At the studio in the old cigar factory, Ford poured two glasses of champagne and tried very hard not to think about his brother. Rupert was always in the back of his mind. He lived in fear of getting a phone call from home that something had happened to him. He’d try, instead, to concentrate on the fact that Greer, a woman he was extremely attracted to, was with him and willing to sit for a portrait he knew would be exquisite.
From the moment they’d entered the building, he’d sensed her shyness mixed with excitement and was touched by it.
He handed her a flute of champagne. “Cheers,” he said.
They touched glass rims, and she took a sip. “Mmmm,” she said, shimmering and curvy in her evening gown.
A beat of comfortable silence passed.
“How into this are you?” he asked her.
Her eyes widened. “What do you mean?”
“This portrait sitting can take a variety of forms. I want to work with you however I can get you. So I’ll present you the options, and we will go with what suits you best.”
“All right,” she said.
“We can do this with you fully clothed, half-clothed, or nude,” he said simply.
She froze. “Oh.”
He chuckled. “No need to be anxious. We’ll go where you want to go.”
“But you’re the artist.”
“Who’d have an empty canvas without you. Your feelings matter.”
She released a breath. “Which option do you prefer?”
He shook his head. “I’d rather not choose. I’d like to follow your whim.”
She thought for a few seconds. “Would one of those three choices help you more than the others … at that show in Manchester?”
“Kind of you to ask,” he said. “Yes, actually. Nude portraits always cause a bit more buzz, I think.”
She bit her lip. “I told Miss Thing I’m going to be more bold.” She looked up at him from beneath fringed lashes. “How many women get to be painted nude? In the prime of their lives?”
“Not many, I should think,” he said.
“Then let’s do it.” She drained her glass. “Another, please.” She held it out.
He refilled it. “Nude it is, then.”
She laughed. “Oh, my goodness,” she whispered, and looked at him over the rim, her eyes soft with worry.
“There’s nothing to fear,” he assured her.
She shot him a teasing smile. “I’m only doing this because I spoke to your mother. I know you’re a real artist.”
“Of course I am.” He certainly wasn’t going to subject her to having to strip in front of him. So he gave her instructions for disrobing behind the screen in the corner where he kept a stack of canvases and a couple of black robes hanging on a coatrack. “You can hang your dress there,” he said. “I’ll set up in the meantime. Take your time.”
In short order, she appeared in front of him again in the smaller black silk robe. The ivory chaise lounge with its plump silk pillows and a small table where he’d placed her champagne awaited her.
“Ready to begin?” he asked.
She nodded and slowly slipped off the robe. She tossed it on the table and stood before him in all her naked glory. The light was artificial, casting shadows beneath her chin, below her breasts, and a thin sliver at the top of her thigh. Her glass of champagne, with its bubbles rising steadily to the surface, was a suitable complement to her elegance, her stillness.
“You’re beautiful,” he said in his professional artist’s voice. “I’m honored to have you pose for me.”
“Thank you.” She shot him a slightly scared smile, backed up a step—he noted she was obviously self-conscious about exposing her backside to him—and sat on the chaise lounge. She kept her knees together and folded her hands in her lap.
“Right,” he said. “Lean back in any position you choose, then make a quarter-turn toward me. I want to spend a few minutes doing a full-body sketch, but whenever you want to warm up or cover up for any reason, grab the robe.”
“Will do,” she said in a quiet voice. She did what he asked, turning slightly toward him.
Her beauty took his breath away. “Excellent,” he said, maintaining his positive, almost professorial manner, and began to sketch. She kept her eyes on his easel. He saw curiosity there. Her left arm was draped over her belly, his signet ring on her middle finger.
“You’ve got the ring on,” he said. He felt a jolt of shock seeing it there. And then a ridiculous sort of pride. What a splendid woman to be wearing it!
“I figure I should get used to it for a little while,” she said, her tone teasing. Her right hand propped up her jaw. “Even fake engagements have certain protocols to follow.”
They were creating this crazy story together. He supposed it was quite hilarious. A sort of meaningless caper. If he had to do anything silly with anyone, he was glad it was with her.
But he focused again on the work. He had to work fast. He was afraid she’d disappear, like a beam of light covered by a cloud.
She laughed.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
“How intense you look,” she said. “Sorry—it’s actually not funny. I laugh sometimes when I’m nervous.”
“That’s fine.” He grinned. “I do tend to get carried away.”
“Should I not interrupt you by speaking?”
“Oh, no,” he said. “I chat all the time when I sketch and paint.”
“I’m assuming you didn’t paint Serena in the nude.”
“No. Her mother commissioned the portrait. She was barely out of school.”
“Did you get to know her well through conversations while you worked?”
“I think so. I understand her.”
“Can you explain? Or is that a private thing? You mentioned at The Rooftop that she had a rough childhood.”
“A whole ten years have gone by since I painted her, and she’s never told me I can’t talk about her history. She does herself, every once in a while, and doesn’t seem bothered.” He made a quick stroke of the charcoal pencil. The sketch was promising. “She had a very unhappy home life,” he told Greer. “Her late father was an alcoholic, and they had to pretend he wasn’t. Simple as that. The entire family covered for him until he died in his fifties of pancreatic cancer.”
“How sad. When was that?”
“When she was in boarding school in London. It was why her parents sent her. They didn’t want her to see him decline.”
“But what if she wanted to be with him during his last days.”
“I know.”
Greer sighed. “Wow. That helps me understand why she’s so relentlessly cheerful. She probably had to keep up appearances, pretend nothing was wrong.”
“I think so. And she knows I relate. She’s met Rupert and my parents. They came over one day when she was sitting for me. After they left, I told her we always kept a stiff upper lip about Rupert’s issues. But it’s difficult sometimes.”
“I can imagine.” Greer looked contemplatively at him. “There’s nothing difficult going on in Wesley’s family, as far as I know. They’re all-American. Two parents, three boys. Wesley is the oldest. Everyone has done well for themselves. No one has been left behind. It’s a wholesome story. The only thing that went wrong for them is when I turned down Wesley’s proposal.”
“I wonder what sort of ripples occurred in their household after that happened?” Ford asked.
“I wonder, too,” said Greer. “But I’ve never really asked. It’s something I’ve lost the privilege to know. And I’m okay with that. The ripples in my own home were enough to deal with.”
“Understood.” She wriggled a little, and immediately, he grew rock hard. He was glad the easel protected her from seeing him aroused. He wished it hadn’t happened, but nature would have its way, no matter how much he willed himself to be immune to her sensual charms while he worked. He’d simply have to work through it.
But he couldn’t find it in himself to speak. He would focus on sketching. He’d already finished the first. He was now on the second—same pose but a more energetic pencil stroke.
She was quiet, too. The vent overhead ticked comfortably, and the air came on. The cigar factory building was vast and empty at that hour, save for his little studio. Outside the night sky over Charleston was inky black, the stars obscured because of lights glowing from homes crowding the crisscrossed streets of the peninsula.
But if he looked out toward the harbor and the vast Atlantic beyond that, he could see the stars, perfect little points of light. The sky was nature’s canvas.
His own measly works … Would they ever amount to anything beyond clumsy attempts at human expression? He was good, he knew. He had expertise with oils. But his work wasn’t memorable. There was something he couldn’t break through. Some veil. Was it merely that he’d reached the pinnacle of his ability? And he was pounding on a door that was forever shut to him?
Or should he keep trying to open it?
It was a frustrating question.
It was eleven forty. She’d been so helpful, and now her eyes drooped. She was probably very tired after the night she’d had.
He put his charcoal pencil down. “Time to call it quits,” he said.
Her eyes widened slightly. “Already?”
“Said the sleepyhead.” He opened a drawer and tossed the pencil inside. “Come, let me get you home.”
She smiled and sat up. “It’s funny. I feel entirely comfortable now. And I’m not sleepy. Only relaxed.”
Relaxed.
He had to suppress the spike of lust that rose in him when she said that. She was like a sleek cat there on his chaise lounge, warm and vital. He came over to the small table, picked up the black silk robe, and tried to hand it to her. “I’m very glad,” he said.
She stood in front of him and purposefully gave it back. “Seems a little silly, now that you’ve seen me.” Her voice was soft. “It’s only a few steps to the screen.”
“Fine,” he said, amused, turned on. “If you’re comfortable, go right ahead.”
She walked away from him, a barefoot goddess. The curve of her bottom made him jet a breath too loud.
She looked back at him over her shoulder, her gaze like a banked fire.
Whoa, he thought. “You’re beautiful,” he said.
“Thank you.” She smiled.
And that was when he stopped being a painter who commanded his studio and was only a man again, one who’d fallen under the spell of an extremely sexy woman.