His Seductive Revenge. Susan Crosby
before. “Why don’t you put on some music now?”
“Because I don’t like it to influence me in the early stages. I figure out what suits the subject, then I choose the music to accompany me while I work. Your hair needs to be pulled back from your face.”
He set down his pad and pencil, then walked to a nearby chest of drawers. In a minute he returned, a length of black ribbon in his hand. He moved behind her.
“I’ll do it,” he said as she started to gather her hair into a ponytail
She closed her eyes. He combed her hair with his fingers as he pulled it back. The cool satin of the ribbon glided across her neck. His fingertips grazed her skin. She shivered. She wasn’t used to familiarity, especially from a stranger.
A man.
She’d grown up in a house where people seldom touched. Oh, she’d felt loved, but physical warmth was missing. Sometimes when she’d stayed overnight with friends, she’d seen how different families could be. On the other hand, no one argued at her house, which was also good. She froze during arguments. Logic slipped away, leaving only the emotion she was feeling, and she could never convey her emotions clearly while under duress.
“One of the first things I noticed about you,” Gabe said from behind her, “was your hair. More beautiful than fire.”
“I was born in the wrong century.” She tried to shrug off the mesmerizing lure of his voice. “I figured Titian would have hired me to model,” she said, referring to the Renaissance painter whose use of color brought him acclaim, particularly his redheaded subjects.
“Your hair is more gold than red.” Gabe moved then, coming to a stop in front of her, staring at her long enough to make her squirm. “Had Rubens gotten a look at you, however—Ah, I’ve made you uncomfortable. Forgive me. I tend to analyze too much.”
Cristina didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted. One of Rubens’s claims to fame was his paintings of voluptuous women. How many times in her adult life had she wished she’d lived in Rubens’s time instead of now?
“I used to be a lot thinner,” she said, then clamped her mouth shut.
“Oh?” Gabe settled in the seat beside her again and started sketching, pleased to be pulling information from her so easily. “Was thinner better, Cristina? Did you like yourself more?”
“No.” She blew out a breath, relaxing. “No. If anything, I hated it.”
He wanted tension back in her face. It would make for a much more interesting portrait than soft and sweet. He could tell her that she was beautiful. That would surely bring back the tension. Some women thrived on flattery, whether true or false. But not this woman. Even her posture had indicated it earlier. “Why did you hate it?”
“It wasn’t me. It wasn’t real.”
“Had you been ill?”
“No.”
She looked at her lap, and he stopped sketching to wait.
“I was a surprise, mid-life baby,” she said finally. “I came along twenty-five years into my parents’ marriage, when my mother was forty-six and my father fifty-five, long after they’d given up hope of ever having a child. They didn’t quite know what to do with me.”
Again, he waited. After a minute he rolled his stool directly in front of her and set his sketch pad aside. He clasped her hands. She looked up. His gaze never strayed from hers. “Tell me.”
She swallowed. “They had certain expectations.”
“Unrealistic ones.”
Cristina nodded. “My father was a state senator, so we lived in a fishbowl. I was to be well mannered, and studious, and a dainty little lady. The well-mannered part I could manage. And when my mother became terminally ill, I tried to make myself into what she wanted—a dainty woman. It was the hardest thing I’d done, but before she died two years ago, I’d made her proud, and I’m glad I did. I learned a lot about myself because of it.” She squeezed his hands. “Why am I telling you this?”
“Because you want me to paint the real Cristina.”
God. He was right! He was absolutely right. “Weight and all,” she said.
“You. As you. You’re lovely.”
She shook her head.
“Yes.” He lifted a hand to her face, stroked the flesh along her cheekbone with his thumb. “You weren’t born in the wrong century, either. I will paint you not only as you want the future Chandler generations to see you, but as I see you. Then you’ll know how beautiful you are.”
Oh, he tempted her with his words. He wanted to paint some exotic, erotic woman that wasn’t the least like her, maybe even a second, more-personal portrait in the De La Hoya style. And the allure of giving in to the flattery was strong, even as she knew it wasn’t something she would ever feel comfortable doing. What if the painting ended up in some gallery where someone she knew saw it? What if someone told her father? She’d disappointed him enough lately.
And the biggest “what if” of all—what if when Gabe saw her unclothed, he was repulsed. His imagination had undoubtedly painted a better picture than reality.
“I think we should focus on the portrait that will please my father,” she said, aware of changes in her body. Her nipples had drawn taut the moment he’d touched her face and now pulsed with a gentle ache.
She wondered whether he kissed hard or soft, whether he enticed or attacked, whether he would know how inexperienced she was. Jason’s kiss had been one hard, closed mouth pressed to another. She’d bet her trust fund that Gabriel Marquez never kissed with a closed mouth, nor hurried out the door the next second.
Cold seeped into her when he moved back, then she warmed as his gaze dropped to her breasts and he took note of her reaction to him. Confused, she stood and walked to the front window. “I’m not too sure that this is a good idea.”
“On the contrary, Cristina. This is the best idea I’ve ever had. I hope I can convince you of the same thing.”
“Let’s change the subject.”
A few seconds of silence filled the room. From outside she heard a bird trill, a car drive past, a child shriek with laughter. Uncomfortable with the quiet inside, she started to turn.
“Don’t move.”
The sound of pencil on paper held her suspended. She could see him in her peripheral vision, could feel the intensity of his focus.
“Put your right hand on the window, level with your shoulder. Spread your fingers open,” he instructed her. “Tip your head back a little. Look as far into the horizon as you can. Shoulders back. Good.”
He worked in silence for several minutes. “Put your left hand to your chest, over your heart. A bit lower. No—”
Gabe moved closer, then placed her hand where he wanted, spreading her fingers apart like her other hand, not letting his fingers brush her breasts.
A wistful pose, Gabe thought. “Angle toward me a little.” He flipped a page. “Now, turn only your head and look directly at me.” The pencil glided. “Who are you right now?”
A long pause, then, “Someone from a previous life.”
“Tell me.”
“A...a New England sea captain’s wife, I think, watching for my husband’s ship to return after a long journey.”
“A woman who waits.”
“A woman who worries. And pines.”
“Do you love your husband?” he asked.
“Oh, yes”
“How long have you been married?”
A