Bay of Sighs (The Guardians Trilogy 2)

“I’d be a fool to argue.”

Annika no longer lounged in the pool. Sawyer didn’t see Sasha, but cut across toward the canvas still on her easel.

And just stared. Joy and beauty, magick and marvel. He didn’t know how Sasha captured the gleam, the sparkle with only paint. Didn’t know how anyone could so clearly show the light in those sea-green eyes.

How could a painting so perfectly show sweetness and sex and strength?

“You like it.” With one of Riley’s famed Bellinis in hand, Sasha wandered out, hooked her arm through Sawyer’s.

“It’s everything she is.”

“I’m going to do others. It’s why I did so many sketches. I want her in the classic mermaid on the rock in the sea, and I want her doing cartwheels or flips on the lawn.”

Hearing how relaxed she sounded, seeing all the strain had vanished from her face, Sawyer understood Bran’s reasons for waiting another day or two.

Riley had it right, too. They needed the break.

“I could paint her for years,” Sasha continued. “And I likely will. But this one’s for you.”

“For—for me?”

“Absolutely.” While she sipped her Bellini, Sasha studied her work with a critical eye. “I need maybe another hour with it, just to punch it up, then it’s yours. Just like she is.”

“But I can’t take her, can I?”

“We’re in a world of miracles and magicks. I’m going to believe in both.”

“This painting. It means a lot, more than I can tell you. I need to give you something for it. Not money,” he said when she started to pull away. “I get that, and it’d be insulting between us. But when this is over, when we’ve done what we’re meant to do, if you want that conversation with Monet, I’ll take you.”

She gasped, bounced on her toes, grabbed him in a hug. “Oh, my God! Sawyer, that would be— Oh, my God! I have to brush up, big-time, on my French.”

“With just one down and two to go, I figure there’s time.”

“Riley will find the Bay of Sighs, then we’ll have two, and one to go. I just . . . I haven’t felt where we go from here. Have you?”

He shook his head. “No hints from the compass yet.”

“It’ll come, for both of us. And you need another day, at least, before we pick all this up again. So, tomorrow it’s you.”

“It’s me what?”

“I’m going to paint you tomorrow. I haven’t figured out what I’m after with you yet.” She stepped back a pace, studied him with a keen and curious eye that made him feel . . . goofy.

“But it’s you,” she said firmly.

“It already feels weird.”

But he took a seat in the sun, and looked forward to having a beer with friends.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Sawyer knew he was well on the mend when Doyle ordered him into training—on the light side—in the morning. And he managed five pull-ups before his shoulder screamed like a woman getting a hard pinch on the ass. Maybe it scored the pride, a little, when Sasha did five, then gutted her way through a sixth.

“I’m not last.” Sliding to the ground, panting, Sasha wagged a fist in victory. “I’m not last.”

“Hey, bum shoulder. Near-death experience.”

“I don’t care. Today, this fine day, I’m not last. And you’re on breakfast detail.”