Lessons in Rule-Breaking. Christy McKellen
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show-and-tell. Everyone seemed to want a piece of him at the moment and he barely had enough of himself left to keep his strung-out existence going.
His latest model—who was giving it everything she’d got to contort herself into the strange pose he’d asked her to take up—gave him a slow, seductive smile as he sat down and attempted to focus back on her.
Ah, hell. He knew he’d been playing with fire when he asked her to pose for a picture. She’d been one of a bunch of professional models he’d got talking to at a party and he’d thought she might be an interesting subject to paint. She was making it pretty clear she was interested in more than just modelling for him right now, though.
She was a beautiful woman—too young for his tastes—but she was going to be a big thing at some point, he could tell. He should be excited about working with her, but somehow he couldn’t summon the energy for it today.
A wave of tiredness crashed over him. He’d been searching for inspiration for this new exhibition for months, desperately trying to drop-kick his muse into action, but for some reason he kept missing his mark. He’d ended up destroying every picture he’d painted recently, disgusted by the banal rubbish he was coming up with. Just like the picture he’d been working on before he was interrupted.
The dark-haired journalist’s face slid back into his mind as he tore off the page in the sketchbook he’d been working on, crumpled it up and lobbed it at the bin.
She had enormous eyes, he reflected now, dark blue with bright, white flecks that had drawn him right in. She wasn’t conventionally attractive, but there’d been a kind of spirit about her that had made his blood pump faster. Thinking back, there had been something about her expression that disturbed him when he’d said no to the interview. It hadn’t been the usual sort of annoyance or disappointment he tended to invoke in journos when he refused to talk to them—she’d looked as if he’d just stomped hard on her life’s dream and left it broken and bleeding on the floor.
He had a sudden mad urge to sketch the image that had just pinged into his head. It was brighter and clearer and sharper than anything he’d envisaged in a very long time and his sluggish blood picked up speed as a long-forgotten feeling of elation coursed through him.
Rubbing his hand over his eyes, he felt the puffiness that had taken up residence there since the insomnia had set in. It had been months since he’d slept properly and no matter what he tried it wouldn’t break its hold on him.
It appeared to be making him crazy.
‘Everything okay, Xander?’ his model, Seraphina, asked, unfolding herself from the chair and sauntering over to where he sat with his now blank sketch pad on his knee. ‘Hmm, so are you using invisible ink here, or what?’ she asked.
He flashed her a look of irritation and her smile faltered.
Guilt pulled at him and he replaced the unreasonable expression with an apologetic smile to try and make up for offending her. ‘Look, Sera, I’m sorry but this isn’t working out.’
‘What? I’m not making your creative juices flow? Do you need a bit of inspiration?’ she asked, her voice laden with innuendo.
Before he could react she slipped her top over her head, stepped close and picked up his hand, pressing it to her bare breast.
He felt nothing.
Closing his eyes, he shook his head and carefully removed his hand.
He’d partied hard this year, needing an outlet for his frustration and anger after the cutting reviews of his last exhibition—where the reviewers had wondered in full public view where his talent had disappeared to—but it had all caught up with him recently.
He felt hollowed out by all the vacuous affairs with an ever-changing kaleidoscope of willing women, none of whom lasted for more than a couple of months. He’d been constantly on the lookout for something new and fresh and revitalising to draw him out of his depressed funk but he’d overindulged, leaving him feeling strung out and empty.
His work had suffered. Big time. In fact he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt a genuine urge to pick up a paintbrush, or pencils, or even a spray can and make his mark. He felt washed up, wrung out and desiccated.
Looking up at Seraphina, he was horrified to see tears had welled in her eyes. He held up a placating hand—none of this was her fault and he felt a sting of shame at hurting her. ‘Look, you’re a beautiful woman, but you’re not what I need right now.’
‘What do you need?’
‘I don’t know, Sera. I wish I did. I’ll know it when I see it.’
‘Fine,’ she interjected, her voice wobbly and high. ‘If I’m not good enough for you I’m not wasting my time hanging around here.’ Pulling her top back on, she gave him one last accusatory look before storming out, slamming the door behind her.
* * *
Jess was smoothing her hair down with a shaking hand and trying to pull herself together in the loos across from Xander’s studio when the door flew open and a tall, beautiful woman stormed in and slumped against the porcelain washbasin, swiping away a waterfall of tears that were making her meticulously applied make-up run.
‘Are you okay?’ Jess asked, grateful for a reprieve from worrying about her own problems for a moment. She wondered whether the woman was anything to do with Xander. She wouldn’t be at all surprised.
The woman glanced up into the mirror. ‘I’m fine,’ she said, giving a shaky smile before looking away again.
Jess went into the toilet to grab some tissue and placed it on the basin next to the woman before leaning back against the wall in companionable silence. The woman nodded in surprised thanks and picked up the tissue, dabbing under her eyes.
She was incredible-looking, all Bambi limbs and delicate bone structure. Her huge blue eyes seemed to glow with life—even through the tears—and her skin... What Jess wouldn’t give for flawless, soft skin like hers.
She pulled her long suit jacket around her, feeling like a massive frumpy lump in comparison.
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ Jess asked.
‘Yeah. Feeling humiliated and rejected, but I’ll survive.’
Jess snorted. ‘Join the club.’
The woman looked at her in confusion. ‘What happened to you?’
Jess sighed. ‘I was supposed to be interviewing Xander Heaton but he blew me off.’
The woman snorted. ‘Sounds like Xander. Does what he wants, when he feels like it and sod everyone else. He’s a law unto himself, that guy.’
Aha, so she was right.
‘What did he do to make you cry?’ Jess asked tentatively. If she couldn’t get an interview with the man himself, she could at least get some information from one of his disgruntled models to try and appease Pamela.
The model looked down at the sink. ‘I’ve been stupidly excited about working with him and I’ve been telling everyone I’m going to be in a famous painting, but apparently I’m totally uninspiring. He doesn’t think I’m attractive enough,’ she said quietly. ‘He was all sweetness one minute and cold as ice the next and I have no idea what I did wrong.’
A shot of anger fired through Jess’s veins. Just who did the guy think he was? ‘What’s your name?’ Jess asked gently.
‘Seraphina.’
‘Well, I think you’re a very beautiful woman and Xander’s an idiot to reject you,’ Jess said, giving the woman an encouraging smile. ‘From what I’ve heard about him you’ve had a lucky escape. He’s not exactly known for having meaningful relationships.’
The model snorted, but managed to raise a smile. ‘No, I guess not. And it’s not as if he made a move on me, but I hoped he might.’ She looked