget had scoped out all of Oaksboro for every gas station and convenience store with a decent bathroom. She plotted her route to Nick’s house so that several of these nausea-friendly pit stops were on the way. She stopped three times and still was only ten minutes late when she pulled into the driveway.

His house was beautiful, she noted with some surprise. She’d been expecting to see something in the same state of disrepair as his business. But this charming, white frame house looked as if every square inch was lovingly cared for, right down to the marigolds and zinnias in the front flower beds.

That was all the time she had to study Nick’s domicile. He burst out the front door as soon as her car pulled up, and all her attention became focused on him.

“You’re late,” he said in lieu of a greeting as she got out of the car. He seemed more anxious than irritated, though.

“I apologize,” she said in a carefully neutral tone, mindful of the negative impact anger could have on her body chemistry. She offered no explanation for her tardiness. For some reason the thought of Nick knowing she’d succumbed to something as weak and…female as morning sickness filled her with apprehension.

She started toward her trunk, where her supplies were stored, but he grabbed her arm. “No time for that. I want you to see something before the light is ruined. Come on.”

He more or less dragged her along the red brick path that went around the house. The path was uneven, making her glad she’d decided against hose and heels this morning. She was having enough trouble in her sneakers.