Driven to Distraction (Silhouette Desire S.) by Sheri Whitefeather, Dixie Browning

thumbs-up, his thumb stained with what she now recognized as alizarin crimson.
    Where the dickens did he see anything red out there? Was he color blind?
    Wearing a crisply ironed smock and his usual beret, Silver meandered among his students offering a word of advice here, a compliment there. He went lighterthan usual on criticism, which in Maggie’s estimation was a good thing. It wouldn’t take much for her to throw everything into her hatchback and head home, mission or no mission. Suzy had reluctantly agreed to cooperate, but so far Silver had shown surprisingly little interest. Today he ignored her completely, probably figuring that like Maggie and Ben, she was beyond help.
    Instead, he spared most of the time and attention for his older students. Not Charlie—not Janie or Georgia, either, but as they were all adequate painters, they didn’t really need him. Janie, in particular, had a style Maggie liked. She called it her “who gives a hoot, I’m having fun!” style.
    Silver spent most of his time with a small group of students who lapped up his every word as if it were nectar. Ben caught her eye and nodded at the cluster of appreciative women. At least his mission appeared to be on track.
    A few minutes later Silver moved to the edge of the rough lawn, stepped up on a low granite outcropping and clapped his hands for attention. “All right, children, lunchtime is critique time. When you’re finished here, make sure your work’s dry and take it in to the studio.” He glanced at the sky. “Leave everything else outside, we’ll try to squeeze in another hour after lunch before the rain starts.”
    There were a few groans, but the overall response was muted excitement. Evidently artists were masochists, willing to endure everything from gnats to glaring sunshine to swollen ankles and aching feet for their art.
    Ben tucked something in his shirt pocket, rolled uphis morning’s work, dry or not, and joined Maggie, who was scowling at the mess she’d made on a perfectly good piece of white paper.
    She said, “Is there some secret to keeping your skies from wandering downhill and messing up your mountains?”
    â€œWhat you have to do, see, is learn to go with the flow.” He draped a companionable arm across her shoulder. The magic was still there, but today there was an added quality. A sort of best-buddies warmth that was almost—not quite—as potent.
    â€œI read that on a T-shirt somewhere.” It had been her mother’s T-shirt, worn with a long, flowered skirt. Come to think of it, long flowered skirts were back in style again. Going with the flow never would be, not as far as Maggie was concerned. She had too much ambition. Too many people depending on her. If she went with the flow the way her mother had done, her dad would end up living on junk food and clogging his arteries and Mary Rose would probably end up broke and brokenhearted.
    â€œWhat’s that in your pocket?” she asked, watching the rocky terrain carefully so as not to trip. She didn’t have a whole lot of dignity left; she’d just as soon hang onto whatever she could salvage.
    â€œShow you later,” he promised, which only perked up her curiosity.

Seven
    I t was devastating. Maggie laughed aloud at the caricature of a willowy man in a beret and a flowing smock. His long, thin nose was exaggerated, his eyes baggier and too close together, but the resemblance was striking. “I thought you said you didn’t have any artistic talent.”
    â€œI don’t. A friend of mine is a police artist and she taught me a few things. Mostly she used composites in her work, but she had a great eye when it came to summing up a particular set of features.”
    Maggie tried to see Ben through the eyes of a caricaturist—or a police artist. The way his thick, dark hair grew, with that bit he was always shoving back off his forehead. The winged curve