Mcgillivray's Mistress. Anne McAllister
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put it into words before, hadn’t dared. It seemed presumptuous even now. She wasn’t a sculptor. Not really. She’d never had classes, never studied with anyone. What she did with her shells and sand and steel was craft, not art. But she was fascinated with it. “It’s…teaching me things.”
“Trash is teaching you things?” he said mockingly. “What? Recycling?”
“Composition. Balance. Development. Flexibility. Imagination.” She tried to think of all the abstract artistic terms she could use to explain the things that her nighttime creation had been teaching her.
“Yeah, right.”
It didn’t take any imagination at all to know that Lachlan didn’t believe a word of it.
“It’s what I do,” she said desperately. “I make those little sculptures to sell to the tourists. I cut out metal. I cast sand. I glue rocks. But that’s not all I want to do. I want to be a sculptor,” she whispered. “A real one.”
It wasn’t something she had ever admitted before. Hadn’t dared to. And she felt like an imposter when she said it now. It had been her dream, of course, long ago—when she’d still had dreams. Once upon a time she’d even thought she might go away to study.
But that had been years ago. Before her father’s stroke. Since then she’d been on the island. She’d worked with what the island gave her, learned what it had to teach her. And didn’t ask for more.
“You could go back to it,” her brother Mike had told her after their dad had passed away.
“You ought to,” her brother Paul had encouraged. “Apply for a course somewhere.”
But Fiona had shaken her head. “I’m too old. I have a life right here.”
“You need to do something,” both her brothers had told her. “Dad would want you to. He wouldn’t want to think you’d given up everything for him.”
“I didn’t!” she protested. “I wanted to take care of him.”
“And you did,” Mike said soothingly. “And God knows we all appreciate it. But now you can move on.”
It had been three months since her dad’s death and she hadn’t moved on at all. She’d been grieving, she told herself. She needed time. And a challenge.
The sculpture on the beach had been that challenge. It had brought her to life again. And if it had annoyed Lachlan, well, that had been an added benefit.
“You want to be a sculptor?” Lachlan said doubtfully now.
“Yes.”
His hard blue gaze narrowed on her. “And that’s what your monstrosity is? A learning experience?”
She nodded. “I call him The King of the Beach.”
Lachlan’s mouth twisted. “Well, you’ve been doing him for weeks now. Isn’t the challenge gone?”
“There’s always new material.”
“So use it somewhere else.”
Fiona shook her head. “It’s a challenge to use it there, to make it part of the whole.”
“Find a new challenge.”
“Like what?”
“How the hell should I know? You’re the one who wants to sculpt!”
“Yes, but I need subjects. I need material. I need to do things I haven’t done before. To broaden my horizons!”
God knew it was the truth. She’d never been anywhere or done anything compared to most people. She’d spent her whole life, except for a handful of trips to Nassau and Miami, right here on Pelican Cay. “If I’m going to grow as an artist, I need to tackle new projects, explore different media.”
Lachlan’s fingers flexed and relaxed. He bounced a little on the balls of his feet. He looked the way he always had in goal when a striker was heading his way.
“So,” he said, “if you had something else you wanted to sculpt, something that would challenge you, you’d do that?”
“I—”
“And you’d get rid of that monstrosity on my beach?”
“It’s not—”
“Call it what you want. I want it gone. But if you really mean what you said…if you really want to sculpt and not just play games…if you really want a challenge, I have a deal for you.”
Fiona eyed him suspiciously. “What deal?”
“You want to be a sculptor, fine. You want new challenges, great. Go for it. Whatever you want to sculpt, I’ll provide it. We can add a little ‘culture’ to the island. And in return, you take down the monstros—The King of the Beach.” He looked at her expectantly.
Fiona hesitated. Possibilities reeled through her mind. Hopes. Dreams. Fears.
Lachlan grinned at her, challenging her, like the goalkeeper he was. “Or maybe it’s all bull, Fiona. Maybe you’re just a prankster, and not really a sculptor at all.”
Her spine stiffened. She met his gaze defiantly. “Anything?” she asked. “I can sculpt anything I want?”
He shrugged, still grinning that satisfied grin. “Anything.”
“Then I want to sculpt you. Nude.”
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