corrected as she smoothed the clay of one of the legs, studied his intently, then bit her lip as she concentrated on the shape she was molding.
The figure was beginning to come together now—a man sure enough, rough but recognizable.
“And you’ve never done this before? Never worked with clay?”
“Never. No time. No opportunity. I’ve always just used what I have. Sand. Shells. Driftwood. Steel drums.”
“Trash.” Lachlan grinned.
Fiona bristled, but only for a moment. Then she shrugged, then informed him loftily, “Some scholars call it environmental sculpture. They say it’s maximizing the assets inherent in the local setting.”
“Do they?” Lachlan smiled at her pompous quotation and egged her on. “What else do they say?”
He was surprised when she told him. She’d obviously done a fair amount of reading on the subject. At first the words came slowly, and he almost had to drag them out of her. But when he persisted, she answered more fully.
She told him about books she’d read, theories she’d learned. The “king of the beach” was more than just trash, he began to realize. More than simply having a go at him, though he wasn’t ready to believe that hadn’t been part of her motive.
Still her interest in sculpture was obvious. She might be self-taught, and she might have gaps in her education, but she was clearly far more knowledgeable about the subject than he would ever have guessed.
Once he got her going, she talked at length. It seemed to relax her. It sure as hell made it easier for him. She kept right on working as she talked. He was fascinated to watch the clay she was pushing and patting and slapping become more and more recognizable as a decidedly male form.
It was hard to say which of them was more startled to hear a cell phone ring.
“Not mine,” Fiona said quickly. “I don’t have one.”
Then his, obviously. He reached for it in his pocket and realized he didn’t have a pocket. Or trousers. Cripes.
Fiona seemed to realize it, too. She flushed suddenly and looked away. “I’ll get it,” she blurted and darted out of the room, returning moments later to thrust the phone at him with a clay-encrusted hand. “Sorry.”
He punched the answer button. “McGillivray,” he barked.
“Where on earth are you?” Suzette demanded.
“What? Why? Who wants to know?”
“Lord Grantham, I expect,” Suzette said shortly. “Since you’ve kept him cooling his heels half an hour.”
“Grantham? I thought you scheduled him for nine.” He remembered her rattling on about it last night, asking if that was all right with him. He remembered saying it was fine, to do whatever she wanted. He’d been far too preoccupied with other things.
“I did schedule it for nine,” Suzette informed him. “It’s twenty past.”
“Past nine?” Lachlan started to look at his watch and realized he wasn’t wearing that either. “Hell!”
“Are you still in bed? I sent Maddie to knock on your door, but she said you didn’t answer.”
“No, I’m not still in bed! I’m…out. I’ll be right there. Give me fifteen—no, twenty minutes. Show him around.” He hung up and jumped off the platform. “I have to go.”
“Of course,” Fiona said hastily. “I didn’t realize—”
Neither had he. He hurried into the bathroom and grabbed his clothes, yanked on his trousers, hastily buttoned his shirt.
He’d intended to be casually elegant for his meeting with Grantham, who was upper-class elegance personified. He was going to be casually scruffy—as well as late—instead.
Hell. Again. He stuffed his feet into his flip-flops, opened the door, and came face-to-face with Fiona.
“When can you come back?”
“Back?”
“I’m not done,” she said, trotting after him as he ran down the stairs. “I’m just getting started.” There was an energy to her voice he hadn’t heard before.
“I didn’t say I’d keep doing this,” he protested.
“We made a deal. I take the sculpture down. You pose for me.”
“I’ve kept my part of the bargain.”
“You’ve started to keep it,” Fiona corrected. “I’m not finished.” She looked at him beseechingly.
He’d never been beseeched by Fiona Dunbar before.
“You promised,” she reminded him. “And so did I,” she went on fervently. “I’ll go over right now and start taking down The King of the Beach.”
“The hell you will!” The last thing he needed was her messing with the sculpture while he was showing Grantham around. “You can do it tonight—after dark. The way you put it up.”
“All right. I will.” Still she held his gaze, her big green eyes earnest and intent. “It was going well today,” she told him after a moment, sounding almost surprised.