A WHISPER OF ETERNIT

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alive. It was disconcerting, the way the eyes seemed to follow her.

With a huff of annoyance, she lifted the canvas from the easel and put it on the floor, facing the wall. Feeling better, she drained her cup, then put on her smock, grabbed a fresh canvas, and placed it on the easel. She had no time to waste. She still had to paint that English castle, and she had a seascape that had to be finished for a new client by next week. If the buyer, Mr. Petersen, liked it, he had promised to purchase a dozen similar paintings for all the offices in his bank.

She studied the numerous snapshots of the ocean she had taken a few days earlier—pictures of the ocean when it was calm, photos of the waves crashing against the shore, pictures taken at all hours of the day and night.

She closed her mind to everything else and lost herself in her art. She loved the smell of the paint, the sense of creativity, of accomplishment, that flowed through her as the scene she saw in her mind took on depth and color and life on the canvas.

She took a short break to get another cup of coffee and something to eat, and then spent the rest of the day in the studio.

She quit when she lost the light. After cleaning her brushes and tidying up the studio, she went into the bathroom, filled the tub, lit a couple of candles, and took a long, hot bubble bath. Lying there with her eyes closed, she decided that cooking didn't sound appealing, so when the water cooled, she stepped out of the tub, pulled on a pair of gray slacks and a white sweater, and drove down to the village.

Dominic rose with the setting of the sun, his preternatural senses immediately probing the upper level of the house. He had no sense of her presence. Where had she gone?

He dressed quickly in a pair of black trousers and a shirt and willed himself into the upper house. He walked quickly from room to room until he reached her studio.

He paused in the doorway. There were several lamps located around the room. He supposed they were to provide light when the skies were overcast or when she felt the urge to work after dark. An overstuffed chair took up most of one corner. A couple of paint-stained smocks hung from hooks near the door.

Stepping inside, he moved slowly around the room. Her scent was strong in here, as was the odor of paint and turpentine. There were several blank canvases stacked in a corner. Three easels, each holding paintings in various stages of completion, stood several feet apart along one wall. Though all three were exceptional, he preferred the seascape. It was done mostly in shades of blue and green save for a splash of crimson and gold left behind as the sun sank in the distance.So long since he had seen a sunrise.

Drawing his gaze from the painting, he continued his perusal of the room. A round, wooden piano stool on casters sat in front of the painting in the middle. An oblong table held an assortment of paints, a box of rags, a palette, a can of turpentine, half a dozen bottles and cans, a sketch pad. An old ceramic flower pot held an assortment of brushes. Several photos of the ocean were tacked to a bulletin board. A closet contained an assortment of wooden frames in various sizes and styles.

He was about to leave the room when a canvas turned toward the wall caught his attention. Curious, he walked across the floor and turned it around.