Not his Fair Lady

by Kaarina Brooks

Shaylee Palmer, a gifted but insecure ingenue, joins an art class for rather disingenuous reasons, and soon finds herself fighting against the persuasive tactics and seemingly self-serving motives of her handsome art teacher. But the biggest battle she faces is her growing attraction for the man who has sworn off serious relationships.

Michael Merrick carries a secret of his own, which he tries to disguise behind casual affairs. When Shaylee Palmer enters his art class, he has to guard against losing not only his heart, but also his independence to this saucy, but talented student.

ISBN 978-1-59431-750-7 Romance / Young Adult / Also available in RTF or HTML

Chapter 1

"Wow! This I like!"

Shaylee Palmer did a 360 and took a quick survey of the work on display in the foyer of the "The Four Winds Gallery".

This was her kind of art! Much preferable to abstract stuff.

"Thanks, Grandpa," she whispered, "for making all this possible!"

She walked towards a painting set up on an easel in the middle of the floor, but came to an abrupt halt when a tight male voice asked, "Can I help you?" Sounding the way one would address an unwelcome intruder, while trying to remain polite.

Shaylee turned to see a short, balding man at the door of an office on the left. She gave a quick, nervous laugh. "No, thank you, I'm just looking."

She knew her unfashionable winter jacket and boots made it very clear that she wouldn't be in the market for an expensive painting. He probably thought she'd just come in to get warm.

Still, he honored her with a pinched smile. "I'm Max Storm, the proprietor. If you have any questions, please ask." Sounding like he fully expected her not to have any, and to meekly leave before she tracked mud on his carpets.

"Thanks, I will," Shaylee muttered. She didn't care for the way he looked down his nose at her, and felt like stringing him along for a while, asking about prices. But he looked like someone who wouldn't appreciate such nonsense. He'd already dismissed her as a potential client by turning his back on her and returning to his office.

Someday, Mr. High and Mighty, she just might come and buy something. Or, better yet, her own art might hang on these very walls!

Shaylee shrugged and turned to enter the first door to her right. Slowly she negotiated her way through the small, tastefully laid-out inner galleries, the clomp of her heavy winter boots muffled by the carpet. Some of the rooms had photographs, others had oils, and in one gallery were sculptures of--she nodded approvingly--totally recognizable humans, or parts thereof.

Shaylee entered another small gallery. At the door she halted and her hand flew to her mouth. How beautiful! What wonderful paintings! Whose work was this? A promo on the wall told her the name of the artist, his birth date, as well as the particulars of his very prestigious artistic career.

Michael Merrick. Such a young man to be already this well recognized in the art world! She circled the room, devoted entirely to this artist's work, and inspected each picture in turn. It was as if she'd entered an enchanted world. Back and forth she wandered, taking in the paintings from close and afar, then returning to each, again and again. One winter scene particularly engrossed her, and she lost track of time as she stood admiring it.

A deep male voice startled her from her reverie. "Do you like it?"

Shaylee whirled around to face a broad chest. The mouth that had asked the question was considerably higher and, as she looked up, she saw golden lights dancing in a pair of brown eyes.

Golden lights? Dancing? Was that possible?

"I love it. It's my favorite of all these wonderful paintings here." Shaylee swung her arms to encompass the whole room. "These are absolutely the best I've seen. I've been here for probably half an hour," she glanced down at her watch to verify the statement, "just drinking them in."

She thought she saw a glint of laughter in the man's eyes and she squirmed inside. He probably thought she was way over the top in her praise. One of her unfortunate tendencies. But she really meant it.

The man rubbed his strong, clean-shaven chin. "Why do you like that one in particular?"

Shaylee gazed again at the wintry forest scene that had so absorbed her. "I find it absolutely incredible the way the luminous sunlight filters through the branches onto that pristine, sapphire snow. I wish I knew how the artist did it. Beautiful, don't you agree?"

The man only nodded.

"Funny thing is, the artist…" she pointed to the signature scrawled on the painting, "Michael Merrick's his name …probably doesn't even know himself how he got that glowing effect."

The man quirked a questioning eyebrow. "Oh? How's that?" Deep dimples on his cheeks signaled his amusement at her comment.

And as Shaylee watched, the smile crept up from his mouth, and when it reached his eyes the golden lights were there again…dancing! Fascinating! So it hadn't just been her imagination.

She smiled back, hoping to keep those dimples from disappearing. In her twenty-four years of life she'd come to acknowledge her fondness for men with dimples.

"Well," she mused. "I read somewhere that a great painter may know a lot about painting, but then he'll do something and wonder how he got that effect. You know, that there could have been just a happy mistake."

Now the man laughed. A full, deep sound from deep inside his chest that made Shaylee smile back.

"So you think that light on the snow is just a happy mistake, do you?"

"Well, maybe not," she conceded. "But however he did it, it's absolutely fantastic. The hues are so clear and so vivid. The snow is…it's scintillating!"

The man looked down at her, surprise registered on his face.

"Don't you agree?" Shaylee frowned. Probably she was too effusive again. "Foot-in-the mouth disease" her farmer brothers called it.

"I guess that's the magic of water colors," he said, not answering her directly.

But, having got started, Shaylee, as usual, couldn't contain her eagerness. "It's as though this painter looks at the world through eyes that see everything in a vibrant, optimistic light. He must be a wonderful person."

"I assume you paint?" He failed to join in her effluent praises of the artist.

Shaylee sighed. "Yes, but I've only dabbled on my own. I'm just getting settled here in Toronto and I'd love to find an art class somewhere." And find out if what she'd been doing was any good. Had Grandpa been right about her artistic talent, or had he just been kind to his only granddaughter?

"Did you happen to see the brochures over there?" With his head the man indicated a low table on which some papers were scattered.

Shaylee walked over, picked one up and quickly perused it. Art classes. A business card was attached to each application form.

Michael Merrick

Cordova, Laine and Merrick,

Graphic Design and Production.

"Michael Merrick!" she cried, delighted. "Hey, that's my artist!"

The man's face once again broke into a smile. Ah, those dimples!

"Yeah," he said. "And looks like your artist has a day job, too. Busy fellow."

She nodded in agreement. "Yes, I guess that's an artist's life for you. Even though his paintings are so wonderful, he has to work at other things, too." She slipped the brochure into the large tote bag she carried over one shoulder. "So, do you take lessons?"

"Lessons?" He hesitated. "No, I don't."

Shaylee thought she could hear a tinge of bitterness in his voice as he added, "But I probably should."

Shaylee tipped her head towards the brochures on the table. "There's your chance. Judging by his work, I'd say this Michael Merrick knows what he's doing. I'm sure he could help you." She smiled encouragingly.

"Actually, I…"

Just then the proprietor popped his bald head into the room. "Mike, can I…Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt."

"That's all right. I was just leaving, anyway." Shaylee hitched her tote bag higher onto her shoulder and with a wave she turned to go. Good-bye, Mike! Too bad her chances of ever seeing this good-looking guy again were about nil. Or less.

Shaylee stepped through the open glass doors and set off briskly down the sidewalk. The March afternoon was sunny, and spring was making valiant inroads into the stubborn winter. In this old part of Toronto the streets were lined with huge, skeletal trees that now, without their lush summer foliage, allowed an intimate peek at the red brick century homes. Over time many of these grand old houses, with their white, ornate scrollwork, had been transformed into unique galleries and chic boutiques. Strolling in downtown Toronto, Shaylee always felt as though she were on a different planet from her home on a farm near Kitchener.

A sudden sparkle of sunlight dancing on the melting snow reminded her of the man in the gallery. Impulsively she turned to look back, hoping to see a glimpse of him, but he was nowhere in sight. Mike. The fact that she knew his name was like a thin thread of hope that maybe, just maybe, they could meet again.

After all, how many Mikes could there be in a city of five million?

Shaylee stopped to wait for a light. Would her paintings ever hang at that gallery? And if so, would they evoke the same "Wow-factor" as Michael Merrick's had done?

She knew she was good. After all, everyone back home always praised her paintings to the skies. And dear Grandfather had practically crowned her the Canadian Michelangelo. But did these people know what real art was like? Any more than she did herself. She only painted what she saw around her home--the picturesque countryside and the lake nearby. Nothing resembling the strange lines and splashes of color she saw at the galleries she'd visited. If that was real art, she was missing it by a mile. She could only hope that all art connoisseurs wouldn't judge her realistic work as just the nice efforts of some dilettante.

The problem was, she'd never had the nerve to get a professional opinion of her paintings. What if they said it wasn't any good? It seemed preferable to keep hoping and dreaming than face a possible disappointment. But maybe, if she went to these classes and really worked hard to show Michael Merrick what she was capable of doing, he might simply fall all over himself praising her, and tell her she was incredibly talented. Hah! Dream on, girl! Didn't pride goeth before the fall, or something like that?

Because, instead of praising her, he just might pat her on the head, like her loving big brothers always did, and tell her that her paintings were very nice and her family would surely enjoy receiving them for Christmas.

Yeah. Shaylee's heart sank and her shoulders sagged. That would absolutely kill her dream. She would never become a recognized artist. And then what would she do? Go back home and work at the florist shop?

No way! She hadn't come this far in order to let self-doubts stop her now.

Standing at the curb, she rummaged through her bag and brought out the brochure. A set of ten art classes would start in a couple of weeks and--happy surprise! --they would be held an easy bus ride from where she lived in the north end of the city.

She threw back her shoulders and stared defiantly at the red light. Turn green already! She'd come to Toronto to succeed, not fail!