The Rebel. Adrienne Giordano
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Forget the nose. It’s one nose. It shouldn’t be a career-ending mistake.”
Intellectually, she knew it. Emotionally, that faulty nose might do her in.
The studio phone rang, filling the quiet space with its annoying blinging sound. Typically, she’d ignore the phone until her exhausted and sore fingers gave out for the day. But now, with the rotten lips, it was probably a good time to take a break. Grab a quick lunch and refocus. She scooted to her desk in the corner and snatched up the handset.
“Good morning. This is Amanda.”
“Good morning, Amanda. My name is David Hennings. You met my mother at an event last night.”
And, hello, sexy voice of my dreams. Wow. The low-pitched resonance of that voice poured over her. With her dating history, he was probably five inches shorter than her and a total mama’s boy. “Hello, Mr. Hennings. I did meet your mother last night. She’s a lovely dinner companion.”
For whatever reason, he laughed at that, the sound just as yummy as his voice.
“That she is,” he said. “She told me she mentioned I was moving into a new place.”
Seriously, he didn’t sound short. Or like a mama’s boy. If that even made sense because how could anyone know what someone looked like by the way he spoke? She had a vision, though. A good one, an exceptional one, of a tall man, fair haired and blue-eyed like his mother. And he’d wear suits every day. Slick, Italian suits that alerted the world to his blue-blood status. Yes indeed, she had a vision.
“She mentioned you’d be working with Lexi, who is a friend, by the way. Would you like to set up an appointment and we can discuss what you might need?”
“Definitely. I just spoke with Lexi. I could swing by. If you’re available.”
“Now?”
“If that works. Otherwise, we could look at tomorrow.”
Apparently Mrs. Hennings was in a hurry. Amanda swung back to her sculpture and the stubborn lips. A break might help. Discussing new projects always seemed to cleanse the palate, help her look at existing work with fresh perspective and excitement. But she wasn’t exactly dressed to meet a new client. Knowing she had a full day of sculpting ahead, she’d yanked her hair into a ponytail and slipped on her baggiest of baggy jeans and a “Make Love, Not War” T-shirt a friend had given her as a joke. The hair she could deal with by removing her hair band. The clothes? Not so much.
“Mr. Hennings, that would be fine. But I have to warn you, I’m working on a sculpture today and when I sculpt I dress comfortably. I didn’t expect to have a meeting.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m in jeans. My mother is on a mission, Amanda, and if you know my mother at all, you know that if I tell her I didn’t meet with you because of what you were wearing, she’ll skin me.”
“So you’re saying you’re afraid of your mother.”
“I’m not afraid of my mother. I’m terrified of her.”
For the first time all day, considering the lips, Amanda laughed. A good, warm one that made her toes curl. Any argument she’d had to avoid meeting with him today vanished when he’d dropped that line about his mother. Simply put, she loved a grown man who understood his mother’s power. How that grown man handled that power was a different story. Heaven knew she’d dated some weaklings, men who not only were afraid of their mothers, but also let them dictate how their lives should go. That, on a personal level, Amanda couldn’t deal with. On a professional level, she didn’t necessarily care as long as her fee got paid.
Besides, she liked David Hennings. She liked the sound of his voice even more. Call it curiosity, a mild interest in meeting a man with a voice like velvet against skin, but she wanted to check him out.
“Okay, Mr. Hennings. You can come by now.”
“Great. I’ll see you soon. And it’s David.”
* * *
INSIDE THE STAIRWELL of the hundred-year-old building on the city’s West Side, David climbed the last few steps leading to the landing of Amanda’s second-floor studio. He loved these old structures with the Portland stone and brick. The iconic columns on the facade urged the history major in him to research the place. Check the city records, see what information he could find on who’d built it, who’d lived here or which companies had run their wares through its doors.
Structures like this had a charm all their own that couldn’t be duplicated with modern wizardry. Old buildings, this building, had a life, a past to be researched and appreciated.
Or maybe he just wanted to believe that.
He rapped on the door. No hollow wood there. By the scarred look and feel of its heavy weight under his knuckles, it might be the original door. How amazing would that be?
The door swung open and a woman with lush curves a guy his size could wrap himself around greeted him. She wore jeans and a graphic T-shirt announcing he should make love, not war—gladly, sweetheart—and her honey-blond hair fell around her shoulders, curling at the ends. The whole look brought thoughts of lazy Sunday mornings, hot coffee and a few extracurricular activities, in a bed and out, David could think of.
To say the least, she affected him.
And she hadn’t even opened her mouth. Please don’t be an airhead.
“David?”
Yep. That was the voice from earlier. Soft and sweet and stirring up all kinds of images right along with Sunday mornings and coffee. With any luck, more than the coffee would be hot.
Hokay. Mission Pam Hennings getting derailed by wicked thoughts. Time to get serious.
“Hi. Amanda?”
“Yes.” She held her hand out. “Amanda LeBlanc.”
David grasped her hand and glanced down at her long, elegant fingers folding over his. Her silky skin absorbed his much larger hand, and he might like to stay this way awhile. Nice hands. Soft hands. He’d imagined a sculptor’s hands to be work-hardened and rough. Not that she swung an ax all day, but he’d expected...different.
“Um.” She pointed at their still joined hands. “I kinda need that hand back.”
Epic fail, Dave. He grinned and regrettably slid his hand away. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but where have you been all my life?”
As recoveries went, it wouldn’t be listed among the top hundred in brilliance, but a man had to work with what he had. Still, her lips, those extraordinary, shapely lips, twisted until she finally gave up and awarded him with a smile.
“Good one,” she said. “Come inside and we’ll talk about your project.”
Right to business. Couldn’t blame her. She didn’t know him and he’d not only barged in on her day, but also hit on her. He stepped into the loft and let out a low whistle. A few walls had obviously been knocked out because her studio took up half of the entire floor. He scanned the room, his eyes darting over the open ceiling, the gleaming white walls, the easels and canvases in one corner. A large table covered with tools and brushes separated one area from a second space, where a bust was mounted on an adjustable stand.
She closed the door behind him. “I’d ask you to excuse the mess, but since it always looks like this, I won’t bother.”
“It’s a studio. I’m not sure it’s supposed to be neat.”
“We can talk over here.” She motioned him to a round table for four by the windows.
“This is a great space. Fantastic light. Do you know anything about the building?”
Her eyebrows dipped. “As in who owns it?”
“No. Sorry. I’m a history buff. Majored in it in college. The columns out front make me