McGillivray's Mistress - By Anne McAllister Page 0,59

work was worth encouraging. He’d written a glowing letter on her behalf. So had both Nathan and Carin. Her work, of course, had spoken for itself.

But it hadn’t said enough. And it had been too late.

The three schools in England had told her very quickly that their enrollment was already full for the autumn session. She doubted they had even looked at her portfolio. Two had simply sent form letters. The third had suggested she apply again earlier next year.

But Italy hadn’t replied. So she’d pinned all her hopes on Italy.

That was the school she had always wanted to go to anyway. It had an apprentice program where you learned by working with a master the way sculptors had often learned in the past. There, she knew, the letters of recommendation would mean little. They looked at the work you sent and decided if your talent was worth nurturing.

She’d dared to hope because it had been a dream for so long. And because she needed—desperately—to get out of Pelican Cay.

The island wasn’t big enough for both her and Lachlan. Half a world seemed possibly far enough away.

And then, this afternoon, the letter had come in one thin envelope. Fiona had opened it with trembling hands.

“We find your work quite promising,” the director of admissions had written, “but unfortunately limited and commercial.”

Which was only the truth. Her portfolio had contained shots of her best tourist-oriented shell and driftwood sculptures, some of her metal cutout sculptures, a few sand castles and half a dozen photos showing the concept, development and plans for The King of the Beach. She’d got David to take photos of some smaller wood carvings and even the lumpy clay pelicans she’d done last year, and she’d sent photos of them, too.

But the dean was right. All her work was quick and commercial. She sculpted for the tourism market. It was a craft. She loved it, but she didn’t labor over it. She had nothing she’d taken time with, nothing she had expended vast amounts of energy on. Nothing spectacular. Nothing noteworthy. Nothing she’d put her heart into.

Nothing except the piece she’d done of Lachlan nude.

That was the best thing she’d ever done.

But she hadn’t been able to send photos of that. She had no photos. She’d promised him that no one would see it. They’d made a deal. She’d given her word.

Fiona always kept her word.

So she wasn’t going to art school. But she did need to leave Pelican Cay. One look at Lachlan standing on her porch this evening had told her that.

She couldn’t stay here, seeing him day after day, wanting him the way she still wanted him, when she would always feel manipulated, when she could never trust the honesty of the feelings he had for her. She huddled in the rocking chair and tried to think.

“What am I going to do, Sparks?” she asked when he ambled over and bumped his head against her calf.

He looked at the refrigerator and then at his food bowl as if the answer were obvious.

Fiona gave a laugh that might have been a sob and got up to do his bidding. “Well, yes,” she said, “but after dinner? Then what?”

“I CAN’T BELIEVE they didn’t accept her.” Molly was raging around the shop, looking like she was going to kick something.

Lachlan, who had stopped by to ask Hugh to fly him to Nassau in the morning, knew his sister well enough to stay out of her way. Besides, he wasn’t displeased that they hadn’t accepted Fiona. As far as he was concerned it was a reprieve of sorts.

She wasn’t leaving! He had a chance with her.

“Just because she doesn’t have enough traditional stuff in her portfolio,” Molly groused on, banging a wrench against her palm.

“What does that mean?” Lachlan hadn’t heard the reasons. He’d been too busy rejoicing to care.

“Her work is ‘too consumer oriented,’ they said,” Molly spat, still stomping around. “It shows ‘creative energy but it doesn’t show commitment and discipline’! Shows what they know! If there is anyone more committed and disciplined in the world than Fiona Dunbar, I’d like to know who it is!”

Lachlan frowned. “They said that?”

“I read the letter. Idiots! So maybe she hasn’t had the time to be bloody committed to her sculpture. Did they ever think of that? Maybe she’s been so damned committed to people and responsibility—taking care of her dad for all those years—that she’s been too busy to focus on a piece of marble or a hunk of