Sweet Talking Man

Shove a lump of coal up Abigail’s ass and he’d have a diamond in a week.

But, damn, it was a nice ass. He’d noticed as she marched up and down the halls of St. George’s, outlined as it was in slim trousers that hung perfectly, the hem brushing sensible loafers...that he guessed she bought at Talbots. Abigail also had a nice rack and a slim waist. But most striking of all was the shiny black hair that fell just past her shoulders and held a single silver stripe that framed the right side of her face. The whole look was somehow sexy. The artist in him loved the contrast, the eruption of something so unexpected. It made him want to dig deeper, to know her better, to unwrap the fleeting vulnerability that shaded her eyes.

He could see the sensuality in the curve of her bottom lip, the grace in the way she moved her elegant hands and the passion trapped beneath those ugly-ass sweaters.

Leif had seen a lot of woman who needed a good screwing, but he’d never seen a woman who needed it more than Abigail.

If she weren’t such a cactus with a lonely daughter, he would take up the challenge of giving her relief, but after the bad decisions he’d made with the last few women in his life, he would take a rain check.

He’d come to Magnolia Bend for one reason, and one reason only—to clear up the past while finding out who his father was. After that, he would likely be off again. His papa wasn’t a rolling stone, but Leif was. When things got tough, he got out.

Birdie jogged down his steps and just before she reached her mother, turned. “I’m going to ask Fancy to give me the art lessons as a Christmas gift.”

“Fancy?”

“My grandmother. She hangs my art all over her house.”

“Great. Thanks for apologizing, Birdie. Takes a big person to do that.”

Abigail gave him a smile then. Not a big one, but one that expressed appreciation for his being gracious.

If only the woman knew.

But not yet. He’d speak to Abigail later because presently he had to get his midterm test typed up and follow up with the Magnolia Bend Chamber of Commerce president about the upcoming Laurel Woods Art Festival. The chairman of the festival, Hilda Brunet, had contacted him weeks ago and asked him to serve on the committee. Being an artist of slight renown had its pros and cons. This wasn’t necessarily a pro because he wasn’t the committee type. Yet having some of his work featured in a few galleries across the Southwest and being named an up-and-comer in Objet d’Art magazine apparently made him desirable as head of judging. The Golden Magnolia art prize once meant a great deal in the Southern artistic community. The town was hoping to resurrect the festival and the prestige of the award. Hilda had beamed at him when she asked him to be part of the team to put the Laurel Woods Art Festival back on the map. What could he say?

Telling Hilda no didn’t seem to be an option.

Yeah, he guessed he had a problem with telling women no.

But surely saying yes to being on the committee wouldn’t land him a face full of buttercream frosting.

“Good night, Mr. Lively.” Abigail waved, placing a hand on Birdie’s shoulder, which the girl immediately brushed away.

“Night,” he called, turning to the house he’d leased four months ago. The clean lines and blank canvas of the cottage had appealed to him, and the lap pool in the backyard and nice stretch of zoysia grass for practicing tai chi had sold him. He closed the door and entered the living area he’d furnished with an overstuffed sofa and huge beanbag chairs. The soft carpet beneath his feet had come from his mother’s last residence. The walls were covered with huge canvases, some done by his mother and others by friends. The incense he’d lit after Marcie’s fit in order to clear the bad karma had burned away, leaving a pungent, earthy scent.

He scooped up a crumb that he’d missed during cake cleanup.

Not exactly the way he’d planned to spend Sunday evening, but then again, what in life came when expected?

Certainly not a marauding drunken bride.

Or an attractive neighbor with a disapproving stare.

Or a twelve-year-old voyeur.

Long ago Leif had learned to roll with the punches, a requirement for the son of a renowned artist, for a kid with no father, for a man with no ties.

Yes, he embraced the unexpected as the poetry of life.

CHAPTER FOUR

Six weeks later

ABIGAIL STOOD OUTSIDE the college classroom next to Birdie and read the sign next to the door. Introduction to Drawing. Leif Lively.

What in the hell had she been thinking?

She couldn’t draw a straight line. Or a circle. She’d never even mastered one of those stars everyone could draw, though she had managed to render the brick wall with Ziggy peeking over it. That image had graced every notebook cover in middle school.

Birdie turned to her, excitement pirouetting in her eyes. “This is going to be perfect.”

That, right there, was why.

Birdie looking at her the same way she’d looked at her when she learned to ride her bike—that was the main reason she’d agreed to the mother-daughter art class.

That, and the fact that the classes were a Christmas present from her mother, Fancy. Her mother had given her a talking-to as they took down the Beauchamp family Christmas tree several weeks ago.

“Why the art lessons, Mom?” Abigail had asked.

“Because you need to do something to connect with Birdie. And that means doing something she wants to do, not what you want to do. Organizing her closet with pink bins and polka-dotted shelf paper is not fun for Birdie.”

“I can’t draw to save my life, Mom,” Abigail had complained while nestling antique glass ornaments in bubble wrap. She’d enjoyed organizing Birdie’s closet. She’d even downloaded current music for her iPad, docking it so they could rearrange to some new jams. Birdie had given her a look that could peel paint. So, yeah, she guessed it was safe to say her daughter hadn’t enjoyed the closet revamp dance party.

“Your life is not in danger. Just the relationship you have with your daughter. Remember the camping trip we took when you were about Birdie’s age?”

Abigail thought to when she was in Girl Scouts and her poor mother had tried to start a fire and chipped her recently manicured nails on the flint. “Okay. Point made.”

Fancy had given her the “good girl” smile she’d been using to manipulate Abigail all her life, and just like that—snap! Abigail and Birdie were signed up for Leif Lively’s introductory art class at the Southeastern Louisiana University Annex.

“Let’s get a seat up front,” Birdie said now, motioning for Abigail to hurry up.

“I’m more of a middle-of-the-classroom kind of girl.” Anyone who had graduated from St. George’s with Abigail would know that was the fib of the century. Abigail loved sitting up front and being teacher’s pet. But being that close to luscious Leif Lively filled her belly with crickets.

Abigail had no clue why.

The guy was strange.

He smelled like the vegetarian café her friend had taken her to in Baton Rouge. Like herbs and incense. And he paraded around in all states of undress. Once she’d seen him doing some kind of strange dance with swords in his front yard. He also played bongo drums on his front porch, just like Matthew McConaughey.

And he was sexy, just like Matthew McConaughey.

For the past month, Abigail had been having erotic dreams about Leif. In one they’d been twined in silken cords like circus acrobats, clinging to the peach-colored swaths of fabric as they arched and twisted...totally naked. She’d woken up covered in sweat and so turned on that she’d almost reached for the vibrator she kept locked in a box in her bedside table. But if she went there, she knew she’d never go back. All her fantasies from then on would be about the hot blond guy who lived less than a football field away from her.

Yet despite that restraint, she couldn’t stop thinking about Leif naked. Her mind was as rebellious as her daughter.

“I want to be up front,” Birdie said, petulance surfing her tone.

“Fine,” Abigail breathed, finally stepping over the threshold. She spotted Leif talking to an older woman with big hoop earrings, bright red lipstick and dyed-blond hair piled on top of her head like a haystack. He appeared to be listening attentively.

As she and Birdie wound through the tables, Leif glanced in their direction, his Nordic eyes widening when they stopped at the long table in front.

“Hey, Mr. Lively,” Birdie said, brightly.

Oh, God. Ever since the apology last month, Birdie forgot to be brooding each time Leif’s name came up in conversation. The child had even tried to invite him to the Beauchamp family Christmas Eve extravaganza. Luckily, Leif hadn’t been in town. The last thing Abigail needed was someone picking up on her attraction to him. Her cousin Hilda would have noticed for sure, which was why Abigail had balked when Hilda had approached her about volunteering for the art festival. The Beauchamps were such a tight-knit bunch they might as well have been high-thread-count bedsheets. Hiding anything from family was impossible.

“Hey, Birdie,” Leif said, holding up a finger to the older woman he’d been speaking with. She shot Birdie a look of aggravation before pasting a smile on her face.

Birdie set her drawing pad and pencil case on the table. “I brought my mom.”

Leif’s gaze strayed to Abigail’s. “So I see.”

“And I have a new drawing pad and pencils. Fancy and Pops got them for me for Christmas.”

Abigail hadn’t heard Birdie string two sentences together since the girl had decided to go all Joan Jett on her. But in Leif’s presence, Birdie was...effervescent. Abigail found it slightly embarrassing. Leif seemed to understand and kept his warm smile on Birdie.

“And what about your mother?”

Birdie glanced at her. “My mother?”

“Does she have a new pad and pencils?”

“Nope,” Abigail said, waving a pad half-filled with Birdie’s drawings. “I’m starting with a used pad and pencils.”

Leif’s smile reached his eyes. “I’m surprised to see you here, but I’m glad you came.”

If only.

Warmth dripped into Abigail’s belly before she could strike the naughtiness from her head. What was wrong with her? Daydreaming about a guy like Leif? He was too different, too earthy and holistic and—

He had the best smile in three parishes. He had a slight dimple in his left cheek and eyes the color of a fall sky. His jaw had a blockish quality, while his lips were sensuous. How Abigail knew they were sensuous, she wasn’t sure, but she was certain he could kiss her up one side of a wall and down the other. And make her beg for more.

“I didn’t have a choice. My mother gave us the lessons for Christmas.” Abigail pulled out a chair next to an older African-American woman who was knitting a baby blanket while watching them with hawk eyes.

Birdie’s thunderous expression told Abigail she’d screwed up again.

“So the college wouldn’t give you the money back, huh?”

Abigail smiled. “Nope. You’re stuck with me.”

“Well, your daughter has to have gotten her talent from somewhere.”

Birdie bloomed pink. “I get it from my dad. He’s a musician. Don’t you play guitar, Mr. Lively?”

“In this class, I’m Leif. Save the mister stuff for school. And, yeah, I play guitar, ukulele and—”

“Drums,” Abigail added.

His head jerked toward her. “Not too loud, I hope.”

Abigail shook her head. “I saw you playing them once when I was passing out flyers.”

Leif’s eyes twinkled. “Ah...the flyers about the noise ordinance or the zoning issue?”

“Both.” Abigail shrugged. “Didn’t do much good, but a girl has to try. I owe it to my guests. They come to the B and B for tranquillity.”

“And your banana bread.”

“That, too.”

Leif glanced up as another woman entered the room. “Well, I’m happy to have you both in class...whether you had a choice or not.”

He moved to speak to two college girls who had tumbled into the room in shorts...in January, for cripes’ sake. They were wearing UGG boots, slouchy tunic shirts and ponytails that swung in tune with their lazy strides. They took a seat at the middle table, the smell of honeysuckle wafting off them.

Leif took his place in front of the classroom and held up his hands. “Welcome, friends, to Introduction to Drawing. I’m Leif Lively, your instructor, and I know something brought each of you here for a good reason.”

Oh, please.

Yet the man sounded so sincere, so welcoming.

“I know some of you are here because you need the credit—” he gestured to the coeds behind Abigail “—and some of you are here because you want to progress in your study of art.” This time he looked at Birdie.

“And some of you don’t know why you signed up for a nighttime class that will teach you the basics, and hopefully the joy of drawing.” At this, he looked at Abigail.

She felt the heat in his glance, a small flare of attraction. Her first inclination was to revel in the idea he found her attractive, but she quickly quelled the thought. She’d misread the emotion in those blue eyes. She wasn’t the kind of woman Leif pursued. She’d seen Marcie in her tight, gaudy gown and flashy red Mustang. The bodice had dipped to the woman’s navel, showcasing enough boobage to smother a small child. Marcie was young, pretty and nubile—three things Abigail was not.

She had no business reflecting her bizarre attraction to her art teacher back on herself. Something was wrong with her—probably the beginning of a midlife crisis. Turning forty pressed down on her. When her ex-husband neared forty, he’d loaded his convertible with his Les Paul guitar, a new wardrobe and Morgan Cost, the waitress/karaoke deejay at the Sugar Shack in Raceland, and headed to California to pursue his dream of becoming a recording artist.

Yeah, midlife crisis.

“So, let’s get started,” Leif said, clapping his hands together and jolting Abigail from her reverie.

After they’d been drawing for a while, Leif came by her table where she’d flat-out screwed up her attempt at shading an apple. She really sucked at drawing—but if Leif needed his closet organized, she was his gal.

“That’s a nice line,” he said, leaning over her, flooding her senses with the heady scent of mint mixed with pure male. Dear God, he smelled good. Not like incense at all, but rather clean with a hint of sultry. Like sitting by a fire atop a mountain, crisp air dancing—

What was she doing? Waxing poetic over Leif’s shampoo?

But that didn’t stop her from swaying toward him, before she caught herself. “I’m not good at this,” she said.

“Relax,” he said, his voice stroking over her like a hand over velvet. “You’ve got the basic concept. All you need are—” using his own pencil, he made a few swoops, rounding out the shading “—a few curveballs in your life. You like to live on the straight and narrow, don’t you, Abigail. Or is it Abi?”

His question oiled the creaky, unused portion of her heart. No one called her Abi anymore. Except her mother, now and again. She’d once been like those girls at the middle table—young, silly, full of dreams. But as time went by and she struggled to take care of Birdie while her husband drove into the sunset with a mediocre karaoke singer and the funds from the savings account he’d emptied, she’d transformed into Abigail—a woman who didn’t moon over sappy movies or embrace being called by a nickname.

“Abi?”

“Oh, sorry. Um, call me Abigail, please.”

His hot breath fanned her neck. “Whatever you want.”

Cripes, why did everything the man said sound like an invitation to have sweaty marathon sex? She rubbed away the goose bumps rippling up her arm. “That’s what I like to hear.”

His soft laugh only increased her awareness of him. Something in her longed to lean back and place her head in the crook of his neck. Wait, had she just purred That’s what I like to hear? Jesus. What had she been—

“Leif?”

The red-lipstick-wearing middle-aged haystack waved her hand. “I need a little help over here.”

The woman asked for his help the same way a woman might ask a man to slip off his boxers and mount her.

But maybe Abigail’s imagination hadn’t punched the time clock. She glanced around, realization dawning on her. The whole class was filled with women. Not a hairy chest in sight.

Right.

She felt as if she’d been sucked into the Leif Lively fan club. Haystack would likely run for secretary. Birdie might go for treasurer. The kid was good with money, and firmly entrenched in the belief that Leif was the sun, moon and stars—all wrapped up with a bow.

But even though Leif looked mighty fine in his worn blue jeans and waffle T-shirt that left little to the imagination, Abigail had to remind herself that he was the David Lee Roth of Magnolia Bend. “Just a Gigolo.” “The Ice Cream Man.” A “love ’em and leave ’em” sort, with his laid-back charm and sexy blue eyes. She had no business wanting to take a lick from Leif’s ice-cream cone.

She needed to remember who she was—a mother, a business owner, a crappy art student. A woman who should leave ice cream well enough alone.

She renewed her efforts to draw an apple, as a new Van Halen song became an earworm—“Hot for Teacher.”

* * *

LEIF CAREFULLY HELPED Peggy Breaux correct the curve of the pear she’d drawn on her page while avoiding the way she intentionally brushed her breast against his biceps.

“You’ve got the general idea here,” he said, breathing through his mouth because her perfume stung his nostrils.

“Oh, I’m not good at it. But I want to be,” she said, her words dripping with double entendre.

“That’s why you’re here,” he said neutrally, lifting his head to survey the class. Most of his students were concentrating on their work. Birdie had her tongue caught between her teeth as she carefully controlled the lines she made with her charcoal pencil. Her mother sat with her head bent, mouth twisting this way and that as she focused on her pretty horrible drawing of an apple. The college girls were texting. Not cool. He shot them a look. The older lady who had been knitting earlier had already rendered quite a nice drawing of a pineapple. She’d returned to her knitting and her needles clacked a steady rhythm that didn’t seem to bother anyone around her.

He returned his gaze to Abigail.

He didn’t understand his fascination with her. She seemed layered to such a degree that no man could unwrap her. Steely one minute, achingly vulnerable the next. Abigail was the Mona Lisa, complicated and mysterious. Her beauty a masterpiece of shadow and illumination, a study in contrast. He found himself wanting to know her better, to break through the shell she’d built around herself.

If only Abigail could let go.

He imagined her clothes pooling on the floor, her lithe body moving in the moonlight, eyes dark and dilated. Moments before she’d swayed toward him and he’d wondered if she felt something, too.

Maybe...

“Is this better?” Peggy asked.

“Huh?”

“Ha, caught the teacher daydreaming.” The older woman chortled, a flirtatious smile curving her lips.

Abigail lifted her eyes, catching his gaze on her. A faint pink stained her cheeks as if she could read his thoughts before she lowered her head and resumed drawing. Maybe...

“Daydreaming’s good for an artist. I often think a good deal about what I want before I go after it.”

Peggy raised her painted-on eyebrows. “Indeed.”

Leif caught himself. “I meant artwise, sly lady.”

Peggy liked that, giggling like a geisha, her hand pressed to her mouth.

“That’s a good point,” he said to the class, noting the college girls slipping their phones into their pockets. “Envisioning your subject is very important, which is why I asked you to sketch from memory a particular fruit that spoke to you.”

“Fruits can’t speak,” Abigail said, humor lacing her tone.

“You must never have tripped on LSD,” he joked.

Everyone laughed. Except Abigail.

“I’m joking,” he said. “Whimsical wording amuses me. I’m aware fruit doesn’t talk, Mrs. Orgeron.”

She shrugged. “Never know with you guys from California.”

“Ah, she has a sense of humor,” he said with a smile, enjoying the good-natured volley of words. “And it’s Colorado, actually.”

“Where it’s legal, of course,” one of the college girls joked.

“Actually, when it comes to art, I don’t recommend using drugs or alcohol as a creative aid. My purest ideas come at times when I am open to the universe, not under the influence of any chemicals. I urge you to think about your subjects, delve into why you are attached to that particular image. When you approach your work, a measure of passion is important. You need to feel something for that piece, for art is the transfer of emotion. The best works of art convey the intent of the creator.”

Several people nodded, washing away the fear that he would be stuck with a classroom of students who didn’t understand the significance of emotion in art.

“When you complete your drawing, place it on my desk. I want to study each one to help me determine your current level of skill. There are no bad drawings, only opportunities for improvement, so please don’t be embarrassed if your banana resembles a—”

Peggy opened her mouth.

“Don’t say it,” he teased.

The rest of the class chuckled good-naturedly. Except for Abigail. She bobbed her head toward Birdie and he got the drift. No quasisexual jokes. Or jokes about LSD for that matter. He had to remember he had a child in his class.

Even if Birdie had likely heard much worse in the halls at school. St. George’s might be a religious school, but its students were worldly thanks to Snapchat and YouTube. Not that that justified making off-color jokes.

He gave Abigail a look that said he understood her unstated concerns. She inclined her head as a thank-you.

“Once you’ve turned in your drawing you may leave. Your homework is to look for opportunity. Where are the subjects you wish to sketch? Why do you feel compelled to draw them? Tie your emotion to the object and examine it.”

Five minutes later, only Birdie and Abigail remained in the classroom. Birdie hunkered over her drawing, eraser crumbs scattering the tabletop, her tongue trapped between her teeth. Abigail stood beside her, shifting in an impatient manner.

“She’s almost done,” Abigail said as he moved closer.

“Let her finish. No big deal.” He pushed a chair into place and met Abigail’s gaze. “Someone told me you’re taking Shannon’s place on the Laurel Woods Art Festival committee. Guess having a baby trumps art, huh?”

“Motherhood isn’t something you do part-time.”

“No, I guess not.”

“You’re on the committee?”

He knew she knew that he was. What was her game? Did she not want to appear interested in him? And if so, what did that mean? “Yeah, I’m in charge of procuring judges and cataloging the entered artwork.”

Abigail sighed. “It’s hard to say no to Hilda. She’s more like Attila. That’s what Jake calls her—uh, Jake’s my younger brother.”

“We’ve met. And, yeah, Hilda as Attila the Hun is a pretty good comparison. My arm still hurts,” he said, rubbing his biceps.

“Your arm?”

“From the twisting,” he said, nodding toward where Birdie still fussed over the teeniest line of her fruit bowl. “Overachiever like her mother?”

Abigail’s lips held a ghost of a smile. “She’s serious about art.”

“She has natural talent,” he said, winking at Birdie when she glanced up, gratitude in her eyes. “So, we’ll be working together on the committee? That should be fun.”

“I’ve never found committee work fun.”

He was certain Abigail found very little in life fun...and what a travesty. Life wasn’t always a party, but he always dressed for one, hoping that whatever lay ahead would be good, soaked in bubbly with a decent dance floor. To approach life as if it were anything less didn’t make sense to him. “Well, I’ll bring some tofu dip and some beer I’ve brewed. We’ll make it fun.”