A Fine Work Of Art: (excerpt)

If you would like to purchase this book CLICK HERE.

Chapter One

Who would think a single red hair could end a marriage?

Elizabeth rubbed a hand against the throbbing pain behind her left temple and tried to force her attention back to the half-graded term paper in front of her, but it was no use.

The culprit had been an auburn hair actually, glinting in the sun that streamed through the door behind Stuart as he’d set his briefcase and coat on the kitchen counter and leaned to offer Elizabeth’s cheek a perfunctory kiss. That was when she saw it on his lapel, the red, silky remnant of his infidelity.

She closed her eyes and fought down a wave of nausea born of grief and exhaustion. Somewhere out there, Stuart was frolicking with Cecilia Aldorf like a sex-crazed teenager instead of the highly accomplished, forty-five-year-old neurosurgeon he was.

The hair was unquestionably Cecilia’s. No one had tresses, long and wavy and clingy, quite like Stuart’s surgical assistant. Elizabeth’s own hair, cut in a conservative, shoulder-length style, was unarguably brown. Naturally so. Apparently Stuart’s taste ran the gamut of artificial, because the redhead’s breasts were round and perky and as utterly questionable in their authenticity as her hair color.

Months ago Stuart had sworn to end the affair. Anything to save the marriage, he’d said. Elizabeth meant everything to him, he’d said.

Liar. Last night he’d even smelled like his lover; floral and cloying and sexy-sweet. Elizabeth had nearly choked on the scent, half-blinded by the flash of setting sun on the evidence of Stuart’s guilt. A single hair, and he hadn’t bothered to deny her shriek of accusation.

The urge to laugh now bubbled in her throat, followed by an unexpected sob that rose so fiercely, she clapped her hands over her mouth and sat back in the chair, her welling eyes fixed on the beige, concrete-block wall above her desk.

A mere twenty-four hours had passed since the denouement of her ten-year marriage, and in that time she’d managed to give two art history lectures, counsel three freshmen on the upcoming semester schedules, and grade an impressive stack of term papers, all without shedding a single tear. She couldn’t keep a husband’s attention, but she made one hell of a college professor.

“Dr. Gilstrom?” The male voice, followed by a soft rap at the door, drew her attention from the concrete wall.

Immediately Elizabeth straightened at the sight of the young man standing at her office threshold. He was a student in the graduate art history class she taught three times a week. Although they’d never formally spoken, she knew his face intimately. Too intimately. For the first weeks of the fall semester, even in the midst of slide shows and lectures, her gaze had strayed to him of their own accord. He was, quite simply, one of the most attractive men she’d ever seen. A work of art that stirred something within her most creative—and feminine—center.

And right now she couldn’t remember his name.

“I know you’re probably trying to get out of here for the night,” he said, a smile curving his full, sensuous mouth, “but could you spare a moment?”

The castors on her desk chair squeaked as she pushed back and turned toward him, motioning to the folding metal chair a foot away. “Of course. Have a seat…”

“Boone,” he offered, and sat, filling the six-by-eight office with the scent of autumn, faded shampoo and healthy, warm male. “Boone McCrea. I’m in your 506 art history class.”

“Yes, I know.” Elizabeth could think of nothing clever to say. She certainly wasn’t a flirt, and had always worn her marital status as protective armor against temptation. Now, stripped of it, she found herself the object of the young man’s intense contemplation, and she felt…naked.

He was too young to look at her with such solemn fascination. Perhaps twenty-three or twenty-four, with chiseled features, a golden complexion and wonderful, expressive lips. A face from a dream.

She studied the wave of rich, dark hair that fell across his brow and experienced a fleeting sting of satisfaction. She’d actually managed to forget about Stuart for all of two minutes, thanks to Boone McCrea’s extraordinary beauty.

“I need to ask you about tomorrow’s field trip to the Binoche Gallery,” he said finally. “I know you gave the pertinent information yesterday in class, but I had to leave early.”

She squelched the indignant urge to demand why he’d left her class in the middle of lecture, and lifted the pile of papers on her desk to withdraw a photocopy of the trip’s itinerary. “Did you get one of these?”

“No. Thank you.” He took it from her, folded it and slipped it into the pocket of his navy windbreaker. He had strong-looking fingers. Paint-stained. The hands of an artist. Elizabeth felt her own fingers tremble slightly and crossed her arms over her breasts to hide the reaction.

“We’re meeting in Georgetown, in front of the gallery,” she said, forcing her attention back to his face. “But some of the class is gathering at the Tenley Metro station around three o’clock to ride together.”

His dark lashes lifted and he met her gaze with clear, clover green eyes. “What about you? How are you getting there?”

She hesitated, surprised at the question. “I hadn’t thought about it. I suppose I'll drive.”

“Does your husband like art?”

Again, she was struck by his directness and the wayward direction in which their conversation seemed headed. “I…yes.” She noticed his gaze linger on her naked ring finger, where the pale circle of skin spoke of her wedding band’s recent removal. Its absence hadn’t felt so obvious before now. Hurriedly she tucked her hand beneath her other arm and added, “But he doesn’t have time to attend galleries often.”

“That’s too bad,” he said softly. “He’s missing out.”

Silence crashed between them, and all Elizabeth could hear was the inexplicable thunder of her heartbeat. She had to think of something to say, because Boone McCrea gave her the feeling he’d sit across from her all evening, perusing her every feature if she allowed it. Maybe she’d given him the wrong idea. Had he noticed her attention lingering on him in class?

Straightening her spine, she swiveled back toward her desk and said in a cool, clipped tone, “I have work to do, Mr. McCrea. Is there anything else?”

“Nothing.” The rustle of his jacket as he stood to leave told her he’d gotten the message. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the gallery. I’m looking forward to hearing what you have to say about the Fielding exhibit.”

“I have plenty to say about the exhibit,” she said, and used her red pen to vehemently circle an abysmal misspelling of Michelangelo’s name on the term paper in front of her.

“But not so much about the artist?” The smile in his voice brought her gaze back to his face. “People say he’s a real piece of work.”

That was putting it mildly. Ferber Fielding was a brash, disagreeable old man who had a way of showing up in Elizabeth’s world whenever she turned around, armed with a sarcastic barb or a disheartening scowl. Even a simple greeting stuck in her throat when they came face-to-face, whether at a gallery opening or the nearby Seven-Eleven. But Fielding had more talent than any artist Elizabeth had encountered since moving to Washington a decade before, and despite his surly demeanor, she held a grudging respect for him. At least enough to haul thirty art history students to view his work.

“He’s scheduled to lecture here before Christmas,” she told Boone. “I’ll make it a point to introduce you to him.”

“That should be interesting.” He studied her a moment, his humor fading to just a slight, curious tug on the corners of his mouth. “I’m sorry to interrupt your work.”

She shook her head. “You didn’t interrupt my work. I was daydreaming.”

“About something sad.”

Elizabeth blinked at him. How could he know that about her? Her own husband hadn’t been able to read her emotions in a decade of marriage. Hell, until this moment, she hadn't even known that her sadness was as great as her rage over Stuart's betrayal. Maybe Boone was young, but his perception probably ran circles around most of the men she knew.

She heaved a sigh and glanced back at her work. "Yes. Something sad."

He paused in the doorway. “It’ll fade, you know,” he said, in a voice that made her feel oddly comforted. “Nothing lasts forever, Dr. Gilstrom.”

Not love, nor marriage. Not even life in general, she thought, staring at the empty space he left behind as his footsteps disappeared down the hall. No promise was truly kept.

For the first time since realizing her marriage to Stuart was over, Elizabeth put her head down on her desk and cried.

***