Painted BeautyThe Sinclair O’Malley Series Book Two
J.M. LeDuc
Contents
Also by J.M. LeDuc
Painted Beauty
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Also by J.M. LeDuc
The Sinclair O’Malley Series
Sin
Trilogy of the Chosen
Cursed Blessing
Cursed Presence
Cursed Days
Short Stories
Phantom Squad: The Beginning Trilogy of the Chosen
Phantom Squad Series
Cornerstone
PAINTED BEAUTY
By
J.M. LeDuc
GALLEY EDITION
PUBLISHED BY:
Suspense Publishing
J.M. LeDuc
Copyright 2016 J.M. LeDuc
PUBLISHING HISTORY:
Suspense Publishing, Paperback and Digital Copy,
Cover Design: Story Wrappers & KD Ritchie
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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Painted Beauty
Sinclair O’Malley Series: Book Two
J.M. LeDuc
1
Ash’s complexion deepened and sweat began to bead on his skin as he grimaced from the noise. His shoulder instinctively jerked upward to approximate the downward tilt of his ear in a nonexistent hope of drowning out the shrill din.
“Preparation is everything,” she screeched. “Art doesn’t just happen. The end result has nothing to do with instinct; it’s taught.”
Ash carefully arranged the backdrop of the room in order to capture the mood for his creation. The easel had to be placed just ‘so’ if he was to capture the proper angle of sunlight as it streamed under and through the partially boarded windows.
“The light is as important as the subject being painted,” the voice wailed.
He ground his teeth at the harsh audible invasion. Nails on a chalkboard, he thought as he tried to concentrate on his task and not on the voice. If I can just execute the proper preparation, I know she will go away. Don’t let anything come between you and your art.
Don’t let anything come between you and your art, he repeated. In the past years, it had become his mantra—even more so in the past few weeks. That’s when he found his proper medium.
“All artists have an optimal medium,” she’d say. “Some prefer sculpture while others use paint. It’s not just what you use to create with, but what you choose to create on that makes the biggest difference. It’s the difference between being remembered as an artist and being remembered as an artiste. There are millions of artists—but only a handful of artistes.”
He allowed himself a slight degree of self-satisfaction knowing that with his new medium, he would now be in that category. With the easel set in position, Ash breathed a sigh of relief. Now for the heavy part, he internalized. He needed to stay silent. Any small sound could cause her to instruct, or worse—reprimand. Either would be emotionally draining.
With a surgical mask covering his face to keep out the noxious fumes, Ash went to the cabinet, slid out the drawer, and with delicate precision picked up his canvas. Sweat began to drip down his forehead as he transferred it to the easel. He wasn’t a big man, and he had to be careful not to drop his work in progress.
He had prepared everything the day before, and now he was ready to bring art to life. The twenty-four hour delay came with both positive and negative effects. Although the positive outweighed the adverse, the bad was hard to ignore. He tried to breathe as shallow as possible and only when absolutely necessary. The canvas had a foul odor, but he was willing to overlook it, his creation would soon be finished and hanging in an open environment.
Brush and pallet in hand, he drew in a deep breath, dabbed the brush in a medley of colors, and concentrated on his work.
“The face is the most important feature,” she cackled. “It doesn’t matter how good the rest of the creation is, it’s the face—the damn face—they always look at first. If you don’t grab their attention immediately, you’ve lost them.”
Ash shook his head with fierce determination, attempting to clear his head of distractions. But she wouldn’t stop.
“Cruelty has a human heart,” she squealed.
Ash clamped his eyes closed as tight as he could, mentally begging her to go away. I know what I’m doing, he thought, I don’t need you berating me.
He opened his eyes and visualized his finished work—the shocking beauty of his creation. He knew everyone who laid eyes on it would be speaking his name with admiration and respect.
With sure strokes and Zen-like concentration, he painted.
First the base and then the accents.
Day turned to dusk which soon gave way to night, but it didn’t matter. Ash could still see the rays of sunlight in his imagination, and he used them to construct the perfect representation of his thoughts.
Exhaustion came with the final details. The last touch of the brush to the canvas was almost orgasmic. He dropped his tools and nearly collapsed. He slouched on the nearby mattress, allowing his body to unfold, dropped his head back, and fell into a satisfying slumber.
Even as he slept, her voice persisted, “It doesn’t matter what you think of your work,
