Page 37

THIRTY-SEVEN

Reckless

Vivianne

Am I out of my mind?

When did this go from discussing posing for a painting to gathering furs, boas, oils, and sketchpads?

Paul wants to paint not just one portrait but an entire series. The idea sends a thrill of supercharged electricity thrumming along my veins. My nerves pick up on the excitement, becoming hyperalert until my skin heats with repressed sensuality.

I take in a breath and hold it until my chest burns.

When did I agree to pose nude?

But the idea of him painting me does strange things to my insides. The word yes may not have passed my lips, but there’s no way I’ll say no.

It’s too enticing.

Intoxicating.

Sensually seductive.

Paul paces and runs his fingers through his raven-black hair. His gaze darts around the room, perhaps organizing his thoughts or judging the interplay of light from the chandelier overhead and the heated glow of the fire.

I settle back, letting the warm leather hug me tight, mesmerized by the way his exquisite muscles flex with each determined stride. His broad shoulders move with effortless power, the interplay of light highlighting the sharp planes of his chest and the strength in his arms. His raven-black hair, thick and just slightly tousled, falls perfectly into place, framing his face in a way that makes my heart skip.

His eyes, so intense and alive, seem to hold the weight of a thousand thoughts, brilliance flickering there even in silence. The way his fingers move, deft and sure, hints at both the strength and tenderness he is capable of.

I can’t help but admire his profile—the defined jaw, the hint of stubble that catches the light, the lips that know how to coax both laughter and sighs from me. Everything about him draws me in, his presence commanding, yet filled with an elegance that only makes him more captivating.

There is an intimacy now in how I watch him, my attraction growing deeper, more intense, and more impossible to resist.

I shift quietly, realizing how my clothing somehow feels more constricting with the entirety of his focus on me, and mine on him. It pinches at my waist and bites at my neck. Even the soft cotton of my sleeves cuts against my skin.

I want to shed it like a snake, divesting myself of the offending fabric to become something altogether new.

Too soon, and it will be gone—this fleeting escape from my overbearing father and the future that waits for me, a marriage I never wanted. After this weekend, I’ll have to return to my gilded cage, and the thought tears at me. I wish I had more time with Paul, more than just these precious hours. But I don’t.

Leaving me what?

Naked?

Not just physically exposed but immortalized on canvas, captured by him.

The thought makes my pulse quicken. It’s more than being nude—it’s being remembered. He will paint me, each stroke of his brush forever marking the image of me, and long after this weekend, those paintings will be there. He will have them, these reminders of me, even when I can no longer be with him.

And I…I will have the memory of his gaze, the way he saw me, in every detail. But it’s really not fair. He gets to keep a piece of me—a version of me on canvas, captured forever—while I will have nothing left of him.

Nothing to remember him by. This is the moment where I wish for more—because my future looks so bleak, and it’s just not fair. Wouldn’t it be nice if I had something, anything, to remember him by?

I can’t change the future that waits for me, but what I can do is enjoy the here and now. I want to savor every second of this—enjoy the process of my body being revealed to Paul, an artist with impeccable skill. And if nothing else, I’m going to soak up every single memory of this moment because soon that’s all I’ll have left.

I surely have lost my mind.

“Um, Paul…”

“Yes?”

“Are you certain?—”

He turns toward me, a slight smile playing on his lips. “No backing out, Vivianne. Not now.”

His stare pierces the distance between us, and instead of scooting further back into the chair, I meet the intensity of his expression with my chin firm and gaze steady.

“Sorry,” I say and place my palm over my belly. “Feels like a herd of butterflies suddenly took flight in my stomach. I’m really nervous.”

“A herd?” he teases, his laughter light, the tension in his shoulders melting away, and with it, some of the tightness inside me. “Don’t worry, ma chère . I promise you’re not going to forget this, and I’m going to make sure you’re comfortable. Trust me.”

I can’t help but laugh at myself for a moment. I must be insane to even consider doing this. My father would be apoplectic if he knew. I already hear his recriminations, his voice dripping with disdain—how I’m reckless, how I’m throwing away everything he worked so hard to build for me. The biting tone he uses when he talks about anything that doesn’t fit into his rigid plans for my future. And here I am, about to do the most unthinkable thing.

My father’s voice echoes in my mind—the acidic bite of his words churning with doubt. “A Faulks, dear Viv, doesn’t allow desire to overtake reason.”

But I don’t care.

For once, I want to drown in passion, lose my mind, and fall off the edge of bliss. If I do that nude in front of the fireplace, draped over Paul’s furs, then so be it. With a loveless marriage looming in my future, I would be a fool to miss this opportunity.

My father taught me how to guard my heart. I don’t fear losing perspective. Whatever might or might not occur with Paul will be a transient thing, but not delving into the what-ifs and what might be will haunt me for life.

Paul says we have all night. Tomorrow will be nothing but a show. If possible, I’d love to spend the entire weekend in Paul’s arms and enjoy every moment of our time together.

Screw my hesitation and fears.

For this evening and the rest of this weekend, I choose to live without fear and embrace unbridled passion.

It’s strange, though. As I let myself get swept up in this moment, I can’t help but think of what will come after. This escape is temporary, a fleeting brush with freedom before everything comes crashing back. My father, with his rigid plans and his scorn, would never understand any of this.

He wants me caged, controlled, molded into something that fits his narrative. And after this weekend, I will have to return to that reality. But here, right now, I can let go. I can indulge in every sensation, every glance and touch from Paul, as if this is the only world that matters.

Maybe that’s why I feel the need to ask. Maybe that’s why, just as I’m ready to lose myself, my mind circles back to something that doesn’t fit. Something that’s been bothering me.

“You know, something’s been bothering me,” I begin with more than a little caution. “Why place a forgery at the Musée d’Orsay and make it a Starling forgery? I know you didn’t do it. You were with me in New York, but…Is anyone out to get you? And if so, aren’t you concerned about the auction?”

Paul’s eyes darken, his expression tightening. He steps toward me, controlled, measured. “That piece of trash is no Starling.” He draws in a breath, and his voice softens, though a flicker of frustration lingers.

I blink, cutting off his voice. “But isn’t someone trying to pin the theft and the murder of the guard on you?”

His gaze falters for a second, something vulnerable slipping through. He sighs and looks away. “It wasn’t me. It was my brother.”

The revelation takes the air from my lungs. “Your brother?”

Before Paul can respond, Anthony returns, his arms laden with silks, feather boas, and various furs, all shades of cream and white. He freezes, his eyes flicking between us, tension palpable.

“What did you say?” Anthony demands, his voice sharp, almost panicked. His gaze cuts between us, his mouth working as if he has more to say but doesn’t dare.

I stare at him, stunned. No servant speaks to his master in that tone of voice. A flicker of suspicion sparks in my mind—Anthony isn’t acting like a servant at all.

What exactly is his relationship with Paul? My legs shake, and I stagger back, placing a hand on the back of the chair for support.

“What the hell is going on around here?” Anthony demands again, voice taut.

Paul’s eyes narrow, his expression tightening. “Anthony,” he says, his voice calm but edged with warning. He’s trying to keep control, to stop Anthony from saying anything more.

He’s desperately trying to keep something from me, which only makes my suspicion grow. But it’s clear he’s already said too much, and he knows it.

I turn to Anthony, my heart racing. “Who are you?”

Anthony places his bundle on the butler’s table, his face a mask of worry. “ Mademoiselle Faulks, if you would please excuse us for a moment.” He turns his gaze on Paul, eyes fierce. “A word, if you please, in the hall.”

Paul turns to me, his eyes softening as if there’s something he wants to say but holds back. “In a minute.” He strides to the stack of silks and furs, grabbing a length of shimmering white fabric. He returns to me, his movements gentler now, extending his hand. “Vivianne.”

My name, as it spills from his tongue, sets my body buzzing with nervous anticipation.

“Yes?”

“Come.”

He doesn’t explain; he merely takes my hand and leads me from the room down a short hallway without another word. He pushes open a door that leads into a small, ornate powder room smelling of lavender and scented soap.

“If you would, remove your clothes and meet us back in the salon.” He hands me the white silk, his eyes searching mine. “I will explain everything—later.”

I remember Paul mentioning there were some secrets he couldn’t share with me, that those belonged to another. It has me wondering if one of those secrets doesn’t involve Anthony, and I’m suddenly very interested in finding out what secrets Anthony is keeping from me.

Softly, he closes the door, leaving me trembling, my heart pounding. I glance down at the robe, biting my lower lip, wondering if there’s some way to eavesdrop on the conversation I’m certain is occurring between the two men. With a sigh, I breathe out my frustration, my voice barely a whisper.

“It seems I have no choice.”

Except I do have a choice. Paul has always given me a choice. I can stay and pose, or I can leave. Staying exposes me to risk, but Anthony will be present. This session will remain professional—exactly what I don’t want—but to refuse would mean leaving any possibility of a liaison with Paul behind.

I catch my reflection in the mirror, and the truth hits me. I might be an honored guest or a reluctant prisoner, but either way, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.

Slowly, I undress.