didn’t mention she was that.”
He smirked. “I know the signs. You stuttered a little. I could see it in your eyes.”
His perceptiveness became him, considering he was a detective, but my body still tensed. I’d always managed to keep my heart hidden.
* * *
IF EVER THERE WAS a place to share with a creative friend, it was Bath. With Roman Britain etched all over its cobbled paths and honey-colored walls, that city captivated me.
As we sped along the freeway in my car, I noticed Penelope’s fingers grip her seat.
“Am I going too fast?”
“A little.” She turned to me wearing a tight smile. “But it’s to be expected in James Bond’s car. I’m half expecting a seat to eject and pistons to fire bullets.” She giggled.
I smiled at her girlish silliness, which always made me lighter.
I turned off at the exit and slowed down as we crossed onto the one-lane road.
Penelope unwound the window. “Mm… country air.”
“How long has it been since you left London?”
“I’ve never left. I haven’t been anywhere.”
I glanced at her, thinking of her life at that run-down hovel.
As we drove over an ancient cobbled bridge, Penelope effused, “How gorgeous. I love old bridges. Do you mind if I take a photo?”
I slowed down, stopped the car, and glanced at my watch.
“Are we running late?” she asked, holding her phone in camera position.
“It’s fine. We’ve got an hour, and we’re twenty minutes away.”
She stepped out of the car. “I won’t be long—I promise.”
That rustic environment suited her. With her hair out, the sun streaked red highlights through her normally dark mane, which against my pillow looked black.
Her smile was wide, like that of a girl at a fairy theme park. She wore a voluminous skirt that on anyone else would have looked like someone’s hand-me-down, but Penelope’s natural flair and individuality made it work. As she walked, her tits bounced and my cock lengthened—a reminder of her on top with her tits in my face.
My sudden loss of control around Penelope startled me.
She slid back in. “Oh, it’s so photogenic with all that clinging ivy.”
I started the engine and took off. “This place is nothing but photogenic.”
“I want to do a series on bridges with figures of men in suits and historical women in flowing gowns.”
“You have a penchant for contradictions.”
“Not always. You’ve only seen the triptych. My earlier works were mainly ethereal figures. I’ve never really grown out of fairy tales. They were my escape as a young girl and still are when I paint.”
“What are you escaping from?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I’ve always used art as an escape, as an expression of my inner world while giving me a break from the real world.”
“But isn’t your inner world a mirror of the real world, given that that’s all you’ve ever known?”
“That’s the scientific interpretation. I believe the subconscious is filled with symbols and registers with the soul. There’s a deep well of memories passed onto us.”
“That’s a very spiritual interpretation,” I replied.
“Art is that for me, although I’m not religious in the conventional sense.”
“You’re free-spirited and openhearted—qualities that one needs to make great art.”
She smiled sadly. “My lecturers are always on my back. I just like to enter a dreamworld and paint. My intellect is nowhere to be found.”
“But once you step away from the artwork, the intellect gets involved, doesn’t it?”
She nodded. “Of course. But I’m more inclined to react emotionally.”
“You’re just sensitive. Which is what makes you special.” I squeezed her hand. “You don’t like conceptual art?”
She scrunched her nose. “Not really. I just like to paint and draw. I went to art college to learn how to mix paints and to study technique. It’s overly intellectual. They’ve threatened to fail me. So far, they haven’t. I received a scholarship on the strength of my work, not because of this.” She tapped her head.
“You’re following the path of the masters, like Michelangelo and Raphael, who were apprentices. You’re the most talented person I’ve ever met, Penelope.”
A sad smile touched her lips. “Maybe if I was born in another time.”
“Female artists were a rarity in Michelangelo’s time. Artemisia Gentileschi, for example, had a hard time.”
Her face lit up. “She’s someone I’ve spent a whole semester reading about. I can’t believe you know about her.”
“I went to university, Penelope.”
“Did you study art history?”
“I did one semester on the Renaissance. I’ve read a lot. And I’ve traveled to Italy. I have a keen interest in art.”
“Is that why you like me?” she asked.
“One of the reasons.” I