Picture Of Perfection. Kristin Gabriel

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      A smile lifted the corners of her generous pink mouth. “You must be Dr. Phillips.”

      He gave a stiff nod, trying to gather his scattered thoughts. He’d pictured her as some middle-aged hippie woman with immense talent and an eccentric sense of style.

      Gillian looked more like a sexy model for the designer jeans she wore. The low-slung blue denim molded the delicious curve of her hips and hugged a pair of long luscious legs that seemed to go on forever. The tail ends of her white cotton blouse were tied just below her perfect breasts and revealed a golden tan on the generous expanse of bare skin that made it all too east to picture her naked.

      “Dr. Phillips?” she said, her brow furrowed.

      He met her gaze, suddenly aware of the heat of the California sun on the back of his neck. “Please call me Carter.”

      “It’s very nice to meet you, Carter.” She reached out to shake his hand.

      “So you’re the artist,” he said, stating the obvious. He noticed a smudge of yellow paint on her hand as she joined him on the front porch.

      “That’s right.” Gillian hitched her thumbs in the front pockets of her jeans, the movement revealing a tantalizing glimpse of her cleavage. “Are you ready?”

      “Ready?” he echoed, sounding like an idiot. It might help if he could string more than one or two words together at a time. “Ready for what?”

      Amusement danced in her green eyes. “Ready to see Picture of Perfection. That’s why you came here today, isn’t it?”

      “The horse is here?” he asked in surprise, looking around the place. He was no snob, having grown up in a working-class neighborhood in Chicago, but horse racing was an expensive business. Robards Farm looked too run-down to support such an endeavor. There was paint peeling off the house and outbuildings, as well as several pieces of farm machinery that looked as if they were in disrepair.

      There were homey touches, as well, like the old tire swing hanging from the oak tree in the center of the yard and the gingham curtains in the window.

      “Where else would he be? Gillian asked. “He’s in the south pasture.”

      Carter nodded, aware that he was still adjusting to his surprise that the artist was a beautiful young woman instead of an eccentric. He needed to refocus and concentrate on his purpose for coming here.

      “I can’t wait to see how close your portrait of Picture of Perfection comes to the real thing,” Carter told her.

      “Then let’s go,” Gillian said, stepping off the porch to lead the way.

      Carter enjoyed the sexy view from behind for a moment before lengthening his stride to catch up with her. Gillian moved briskly, the sun shining on her hair and turning some of the stray curls bouncing over her shoulders to a deep, burnished copper.

      She glanced over at him and smiled, the gleam in her beautiful green eyes giving him the same sensation he used to feel when doing belly flops into the beach on Lake Michigan as a kid.

      Femme fatale.

      Those were the perfect words to describe Gillian Cameron. Carter had never really known a woman who fit that description the way she did. He hesitated to use the phrase now, although the effect she was having on him left no doubt that he found her desirable.

      “We’re almost there,” Gillian promised.

      She stopped to unlatch a white gate that hung crookedly on its hinges. Then she lifted the gate up on one end so it swung open wide enough for them both to pass through it.

      Carter waited while she closed the gate and latched it again. He wanted to ask her why Mr. Robards hadn’t used some of his prize money from the races Picture of Perfection had won to do some upkeep on the farm. As a veterinarian, he knew faulty gates and fences could lead to animals escaping and getting hit by a car or falling prey to a predator.

      “Looks like you could use a handyman to fix that gate,” he said.

      She sighed. “I’ll get to it one of these days. It just seems like there’s never enough time to get everything done around here.”

      An artist and a farmhand. He wondered what other talents she possessed.

      They climbed a small knoll, the meadow grass reaching almost to his knees. Then he saw a white gazebo in the distance.

      “That’s my refuge,” Gillian announced.

      He followed her there, impressed at the way she’d transformed it into a makeshift artist’s studio. There was an easel with a partially completed painting on it, as well as a small table full of bristle brushes and paint.

      “It’s very nice,” he said, noting how the breeze fanned her hair around her face.

      Gillian smiled. “It might be a bit unorthodox, but I do my best work out here. I have the most inspiring view in the world.”

      He turned to look beyond the gazebo and his breath caught in his throat. Lush green valleys dotted with horses lay between her gazebo and the Pacific Ocean. He recognized the horizon as the same one in the painting he’d just bought. Somehow, she’d been able to embrace the beauty of nature around her and make it come alive on the canvas.

      “Come and have a look at my work in progress.” Gillian led him farther into the gazebo. “I could use a second opinion.”

      Carter followed her inside, his eyes going immediately to the easel. “You’re doing another painting of Picture of Perfection?”

      She sighed. “I can’t seem to stop painting him. His name is my curse, because no matter how hard I try I can’t seem to achieve perfection.”

      Carter disagreed. Everything about her was perfect. Her painting, her eyes, her bewitching smile. He moved closer to the easel. “It looks perfect to me. What’s wrong with it?”

      “I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head. “It just feels like something is missing. No matter how many times I paint this horse, I’m just not able to move on. I guess I’m looking for something I can’t explain.”

      Carter turned to her. There was a vulnerability about Gillian that touched him, yet she definitely wasn’t the damsel-in-distress type. The dichotomy only deepened his curiosity about her.

      “How long have you been painting?” he asked.

      “About twelve years. I started shortly after I moved here. Herman Robards is my godfather and has never discouraged me from trying new things.” She smiled. “Even really stupid things.”

      “We’ve all done really stupid things.”

      She arched a winged brow. “Including you?”

      “Sure,” he replied. “Some are easy to forget, but others stick with you for much too long. Sometimes forever.”

      She moved closer to him. “Tell me one stupid thing you’ve done.”

      He blinked, surprised СКАЧАТЬ