Driven to Distraction (Silhouette Desire S.) by Sheri Whitefeather, Dixie Browning Read Free Book Online

he’d found under a microscope. Or under a rock.
    â€œLook, you’re a nice man and I’m a grungy curmudgeon. I’m sorry, but that’s just the way it is, okay?”
    Bemused was the only word she could think of to describe the way he looked at her. As if whatever it was he’d discovered under the microscope—or the rock—had suddenly launched into a full orchestra rendition of the “Star Spangled Banner.” She sometimes had that effect on men. They didn’t know what to make of her, and so mostly, they made nothing. Which suited her just fine, it really did. It always had.
    Until just recently…
    Without a word, Ben Hunter eased up from the spoke-backed kitchen chair, tipped her a nod and let himself out onto the side porch. A few moments later she could hear the creak of the swing.
    Darn it, why did she do that? She knew all about women who were their own worst enemy. So certain men wouldn’t like them that they went out of their way to prove they didn’t care. She’d written aboutthat kind of behavior. The thing was, she’d never before realized she followed the pattern.
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    As the first class began to take shape, each of the several long tables filled, some with three students, a few with four. Maggie, Suzy and the latecomer, Ann Ehringhaus, chose a smaller table near the back of the studio. Without intending to, Maggie looked around for Ben and found him setting up several tables away with two women and a guy who looked like G. Gordon Liddy—same bald head, same beetle brows, but a smaller mustache.
    There were no easels. There were also no chairs. Suzy muttered something about a half-ass operation. Ann sneezed. Maggie shifted restlessly and considered giving up on this whole crazy idea. What had started as a simple rescue mission and expanded to a story op—M. L. Riley, embedded somewhere in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains—was looking more like an expensive mistake.
    Hardly her first. She simply hadn’t thought things through, and now she was about to be exposed as the fraud she really was. She could no more paint a picture than she could hop on a broomstick and fly. What on earth had made her believe she could pull it off?
    From somewhere off-stage, music started up, screeched to a halt and then started again. To the strains of something vaguely Celtic, vaguely New Age, Perry made his grand entrance, scattering smiles all around. He was wearing his trademark beret, even though the temperature was already in the mid-seventies and the old house evidently didn’t run to air conditioning. He took his place at a table in front thathad been set up with a child’s plastic beach pail filled with water, a big, smeary palate, an enormous sheet of paper on a drawing board and an alabaster vase filled with at least a dozen brushes of all sizes and shapes.
    â€œSo that’s what all the plastic pails are for,” Maggie murmured indicating the yellow one beside her stack of stuff.
    â€œYou’ll have to fill and empty your own. Perry’s the only one who gets serviced,” Ann whispered.
    â€œNow,” the tall, willowy artist said, his mellifluous voice blending with the music, “I’ll start off with a demonstration and then you’ll all have half an hour to do your version of what I’ve painted. We want quick and sloppy today. This is just a loosening-up exercise. By the way, how many of you can still touch your toes?”
    Maggie looked at Suzy, who shrugged. For the first time since she’d arrived the night before, Ann smiled. “Wait, you’ll see,” she whispered.
    Across the room, Ben wondered what the hell the guy meant by that question. And what was with all the flutes and harps? To cover up the groans from people who hadn’t touched their toes in decades? Hell yes, he could touch his toes. He might be on the shady side of thirty, but he could still take down a cream puff