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TWENTY

An Artist

Vivianne

I find Paul’s studio a wonderful mixture of chaotic brilliance and obsessive cleanliness. I haven’t been to many artists’ studios, but those I did frequent were disasters of turpentine-soaked rags, paint-filled brushes, and canvas after canvas stacked against every wall. They’re nothing compared to the pristine conditions in Paul’s studio.

For a man who seems in control of every nuance and who hasn’t given me the option to refuse his invitation, he seems overly observant of my every move.

Is he testing me?

I don’t know if I’m passing or failing.

Another oddity is finding only one painting in production. Ruined, he calls it, but the mixture of sketched lines and oils blend into an effortless flow of movement and light, generating a visceral reaction.

His idea of ruined looks like a masterpiece to my trained eye. Paul has genius-level skill and an impeccable eye for imbuing motion to a static canvas. I want to see more of his work.

Maybe I’ll have a chance later.

What little is revealed by that one painting implies much about how Paul views the world. He captured a living essence and transferred it to canvas, where its unrepressed energy will live forever.

Not only is he brilliant, but his work breathes itself into life.

It’s magical. And he wants to paint me.

A nude no less—unless I misunderstood.

Instead of answering, I deflect. The question remains as to whether I’ll allow it. Something tells me he isn’t talking about a simple portrait.

I’ve had portraits done a few times in my life—the first when I was six. I remember agonizing days of, “Sit still, Vivianne,” and “Stop wiggling.” That summer was excruciating, and all I wanted was to go outside and play.

At thirteen, I posed again—that time for a fat, smelly man. He had skill but was so offensive that I cried at the end of each session and begged my father to commission another artist.

The last time my portrait was painted, it was for my debutante presentation. Ostentatious and over the top with its feminine themes, I hate that one the most.

All three paintings grace the halls of the Faulks estate. I’ve tried taking them down, leaving the walls bare, but my father always found the portraits and put them back in the public areas of the house with strict instructions to never touch them again.

Now, Paul wants me to pose nude.

I don’t know how I feel about that, so I ponder my answer as we walk to a patisserie he favors.

We snack on ham-and-cheese-stuffed croissants and sip coffee while people stroll by. I keep the conversation frivolous and light, avoiding anything to do with him painting me or even with our upcoming assignment. My role remains both disturbing and oddly exciting.

“You mentioned you visited Montmartre the other day?” Paul finishes his plate and leans back, kicking his ankle over his knee. His words pull me from my thoughts.

“I did.”

“Did you ride that?” He points to the little white train lumbering up the mount.

I laugh. “I did not. My guidebook made fun of tourists who ride the train, saying it’s only meant for the weak and infirm. I walked the whole place, reached the top, and toured the Basilica. I was pretty tired from my flight, but my driver insisted that staying awake was the best way to battle jet lag.”

“Did it work?”

“Surprisingly, yes. And it was the most beautiful day, a little chilly, which was great because it kept me awake.”

“I’d love it if you spent the rest of the day with me.” Paul laces his fingers together and places them behind his head. “We should have dinner. The auction tonight doesn’t start until ten.” He manages to seem bored and disinterested in the pedestrian traffic passing in front of our table but scans the crowd with uncanny diligence.

I won’t survive another dinner with him. The man is too sexy, and it’s too easy to fall under his spell, but I don’t have a choice.

“Thank you for lunch. Your studio was an unexpected treat, and I hope you’ll share more of your work with me.”

There’s a fluidity to the unfinished piece he showed me. I’ve never seen anything like it, and I’m surprised I’ve never heard his name until New York. A niggling thought has me wondering if I haven’t seen him before.

There’s something familiar about his work.

An odd energy flows between us, an effortless grace between two people who are otherwise relative strangers. We’re being thrust together too soon and too fast. It’s all business , but something is happening between us.

Something I don’t understand.

Something I can’t afford but desperately want.

Not understanding that something is dangerous. I don’t like that.