If he was willing? He couldn’t imagine turning her down, not when she was sharing so much of herself. He kept his voice soft, like he was coaxing a stray cat out of an alley. “I’ll do whatever you want.”
“But…um…can you keep making drinks? It’ll be easier if you’re doing something else. Because I’m still so ashamed.” She leaned down and placed her head in her hands.
His heart swelled with empathy. He reached over and tugged one of her hands aside. “Victoria. Look at me.Please.”
When she lifted her head, her eyes glistened with tears. “I was so stupid.”
With gentle fingers, he stroked her cheek. “Remember I told you I smashed up the family car? That last year of high school, after my dad died, I did more than that. I ran with a shitty crowd and almost got arrested. I got drunk and got into fights. My brothers couldn’t deal with me. That’s why they shipped me off to my uncle in San Diego, to work for his restaurant.”
“But you were dealing with the grief from your father’s death. You had a reason.”
“Maybe so, but even after I came back to Escondido, after I’d cleaned up my act, I still screwed up.” When she gave him a curious look, he abandoned all hope of hiding the truth. “At a rehearsal dinner we catered two years ago, I hooked up with the bride’s younger sister. We had sex in the supply closet.”
She smiled. “It wouldn’t be my top choice for a rendezvous, but it’s not that shocking. As long as you both wanted it.”
“We did, but we weren’t that discreet. And her parents were pretty old-fashioned. They thought their youngest daughter was this sweet, innocent virgin when she’d been pulling that shit for years. It took a lot of finessing on Martin’s part to stop her father from beating the crap out of me. He had to give them a substantial refund, and he still hasn’t let me forget it.”
Nor had anyone else in the family.
“My mistake wasn’tthatimpulsive, but I was so gullible. The worst part was that Iletit happen.” She took a deep breath. “You already know I spent a semester in Paris.”
“Sure. It was just before we met.” Her tales of all the food she’d tried—especially the French pastries—were one of the reasons he’d started experimenting with other cuisines.
“Right. I came home from France in June. Two weeks later, my life fell apart.”
When she looked away again, he got busy, reviewing the ingredients for the next drink on the list—a cinnamon rosemary old-fashioned. He grabbed a bottle of Valois Brandy, curious to try it after hearing her brother rave about it.
She continued. “When I was in Paris, I met this artist named Henri. There was an outdoor café near the university, where we went after class. He was often there in the afternoons, sketching. One day, he stopped by my table and flirted with me. I was impressed because he seemed so worldly.”
“I hate him already,” Rafael grumbled. That earned him a smile from Victoria. He poured the old-fashioned into two highball glasses and added a twist of orange to each.
She took a sip. “Nice. I like the rosemary. Using Valois Brandy would please my father. Let’s put it on the maybe list.”
“You got it.” The top-shelf brandy elevated the cocktail above a simple old-fashioned.
“I went out a few times with Henri,” she said. “But I always felt out of my depth. He was at least thirty, and I was this twenty-year-old sorority girl from Southern California. He took me to restaurants that tourists never visit and to galleries so I could see his paintings on display. When he asked me to pose for him, I was flattered. Until he said he wanted to paint me in the nude.”
Henri sounded like a total prick, preying on younger women. For Victoria’s sake, Rafael wanted to fly across the Atlantic and punch the guy in the face. “That’s a red flag right there.”
“I know. That’s why I refused. But he mocked me. Said I was nothing but a prudish American schoolgirl. A Frenchwoman would never have such inhibitions about her body. And he broke things off.” She finished the old-fashioned and pushed the glass toward Rafael.
Wanting to pace himself, he only downed half his drink before setting his glass next to hers. He wanted to reach over and touch her, just for reassurance, but he sensed she needed her space. “You were better off without him.”
“I know that now, but at the time, I was hurt. I’d always thought of myself as sophisticated and worldly. After a few weeks, I sought him out and agreed to pose for him.”
When she looked away again, he concentrated on mixing up another drink. “Next up, a candy cane martini with peppermint schnapps. The recipe calls for heavy cream, but I don’t see any.”
“In the fridge.” Victoria kept her eyes low as she played with strands of her hair. “Anyway…umm…we had sex first, to get him in the mood. After that, he told me to pose on the bed.”
“So he could paint you?” Rafael didn’t care if Henri was a fucking Picasso. The guy sounded like a world-class perv.
“No. So he could take photos. To inspire him in the creation of his masterpiece.” Her voice trembled. “I should have said no, but I wanted to prove I wasn’t an uptight schoolgirl. Since he used an old-fashioned camera—the kind with film—I wasn’t as worried. He wasn’t some horny frat boy taking photos of me with his phone. Some of the poses were very erotic, but I did what he asked.”
Rafael’s hand shook as he measured out the schnapps and the cream. The whole scenario was fucked up. “Was that it?”
“Pretty much. I left for a few weeks to visit Spain and Portugal but didn’t tell anyone about the photos because I was afraid of what they’d say. When I got back, Henri told me the portrait was ready. To be fair, he didn’t lie about his artistic ability. Do you want to see it?”
He wavered for a minute but worried that if he refused, he’d make her feel worse. “Sure. If you don’t mind.”
