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. Created with Vellum 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,
