The Ashtons: Cole, Abigail and Megan. Maureen Child
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it outside then? And what about—
“Sorry I’m late,” Eli’s deep voice said from behind her.
“That’s okay,” she said, picking up her sketch pad and rising. “I don’t think I’ll draw you here, after all.”
Uncertainty, she’d noticed, looked a lot like a scowl when it settled on Eli’s face. “You aren’t going to paint me with the barrels?”
“No, I’m definitely putting you against the barrels. But I’ve got photos for that. Today I need to draw you. Outside, I think. I need a peek at your bones. Strong light and shadows will help me get that.” She gave him a smile as she passed, heading for the stairs.
After a moment she heard him following her up.
“You want to draw me outside, but you’re not painting me outside.”
“I use the photos for technical accuracy. Drawing helps me learn you. I don’t know a subject until I’ve sketched him or her.”
Eli looked pained. “I don’t see why you need to use my face at all, but you don’t have to, uh, know me to paint it.”
She glanced over her shoulder as she reached the top of the stairs, mischief in her voice. “Oh, but I want more than your face for the painting. I want a bit of your soul.”
He muttered something it was probably just as well she didn’t catch. She was grinning as they stepped out the side door. “This will do.” The light was good, strong and slanting. She got a charcoal pencil from her fanny pack and opened her sketch pad.
Eli squinted at the sunshine, looking profoundly uncomfortable. Better get him talking so he’d forget what she was up to. “Tell me about oaking,” she said, her charcoal flying over the page. “I gather it’s somewhat controversial?”
“More a matter of taste. Most people like some degree of oak. Heavy oaking can mask the subtleties of a really good red, but that’s poor winemaking.”
“What about whites? You’re aging your new chardonnay in oak barrels.” Needs to be heavier around the jaw, she decided, and darkened that line. “Is that standard?”
He shrugged. “Some use steel vats. We won’t.”
She had the definite impression he didn’t think much of the winemakers who used steel. “Was that your decision or your mother’s? With the new wine being named for her, I’d guess she had some input.”
“Mostly mine. Mom likes the vanilla notes from oaking, though, so it was fine with her.”
She flipped to a new page, shifted to get a different angle, and started another sketch. “And whose idea was the new chardonnay?”
“Cole’s.” He looked directly at her. “I thought you knew that.”
“Okay, so I’m fishing.” She frowned at the sketch. Something was off. The zygomatic arches? No, something about the way they related to his forehead. Dixie studied his brow line intently. “You missed your cue. You’re supposed to discreetly fill me in on him without my having to ask.”
He chuckled. It was an unexpected sound, coming from a man who tended toward angry or dour. “It’s damned disconcerting to have you stare at me that way when you’re talking about my brother. What did you want to know?”
She looked at him reproachfully and repeated, “Without my having to ask.”
“Well, he’s not seeing anyone right now, and he thinks you’re hot.”
“Mmm.” Damn. It was his left eye—she’d set it too close to the bridge of the nose. Try again. She flipped to a new page. “I’m trying to come up with a modest way of saying, ‘I know.’”
Again the low chuckle. “I think so, too. When I asked him if he’d staked a claim already—”
“You didn’t.”
“Of course I did. You two were involved before. I needed to know if he was interested. Funny thing is, he didn’t seem to know, himself. I guess he’s made up his mind now.”
“I guess so.” He seemed pretty sure that he wanted to get her into bed, anyway. “He claims he’s mellowed.”
“Mellow? Cole?” There was a note of humor in his voice, but it was fleeting. “Not the word I’d choose. He’s got more control than I do, but there’s a lot of intensity beneath that control.”
“Good way to put it. He’s still pretty wrapped up in the business, I guess.” Her hand and eyes were working automatically now, which was just as well. Her mind wasn’t on the sketch.
“He doesn’t put in the sixty and eighty hour weeks he used to. That’s why you left him, isn’t it?”
Surprised, she looked at him—at Eli, that is, not at Eli’s bones. Their eyes met. “That was a big part of it.”
“Louret is always going to be important to him, and he’s always going to like winning. You won’t get a lap cat with Cole.”
Annoyed, she sketched two tiny horns at the top of Eli’s head. “I don’t want a lap cat. I don’t want to come last, either. There’s bound to be something in between.”
“It messed him up when you left.”
“From my perspective, he was already messed up. So was I,” she said, closing the sketch pad. “That was the problem.”
Eli nodded. “That’s valid. But this time…just be careful with him, okay? Don’t promise more than you mean to follow through on.”
“Are you asking my intentions?”
“I guess I am.”
She smiled suddenly, took two quick steps and went up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “That’s sweet. I don’t have any idea what my intentions are yet, and when I do I’ll let Cole know, not you. But it’s sweet that you wanted to ask.”
His ears turned red. “If you’re finished with me, I’ve got stuff to do.”
“I’m sure you do,” she said, enjoying his embarrassment more than she should have. “I hope I’ll be able to bring out your inner softie in the painting.”
Now he was positively alarmed. “My what?”
She laughed and patted his arm. “Don’t worry. Your portrait will be very manly.”
Once Eli made his escape, though, her amusement evaporated. She was frowning as she headed for the carriage house so she could work on the composition for Eli’s portrait.
It was only natural for Cole’s brother to worry about him, she supposed. Only natural that he’d see her as the one at fault for having left Cole eleven years ago. But it left her feeling flat and a little lonely. There was no one worrying about her that way, no one warning her of potential heartbreak if she got involved with a man who’d hurt her before.
Not that she’d listen, she supposed wryly as she opened the door to her temporary home. But it might be nice to have someone worry, just this once.
“You used charcoal when you sketched Eli,” Caroline observed.
“Mmm-hmm.” Dixie’s gaze flew back and forth between the woman in front of her and her sketch pad. Her pencil moved swiftly. They were in what Dixie thought of as the covered porch, though the family called it the lanai. It was open on the north side, which made the light good.
“I wondered why you’re doing my sketch in pencil.”
“I don’t know.” There was something about the flesh over the right cheek that wasn’t right…Dixie smudged the shadow beneath the cheek with her finger to soften it, looked at Caroline again, then used the side of her pencil to pull the shadow back toward the ear.
Better. “I’ll use