Loving Grace (4 page)

Make yourself over in fifteen easy steps.

Snorting, she turned to the page, looked at
the amazing before and after photos. In another twenty minutes, she
was writing down a list of cosmetics and clothing that went with
her skin tone and body type.

She told herself it was because she was used
to a schedule to having her day mapped out, that she was bored. She
was soon dressed and leaving the apartment, going first to the drug
store and then a few clothing stores. When she arrived home loaded
down, she knew for certain she was out of her mind. Not able to
decide since they hadn’t carried the exact things suggested, she’d
bought all sorts of items and articles of clothing, which were now
piled high in the middle of the bed.

Around noon Seth called, to say he was
settled in. she assured him she’d check on his place. And no, she
still didn’t know if or when, she was leaving town. Grace had four
weeks of free time, the first break since high school. She had
dreamed of a vacation and now that it was here, she had no idea
what to do with herself. She was so much at a loss that she was
reading magazines she would have laughed at before, and buying
things she wouldn’t dare put on her body.

A day later Grace checked on Seth’s
apartment, rolling her eyes at the mess he’d left while packing.
The TV was on for Christ sakes and the sink overflowing with
dishes! Grumbling she took off her coat and pushed up her sweater
sleeves. Starting in the kitchen, she began to clean.

With no idea how to turn on his super stereo,
she turned up the TV instead, leaving it on a music channel playing
Christmas tunes. She worked steadily but didn’t touch his bedroom,
other than to toss clothing he’d laid out to pack and discarded,
back through the doorway. She’d seen that big bed and the cluttered
lacquer dressers, she wasn’t touching it. He had plenty of females
here and she didn’t want to find any details or evidence of what he
did with them.

His office was the dining area, and there too
she merely put things in order and shook her head at the gadgets
and surveillance stuff stacked on the floor to ceiling shelf. His
answering machine was blinking, he’d call in and get the messages,
however it was the scribbling on a legal pad that made her sit in a
chair, and yes, snoop.

The name Noel Hawthorn and then Elisa Zeller
were right there. There was a quoted hourly rate, a list of
addresses with notes and everything about Noel from the car his
chauffeur drove to his normal routine, and the schedule at the
gallery.

Grace chewed her lip and picked up the file
under the notes.

“That liar!” she grunted, seeing photos her
brother had taken, obviously working on the Hawthorn case when he’d
said he hadn’t.

Nevertheless, the slick black and whites of
Noel were no less striking than his TV image. She carried them to
the sofa. Her brother had followed the painter for three weeks and
found nothing out of the ordinary. In fact, his notes stated that
other than an occasional appearance at the new gallery, he rarely
left the loft. Grace went over and took the expense book from the
desk and the rest of the notes on Noel. It was benign stuff,
delivery boys and a string of models that checked out as legit.

Something in the expense book puzzled her
though, she noticed her brother had dinner with Elisa Zeller at
some pretty ritzy DC restaurants and also, that he had a lot of
question marks by her name. She had no idea how Seth tagged people,
it could be innocent, yet...it was as if he had more questions
about her, than he did about Noel.

Later, sipping coffee and looking out the
window, Grace noticed it was snowing, and at the same moment, she
admitted her mind seemed to be stuck on Noel Hawthorn since the
night at the club.

Chapter Five

Back at her own apartment, near midnight, she
was appalled at herself, looking at the things she’d brought home.
Grace called Seth’s hotel and told him she’d taken some of the
equipment to her place, to keep it safe, all the while knowing she
was about to do something completely irrational.

A night’s sleep didn’t straighten her out.
After finding out Noel would be at his gallery, her entire day was
consumed by trying on clothing, painfully trying to pluck her brows
and spreading all the magazines out on the bed, hoping she could
sleek herself up enough to blend into a crowd of art lovers.

This is nuts. She looked in the mirror and
saw herself as if viewing a stranger. She was no social butterfly.
What if someone asked her a question about art? What if she had to
make small talk? What if she looked like a plain accountant with
bad makeup-up and—what if—the damned gold streaks didn’t wash out
like they were supposed to?

Her hair was mink brown, she liked brown. She
couldn’t go out as Grace Dean with gold streaks in her hair. Every
tenant in the building, the grocer on the corner, the coffee shop
owner, knew Grace the accountant.

What was she doing anyway? What was she
turning into, some sort of obsessed fruitcake?

Nonetheless, she had on a black velvet dress
with a split up the back skirt, black hose and velvet pumps. The
dress had long snug sleeves, and had a V-neck that was wide to the
shoulder. It took her hours with hot rollers and hair spray to get
her hair to curl, then another hour to put it up half way like the
image in the magazine. As finishing touches, she added her mother’s
simple diamond earrings and short teardrop necklace.

Her hands kept sweating, and she wiped them
with tissue, feeling as if something had taken over her mind and
body. She stared at the face that wasn’t familiar. The silver and
charcoal eye shadow had been the easy part, the mascara, hell. And
lipstick, she’d gone through four shades and still grimaced seeing
it on her pale, wide mouth. She wasn’t brave enough to try blush,
but managed a subtle, sparkling flesh-tone powder that took the
winter blotch out of her skin.

She retrieved a long cape, gloves, and a
clutch purse. The final extra touches that made her feel like a
sneak, a camera, which looked like a gold square that she could pin
to her bag. The case it came with had other covers to hide it,
cufflinks, buttons, snap on earrings, even a frog broach. She was
still amazed by the things her brother could and likely did use on
his job, it was enough to make a non-PI paranoid; he could observe
and record people and they’d never know it.

Grace heard her nervous breaths scuttling in
and out while she rushed from the apartment before anyone could
notice, tossing the big, expensive camera in the seat next to her.
She clutched the wheel and wondered if she was having some sort of
breakdown.

She didn’t do this, didn’t even like the idea
of it. So why was she heading four blocks to park a little away
from the gallery, only to sit another fifteen minutes and watch the
elegant couples file inside?

“Turn around and go home, Grace,” she
muttered feeling her palms sweat again. Instead, a mere few seconds
later, she was out and walking up the street, having shoved the
camera under the seat before exiting the car. At the door, she came
face to face with the man, Bryce, and a woman, Elisa, who were
greeting people. The roar of her heart in her ears made her feel
dizzy.

“Welcome,” the beautiful woman was saying, as
she shook her hand.

“Thank you.” Grace smiled despite feeling
phony and stiff. The woman was stunning, and barely five-feet tall.
However, she was perfectly curved, and possessed sleek jet-black
hair, remarkable aqua eyes, and full lips. Seth was right; with
skin like polished ivory, she was impossibly perfect.

Grace shook hands with Bryce and gave up her
cape to a man who wore a butler-ish uniform. It was surreal, even
the voices and tinkle of champagne glasses, one of which was handed
to her by a pretty young woman. Grace drank half of it down, before
she began to move along with the groups, pausing in front of framed
paintings. The large ones lined the walls while smaller works hung
on square columns, which divided the room into three sections. She
was aware of discreetly placed red and black leather benches, of
marble floors and a couple of armed guards standing near some
palms.

She sweated for ten minutes, until the drink
took effect, long enough for her to calm down. Grace paused before
a painting dubbed Lily, and couldn’t help but admire the redhead
lying on her stomach amid a mound of her namesake flowers. Her body
was long, sleek, and the skin tone was like warm cream. The woman’s
hair fanned out with lilies laying on it, and from the slope of her
spine to the curve of her backside, was overlaid in flowers, until
it really did force the viewer to notice subtle things. Grace
observed the contrast first, of skin and flowers, and the colors,
but eventually she began to feel the utter peace, the naturalness
of the combination.

Standing by a painting called Fern, she was
completely enthralled and more than awed. The woman was standing in
a grotto of lush green foliage, her body providing the surface for
the shade of the huge ferns. Short, slicked-back hair, a Madonna
face, and startling emerald eyes... Grace could feel the coolness,
the tranquil setting, smell the vegetation, and honestly sense the
connection between the woman and the surroundings.

“Quite remarkable. Isn’t it?”

Grace jumped slightly, being so absorbed by
the painting, and she hadn’t noticed the woman come up to her.

“Yes.” The trim figure ensconced in blue silk
standing next to her was maybe about fifty and had fashionable
silver hair and a charming southern accent. “It’s
extraordinary.”

The woman nodded, fingering her pearl
necklace and considered the painting. She looked at Grace. “Have
you seen The Storm yet? It’s by far my favorite.”

“No.”

“Down there at the end.”

“Thank you.” Grace smiled and left her to
move on, not really wishing to by-pass the others so quickly, but
too curious since the painting had a name outside the flora and
fauna.

It was a massive painting, dark and brooding
at first glance. However, as Grace stood and eyed the dark sky and
angry clouds, the almost black grasses in the open field, she
focused on the ghostly image in the center...a woman obviously, but
nearly transparent. One had to look closely to see the wispy
garment blowing back from a nude form, and to make out the female
shape and haunting face. Yes, she could see why it drew such a
crowd and the one still standing around her and murmuring in awe.
It was not gothic so much as otherworldly, hard to pinpoint as real
or imagined. The woman’s face was not as beautiful as the others
were, but definitely more compelling.

The crowd grew so thick that Grace turned
reluctantly away, and made her way to the back, realizing she’d not
get another up close view. The music just registered in her brain,
atmospheric, something between Celtic and classical; again surreal.
She made her way around a column that was lit from the inside, and
stood a moment admiring a piece of sculpture also inside the
column.

“Crystal.”

Grace felt her heart drop to her feet. She
wet her lips and said to Noel Hawthorn, without turning around or
taking her eyes of the art, “Beautiful, as is everything I’ve seen
thus far.”

“Thank you.”

She knew that was her cue to look at him.
Part of her dreaded it. Her knees weren’t steady as she stepped
back and did so, having to look up from her five-five height and
still mentally catching her breath when her eyes met his.

“I’m no expert.” She attempted a smile and
realized her face was tense with nervousness. “Other than the
Smithsonian, I don’t usually go to galleries or shows.”

His jet brow arched and those beautiful lips
curved. “I’m doubly flattered. What exactly drew you here, if you
don’t mind my asking?”

She lied, too easily. “A friend of mine
suggested it, after attending your first show.”

He was holding a glass of red wine and
nodded, took a sip, and glanced from the piece to her. His silken
voice continued. “What do you do for a living?”

She flushed, and lied again. “I’m job hunting
at the moment. Downsizing and all.” Oh God, Grace thought, why
won’t my brain function?

He seemed to look her over, slowly, from head
to toe. “Have you done any modeling?”

She laughed, nearly choking.

“Not fashion.” He shook his head causing
those jet curls to move against his shoulders. “I suppose from that
flush, you haven’t?”

“Of course not.”

His brow went up again. “Why not? Of
course...”

“The obvious reasons. I’m not exactly the
type.”

“For an artist, there is no type, only
inspiration.” He gestured toward the paintings. “Very few of those
women model for a living. Many live ordinary lives.”

She noticed he wore a black mock turtleneck
in some ribbed material and black slacks. However, it was her turn
to arch a brow. “They’re quite beautiful.”

His smile was part indulgent, part smug. “Are
they? Tell me, how many actual faces did you see in the
paintings?”

That gave Grace pause. She thought back with
some surprise. “Only three...out of a dozen.”

His eyes were very mahogany, velvety as they
looked into hers. “One should look at a painting and see something
new, feel it, every time their eyes move over the canvas. When
clients buy art, they do so because it moves them in some visceral
way.”

“Or it’s simply a good investment.”

He laughed, short and quiet, and Grace felt
her stomach tighten with some sensual tension that nearly had her
shaking. “I’m sorry, that was rude, and insulting.”

“Not at all.” He studied her, still half
smiling. “I enjoy a challenge.”

“Challenge?”

“Mmm.” His gaze seemed to pierce deeper. “An
artist is, at times, obsessed with capturing what he sees on
canvas, but the mind is ten times more creative than the hand
holding the brush. He is driven to portray the imagery...” He
paused, “It isn’t the actual reflection of the pose or scenery he’s
using, rather that inspires him, and his mind captures it, enhances
and expounds on it, until he is beset with thoughts of putting that
image on the canvas, breathing life into it, and making it real,
touchable. Hopefully evoking a response from those who see it.”