43

Whatever had hold of her scared the spit out of her. But she stood her ground in front of the canvas and worked. While her posture was rigid, her hand moved in a fluid motion, concentration on her face.

The fire she’d attacked him with was gone. That had been interesting. Made him respond in more ways than one—his body was still buzzing with the sudden contact. She was such a study in contrast, fear and courage, fire and innocence. She had the looks, but layers too, and talent and depth. And one seriously sick friend.

“Talk to me, Ashley.”

But she was no longer aware of him, creating in a trance, in the grip of a vision only available to her. Or doing a hell of a job faking it.

The artist in her studio. Except he’d imagined the creative process differently. He would have thought artists got joy out of creating. She clearly didn’t.

“Ignoring me isn’t going to work.” But she kept doing it.

For a second, he looked away from her to the wall of windows. Outside, the darkness seemed extra th