Sullivan's Woman Read Online Free PDF Page A

Cassidy recalled why the face of her artist had jarred a memory. She’d seen his picture in the newspaper when The Gallery had opened five years before. Colin Sullivan.
    She let out a long breath, then lifted her hands to either side of her head to push at her hair. Colin Sullivan wanted to paint her. He had once flatly refused to do a portrait of one of Hollywood’s reigning queens, but he wanted to paint Cassidy St. John, an unemployed writer whose greatest triumph to date was a short story printed in a woman’s magazine. All at once she remembered that she’d thought he’d been a mugger, that she had said absurd things to him, that she had told him with innocent audacity that his sketches were good. In annoyance and humiliation she chewed on her lip.
    He might have introduced himself, she thought with a frown, instead of sneaking up behind me and grabbing me. I behaved quite naturally under the circumstances. I’ve nothing to be embarrassed about. Besides, she reminded herself, he told me to come. He’s the one who arranged the entire thing. I’m only here to see if I want to take the job. Cassidy shifted her purse on her shoulder, wished briefly she had worn something more dignified or more exotic and moved to the front door of The Gallery. It was locked.
    She pushed against the door again, then concluded with a sigh that it was too early for The Gallery to be open. Perhaps there was a back entrance. He had spoken of a studio; surely it would have its own outside door. With this in mind Cassidy strolled around the side of the building and tried a side door, which refused to budge. Undaunted, she continued around the square brick building to its rear. When another door proved uncooperative, she turned her attention to a set of wooden steps leading to a second level.
    Craning her neck, she squinted against the sun and scanned the ring of windows. The glass tossed back the light. If I were an artist with a studio, she reflected, it would definitely be up there. She began to climb the L-shaped staircase. The treads were open and steep. Faced with another door at the top, she started to test the knob, hesitated, and opted to knock. Loudly. She glanced back over her shoulder and discovered the ground was surprisingly far below. A tiny sound of alarm escaped her when the door swung open.
    â€œYou’re late,” Colin stated with a frown of impatience and took her hand, pulling her inside before she could respond. Her senses were immediately assailed with the scents of turpentine and oils. He looked no less formidable in broad daylight than he had in the murky fog. In precisely the same manner he had employed the night before, he caught her chin in his hand.
    â€œMr. Sullivan . . .” Cassidy began, flustered.
    â€œShh!” He tilted her head to the left, narrowed his eyes, and stared. “Yes, it’s even better in decent light. Come over here, I want some proper sketches.”
    â€œMr. Sullivan,” Cassidy tried again as he yanked her across a high, airy room lined with canvases and cluttered with equipment. “I’d like to know a little more about all this before I commit myself.”
    â€œSit here,” he commanded and pushed her down on a stool. “Don’t slouch,” he added as he turned away.
    â€œMr. Sullivan! Would you please listen to me?”
    â€œPresently,” he replied as he picked up a wide pad and a pencil. “For now be quiet.”
    Totally at a loss, Cassidy sighed gustily and folded her hands. It would be simpler, she decided, to let him get his sketches out of his system. She allowed her eyes to wander and search the room.
    It was large, barnlike, with wide windows and a skylight that pleased her enormously. The expanses of glass let in all the available sunlight. The floor was wood and bare, except for splatters of paint, and the walls were a neutral cream. Unframed canvases were stacked helter-skelter, facing