Page 36

THIRTY-SIX

Five Course Meal

Paul

Merlin serves us a five-course meal, and I explain what Vivianne might expect at the auction, steering clear of the one question she’s asked of me.

I’ve attended countless events like this in my quest to hunt leads over the years. This one will be no different. I could take it or leave it, and I did nearly as much when the invitation arrived several weeks ago.

I accepted only because of the woman who sits across from me now. Her beauty stuns me as it captivated every man in that auditorium at the Met.

There’s power in such regal beauty.

Her inquisitive mind fascinates me.

I understand more about Vivianne Faulks than perhaps she would be comfortable with me knowing. A mother who died in childbirth left an infant daughter to grow up beneath the cold machinations of a man more interested in securing his family’s legacy than loving a little girl.

I am not unaware of her engagement and looming marriage. Part of her role this weekend will jeopardize that, calling into question her loyalty to her fiancé. I’d be worried, except, it’s as if she embraces the deception, desperately seeking a way out of her life.

In her own way, Vivianne rebels against her father and the strings he pulls, and I’m more than willing to assist her efforts.

“Who cooked this?” she asks, lifting a napkin to wipe daintily at the corner of her mouth. “It’s amazing.”

“Anthony cooked our meal,” I reply. “Generally, I have a cook who prepares everything, but she’s snowed in.”

“Is it common to have such heavy snowfall this late in the year?”

“The Alps see snow nearly year-round, but it is unusual for the roads not to have been cleared by now.”

“Will this be a problem for tomorrow? How will we get down the pass?”

“We’re already on the other side of the mountains. The road back to Paris is blocked, but we can safely travel to Lac Léman.”

“Oh, I suppose I don’t know where I am, and honestly, I feel a bit naked without my phone.”

I can’t help but lift the corner of my mouth and enjoy the faint blush rising on her cheeks. Imagining her naked has my fingers itching for a brush.

“That’s not what I meant,” she says, glancing down and tucking her napkin in her lap.

“I want to paint you. You’re exquisite.”

“Thank you.” Her blush intensifies. “I’ve sat for a few portraits before. They weren’t fun experiences.”

“You won’t be bored if I paint you. You’re the perfect subject for a nude, and it would be my honor to capture your essence on canvas.”

“My father wouldn’t approve.”

“Too risqué?”

I’m intrigued by her search for excuses. It’s not that she doesn’t want to do it, but that her father won’t allow it.

I can work with that.

“He would say that,” she says with a nod.

“My paintings are tactful, ma chère . I can paint you from the back or the side if you prefer, but that would not be my preference.”

More pink colors her cheeks. “Well … The nibbling of her lower lip has to be a good sign. “I don’t know.”

Anthony comes to the table, his bushy brows twitching furiously with the direction our conversation is heading. Vivianne leans back to allow him to clear her plate.

Her gaze flicks up to meet mine but skitters away, either out of fear or something more promising. It isn’t clear.

She clears her throat, a light, delicate sound. “I would love to sit for you, but I don’t think we would have time?—”

“I can paint you tonight,” I say with hurried breath. “It doesn’t take me weeks to finish a piece. It would take but a few hours. We can set up by the fire. It’s warm there. The lighting would be perfect.”

Anthony returns, stalling our conversation, and places dessert plates full of fruits and cheeses before us.

“Dare to live,” I say.

“Excuse me?”

“I dare you to live a little. You said your father won’t approve. You don’t have to please him. He never has to see it. I’ll keep it here, something to remember from our time together. Who knows, it might be my most impressive piece yet.”

She does it again, nibbles at her lower lip, and lowers her gaze, staring at the fresh fruit and freshly sliced cheese on her plate. The word no never comes, leading me to believe there’s hope.

She picks up a sliced strawberry, wets her lips, and nibbles. “I don’t know…”

At least she’s thinking about it. I can’t keep my eyes off that very fortunate strawberry.

The tip of her tongue presses lightly against the juicy red fruit, and her lips curve around it.

Shifting uncomfortably, I wait for her decision. My plate remains untouched. The only dessert I crave is the taste of her on my lips.

“You wouldn’t show it?”

“Not if you don’t want me to, but, Vivianne, you belong on the walls of the Louvre.” And I could paint her there—either under my name or borrowing the name of another—as yet one more undiscovered masterpiece. But I want her all to myself.

I snap my fingers, drawing Merlin’s attention. “Gather my oils.”

“Sir,” Merlin warns, “are you certain?”

“Yes.” I won’t finish the painting tonight. The ability resides within me, but this is a creation I intend to savor. Maybe even make an entire series?

Yes.

I will call it the Woman in White because Vivianne is a picture of elegance.

No. Not that.

I will title my creation The Swan .

She deserves nothing less. A beautiful woman with a precious heart will be immortalized on my canvas.

“And, Anthony …” I add.

“Yes, sir?” Merlin inquires.

The disapproval I expect to burn in Merlin’s tone is not present. It causes me to stare at my mentor, surprised by how he assesses Vivianne.

Perhaps he wishes to paint her as well?

I have impeccable skill, but a gift from God himself graces Merlin’s artistic eye. It’s a shame to see that talent blunted by the tremors of age.

“Please bring my sketchpad.” I rise from the table and come around to her seat, pulling her chair back and helping her stand. “I’m inspired to create a series.”

I turn back to Vivianne. Her eyes round with surprise, perhaps realizing she’s given tacit approval somewhere along the way.

She hasn’t, but I will push until she gives a definite no. So far, her responses are cautionary hedges, but I sense interest.

She saw that ruined painting in my studio and felt something in my work. Perhaps I will draw and paint her and combine the two mediums on canvas as a tribute to the woman who had a hand in crafting that piece.

“Really?”

“Yes, just now. Images and visions of not one piece but an entire collection. Five poses. I even have a name.”

“ The Reluctant Model ?” The corners of her eyes crinkle with her joke, but her soul isn’t in it. The poor thing is terrified.

“No. I’ll make this easy and ensure you feel comfortable and safe.”

“Do we have to use my face? I would feel more comfortable if the painting couldn’t be traced back to me.”

“Absolutely,” I say. “That’s perfect. Now, come. Let me get you settled and prepare our studio.”

I lead her back to the parlor. The fire in the hearth has died down. Embers glow beneath the iron stand, and most of the log has turned to ash. I settle her in the leather chair, angling it to face the fire.

“I need to gather a few things.” I cast around the room for props I could use during sketching.

Merlin enters, balancing a wooden box full of my brushes and a tray of my oils in one hand. Beneath his other arm, he clasps a notepad. Gently, he deposits everything on the low table between the chairs.

“I’ll return with your easel,” Merlin says. “Is there anything else you require?”

“More wood for the fire, a robe for Mademoiselle Faulks, and…” I tap my chin, debating what else I might need.

“Some furs. And a feathered boa, the white one,” I rattle off the list. I hope Vivianne doesn’t ask too many questions about why I have such things easily on hand.

“Yes, sir,” Merlin says.

“Paul?” Vivianne asks.

“Yes?”

“What is the name? For the collection? You never said.”

“ The Swan .”

At this, Merlin stumbles, catching himself against the back of the chair. His penetrant eyes pierce me with a flare of surprise, aghast that I chose that name.

I shrug. “It seems the best fit.” While I speak to Vivianne, my reply is for Merlin, the man who spent a lifetime trying to recover that piece of his family’s legacy.

“A bold name,” Merlin says.

“It’s beautiful,” Vivianne says, clasping her hands beneath her chin. “I love it.”

“I hoped you would.”

She shoots forward in her seat. “Did you paint the picture hanging above the tub in my room?”

I nod.

“Oh, wow.” She curls her lower lip between her teeth, uncertainty flickering in her eyes. “I know it’s your work, but if there’s any way to incorporate some of that into what you paint of me, I would love that. The power. The beauty. Can you do that with me?”

“If that’s what you wish.”

“Yes, please. Just don’t paint my face in any of them.”

I grasp her hand. “Now, that’s a deal. How do you feel about fur?”

“Love it.”