Tribute

viewpoints, problems. And the duality . . . Not important for today’s purposes,” he said. “You’re my woman.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “Dr. Cass Murphy, archaeologist, professor of same. Cool, quiet, solitary woman whose heart really lies in the field work. The discovery. Prodigy. Nobody gets too close to Cass. She’s all business. That’s the way she was raised. She’s emotionally repressed.”
    “I’m emotionally repressed?”
    “I don’t know yet, but she is. See.” He pulled out his sketchbook, flipped to a page. Angling her head, Cilla studied the drawing, studied herself if she wore conservative suits, sensible pumps and glasses.
    “She looks boring.”
    “She wants to look boring. She doesn’t want to be noticed. If people notice her, they might get in the way, and they might make her feel things she doesn’t want to feel. Even on a dig, she . . . See?”
    “Hmm. Not boring but efficient and practical. Maybe subtly sexy, given the mannish cut of the shirt and pants. She’s more comfortable this way.”
    “Exactly. You’ve got a knack for this.”
    “I’ve read my share of storyboards. I don’t know your field, but I can’t see much of a story with this character.”
    “Oh, Cass has layers,” he assured her. “We just have to uncover them the way she uncovers artifacts at a dig. The way she’ll uncover an ancient weapon and symbol of power when she’s trapped in a cave on a mythical island I have to create, after she discovers the dastardly plans of the billionaire backer of the project, who’s also an evil sorcerer.”
    “Naturally.”
    “I’ve got some work to do there, but here she is. Brid, Warrior Goddess.”
    “Wow.” It was really all she could think of. She was all leather and legs, breastplate and boobs. The boring and practical had become the bold, dangerous and sexy. She stood, legs planted in knee-high boots, masses of hair swirling and a short-handled, double-headed hammer lofted skyward.
    “You might’ve exaggerated the cup size,” she commented.
    “The . . . Oh, well, it’s hard to tell. Besides, the architecture of the breastplate’s bound to give them a boost. But you hit on what you can do for me. Pose. I can get what I need from candid sketches, but I’d get better with—”
    “Whoa.” She slapped her hand over his as he flipped to a page covered with small drawings of her. “Those aren’t character sketches. That’s me.”
    “Yeah, well, same thing, essentially.”
    “You’ve been over there, watching me over here, making drawings of me without my consent? You don’t see that as rude and intrusive?”
    “No, I see it as work. If I snuck over here and peeked in your windows, that would be rude and intrusive. You move like an athlete with just a hint of dancer. Even when you’re standing still there’s a punch to it. That’s what I need. I don’t need your permission to base a character on your physicality, but I’d do a better job with your cooperation.”
    She shoved his hand away to flip back to the warrior goddess. “That’s my face.”
    “And a great face it is, too.”
    “If I said I’m calling my lawyer?”
    At Ford’s feet, Spock grumbled. “That would be shortsighted and hard-assed. And your choice. I don’t think you’d get anywhere, but to save myself the hassle, I can make a few alterations. Wider mouth, longer nose. Make her a redhead—a redhead’s not a bad idea. Sharper cheekbones. Let’s see.”
    He dug out a pencil, flipped to a fresh page. While Cilla watched, he drew a quick freehand sketch.
    “I’m keeping the eyes,” he muttered as he worked. “You’ve got killer eyes. Widen the mouth, exaggerate the bottom lip just a hair more, diamond-edge those cheekbones, lengthen the nose. It’s rough, but it’s a great face, too.”
    “If you think you can goad me into—”
    “But I like yours better. Come on, Cilla. Who doesn’t want to be a superhero? I promise you, Brid’s going to kick a lot more ass than Batgirl.”
    She hated feeling stupid, and feeling her temper shove at her. “Go away. I’ve got work to do.”
    “I take that as a no on posing for me.”
    “You can take that as, if you don’t go away, I’m going to get my own magic hammer and beat you over the head with it.”
    Her hands curled into fists when he smiled at her. “That’s the spirit. Just let me know if you change your mind,” he said as he slid the sketchbook back into his bag. “See you later,” he added