Page 33 of To Love a Beast

Her lashes lowered. "Everett."

A tremor spread through him when she spoke his name, and he had to resist the urge to draw her into a true embrace. His feelings had raced past friendship in a blink of an eye and dived straight into something dangerously deeper.

"About the painting . . ." She turned to face the portrait once again, her hand finally slipping free of his.

"Consider it yours," he blurted. "Whatever you wish me to do with it, I shall."

Though, he really hoped she wouldn't vote for destroying it. He'd not experienced joy in the act of painting since before his accident. Catharsis, yes, but not joy. Not until he'd started painting her. Yet, even if she asked him to set the portrait aflame, he'd not hesitate. She'd awakened the joy of creation within him, and he'd not despise her gift with his own selfishness.

"You mentioned possibly painting a miniature for me to take home to my father. Would you consider finishing this painting and allowing me to gift it to him? He and I have birthdays only a few days apart, and we always celebrate them together by exchanging handmade gifts." A mischievous gleam entered her eyes, making it clear that some level of competitiveness was involved with this tradition. "We're not allowed to spend any money, so creativity is our currency. I'd thought to hand tool him a hat band from a scrap of blue leather left over from your binding project. Papa's always loved the color blue. But I like the idea of presenting him with this even better." One of her fingers cautiously touched the edge of the canvas, as if she feared marring the artwork. "It's technically handmade. Just not by me. And since you are giving it to me, no rules would be violated regarding the financial restrictions. He'll be so surprised!"

Her delight was palpable, and it fueled his own. So unlike his experience with birthdays in his past, days filled with expensive gifts and tepid enjoyment. His favorite foods graced the table, yet he'd always been eager to quit the obligatory family dinner and head to the club with his friends. Back in New York, he would have scoffed at the idea of handmade gifts. But when Callista spoke of them, they suddenly seemed like the most valuable commodity on the planet. Because of the love and thoughtfulness woven into the very fabric of the offerings.

"How soon is your father's birthday?"

"Next week, actually. But we made plans to celebrate after I finish the job, so there's no rush."

Next week? Which meant her birthday was also next week. He needed to talk to Mrs. Potter. Make plans. Handmade gifts. And maybe something extra . . . something to help him finish her portrait.

Who knew that sitting still could be so taxing? Callista wrinkled her nose, wanting to scratch the itchy spot on the left side but not wanting to disturb whatever vision Everett had prepared. He'd worked so hard to position her head just so, trying to match the face on the canvas. When he'd shown her his studio two days ago, something had shifted between the two of them. Up here, they were no longer employer and employee. They were friends. Perhaps more than friends.

Heat rose to her cheeks as she recalled the feel of his gentle fingers positioning her chin at the desired angle and encouraging her to relax her shoulders. All traces of the beast she'd met the first day of her arrival had vanished. Yes, his scars were still there, but his demeanor had completely changed. He spoke in cultured tones, his voice never raised. He sought her gaze instead of avoiding it, and when he touched her, there was such tenderness in the contact that she felt as if she were a priceless treasure being treated with utmost care.

A soft masculine chuckle broke into her thoughts. "You can scratch if you need to. I won't lose my place."

She immediately took him up on the offer, groaning softly in satisfaction as her fingernail rubbed away the irritation.

"Shoulders," he said, amusement lacing his tone.

"Sorry." She'd sagged a little at the relief of being able to scratch and now hurried to reset her posture.

Never would she have guessed that she would have cause to sit for a portrait. Such activities were reserved for the wealthy, not ordinary girls in worn-out clothes who bound books for a living. Yet Everett had cajoled her into agreeing, insisting that it would help him finish the portrait in a timelier fashion if he could use her as a model for an hour a day. So here she was, sitting in the light of an attic window while a man painted her likeness. The situation should make her feel terribly self-conscious, and it did at some level, knowing his artist's eye surely spotted all her imperfections. Yet he found ways to put her at ease while giving her a chance to observe him as he worked. A privilege few enjoyed, and one she'd not squander.

Trust had sprouted between them and was growing at a remarkable rate. Spending her midday breaks with him allowed them not only to work on the portrait but to talk. They discussed favorite books and artistic interests, but they also spoke of families. Yesterday, she'd told him about her mother and how she still felt her loss, and he'd spoken of his. Of how her reaction to his injury had cut him deeply even as he acknowledged that he still missed her—missed the closeness they'd once shared. Artist to artist, and mother to son. Callista had urged him to write to her, to take the first step toward mending the rift. To forgive her for being weak and forgive himself for being harsh. He'd promised to think about it, and she'd promised to pray—for him and for his mother.

As she watched him paint, his forehead lined in concentration, his gaze moving from her to the canvas, her heart stirred at the visual evidence of his trust. His eye patch hung off the edge of the easel. He'd tried to keep it on yesterday but had quickly grown frustrated by his lack of depth perception and had asked her permission to remove it. He'd apologized, going on about how unsightly it was and how he would understand if she found it too off-putting. Of course, she'd already seen him without it once, and while it made her ache for the pain he'd suffered, it was simply part of him and caused her no distress to see it. He'd still tried to hide his injured eye from her at first, keeping the right side of his face strategically behind the canvas or pulling his long, tawny hair forward like camouflage. Yet today, he moved with greater ease, almost as if forgetting about his eye entirely. Such trust was a gift, and she vowed he would never regret extending it to her.

"You can relax now." Everett stood back from the canvas and tilted his head as he examined his work with a critical eye. "I think I've finally got your hair right."

Callista rose from her chair, rolled her shoulders and stretched the stiffness out of her neck that had accumulated while she'd dutifully imitated a statue. "May I see your progress?"

He shrugged. "If you like. Just remember, much of the shading and detail work will come with the final layers."

As she came around to his side of the canvas, he shifted to the right to make room for her. He reached for his eye patch, but didn't immediately put it on, a fact that made her heart pump a little faster as she inwardly cheered. Then she turned toward the painting, and her heart slowed in shock.

Yesterday he'd spent most of his time revising his original depiction, correcting the lines and curves where he said his memory had failed to get the details precisely correct. When she'd looked at it afterward, she hadn't noticed anything dramatically different, even when Everett had pointed out all the places he'd made edits. It had looked like her before, and it looked like her after, just with more of her shoulders added.

Now, however, more color brought the image to life. Her skin carried a golden glow, and her lips blushed with a gentle pink hue. He'd even added the freckles that swathed her cheekbones and nose. Her hair might have given him the biggest challenge, but what she found most impressive was what he had accomplished with her eyes. Somehow, laughter sparkled in them. Warm, cheerful laughter. Perhaps it had to do with the placement of her brows or the tilt of her mouth. She didn't have the skill to recognize the technique he'd employed. All she knew was that when she gazed upon his work, one truth crystalized in her mind. He saw her.

"Everett . . . this is remarkable." She pivoted to face him, the awkwardness of using his first name overcome by her awe of his accomplishment. "It's me. Not just my face, but me."

"You are the remarkable one. I'm just painting what I see." The softness of his voice rolled over her nerve endings, leaving them tingling and sensitive.

Her breath hovered in her lungs, neither coming in nor going out as his gaze held hers. An invisible thread stretched between them, slipping between her ribs to wind around her heart. Neither of them looked away for a long moment until a distant bark from outside punctured her awareness and caused her to blink and dip her chin.

She stepped back, her pulse galloping. "Maybe I should hold a book during the next sitting," she said, more to diffuse the tension laying heavily in the air than out of any great desire to add a book to her portrait.

"Yes . . . right . . . good idea." Everett shuffled sideways and started tinkering with his palette and brush. "One with one of your covers. Show off a bit of your work. I thought of adding the library shelves as a backdrop as well."