A Beautiful Heist by Kim Foster Read Free Book Online Page B

now. Not a priority. So what was I supposed to do, just squander this opportunity?
    The art instructor strolled over to me. He was short, almost hobbit-like, with a shaggy sweep of brown hair and round, wire glasses. He smelled strongly of cigarette smoke. “So you’ve studied figure drawing before?” he said, eyeing my pencils and other gear.
    “Oh yes. Absolutely,” I said confidently. He nodded and wandered away to speak with the other artistes in the room.
    The truth was, not only had I never studied figure drawing, I didn’t have the first idea what figure drawing actually was. But I’d faked more difficult things, I was sure.
    In the class, I’d recognized Nicole Johnson right away from the photograph I’d found online. Heart-shaped face, sharp eyes, blond bob. It had taken a bit of musical chairs, but I’d managed to finagle a spot right next to her. I copied the way she attached paper to her easel and scanned my brain for a suitable opening line.
    Before I had a chance to speak, an overweight man wearing a ratty brown robe strode to the center of the room and up onto the podium. It clicked then. Of course: figure drawing. We draw people. Okay, no problemo. And then, Mr. Plump dropped his robe. Now he was Mr. Nude.
    I didn’t know where to look. Are you kidding me? He struck a catlike pose, without a hint of irony. There was just way too much flesh and bits and pieces and hair, and it was altogether an entirely alarming sight. The room was hushed. People were quietly contemplating his form, taking out their charcoal sticks and starting to sketch.
    For me, contemplating and sketching the sight before me was the absolute last thing I wanted to do. My deepest wish right then was to squeeze my eyes tight and scrub away the image I feared was permanently seared onto my brain. Memo to self: Wikipedia, Cat. A little background research on what, exactly, is involved in figure drawing might have been useful preparation.
    Somehow, I forced myself to raise my eyes again and hold my piece of charcoal as steadily as I could. Oh God. How do people do this? More importantly: why? I started moving my charcoal over the page, concentrating on his left foot.
    “Okay, people,” the instructor called out with an artistic wave of his hand. “Remember: move your hand quickly. Fly over the page. Don’t just draw. I want you to capture the essence of the model’s gesture. Not just the physical body, but the mood.”
    I had my own approach: attempt to forget what I was looking at and instead pretend I was drawing a bowl of fruit. Okay, so it was a large, fleshy, hairy bowl of fruit, but still . . .
    After a few minutes, Mr. Nude changed poses and settled into a reclining position on a chaise lounge. Everyone flipped to a blank page. I took the opportunity to turn to Nicole and glance at her first sketch.
    “Hey, that’s really good,” I said.
    Nicole flicked a brief glance in my direction. “Thank you.” Her voice was tight; she kept her torso turned away from me.
    “That highlighted bit—how did you get that effect?” I asked, pointing to a body part I’d rather not name.
    “Chalk.”
    Hmm. This was going to be tricky. Somehow, I needed to get her to relax and open up. While I brainstormed on this, I kept drawing. The instructor advised us to stay loose and draw quickly, which I tried, until— “Whoops !” I cringed. “Oh, that’s not good,” I muttered to myself. “Pretty much every guy’s nightmare . . .” No man likes to see that particular piece of his anatomy portrayed at one-third its real size.
    Nicole glanced at my drawing and a smile twitched on her lips. We made eye contact and both grinned, suppressing laughter.
    But then, under her gaze I had a moment of panic. What if she’d seen a file on me? What if she recognized my face? It was a little late for these thoughts, of course. I was all in now.
    I pointed to her sketch with my piece of charcoal. “Yours is good,” I said. “You’re an