“Yes,” he murmurs to himself. He stands, takes me by the hand, and brings me toward the back of the house. “Here, come, come. To my studio.”
I let him lead me, curiosity overtaking me as he opens a room that his earlier tour did not include. My breath catches as I step inside. It is a smaller room but might just be the most beautiful one in the house. Moonlight makes the white walls and tile glow. An easel is set up in the center of the room, along with a small wooden table topped with paints and supplies. The workstation faces the far wall, which is made entirely of glass, curtains pulled back to present a gorgeous view of the sea. As I step toward it and look down, I can see the rocky plunge of the cliffs below, the crash of frothing waves against them. I press my fingertips to the glass, staring downward until my knees tremble and my stomach swoops, imagining the drop.
If anything could inspire a man to paint, surely it must be this: the ferocious dark beauty of the sea, just a pane of glass away. Smiling, I look back over my shoulder at Claude. “It’s beautiful.”
“Indeed,” he agrees, looking at me instead of the view. His brow is furrowed as though he’s trying to figure something out. “Mmm… sit here for me, please.” He gestures to an alcove seat at a corner of the room, just below the glass wall. I’m happy to oblige, thinking he wants me out of the way. The white cushions are plush, and the seat has the perfect view out the window. I pull my knees to my chest and gaze out, taken again by the moonlit cliffs outside, the dark sea beyond. It’s quite cozy here,probably a wonderful place to read during the daytime. Maybe even the moonlight would be enough, on a night like this.
“Oh, just like that,” Claude murmurs. “That look on your face… Lovely.”
My attention snaps back to him. He’s standing in front of his canvas, mixing paints, but when he catches me looking, he glances up and frowns.
“You’re going to have to sit still,” he admonishes.
“Wait a minute,” I say. “Are you paintingme?”
He blinks. “Well, yes. What did you think I was painting?”
Heat creeps into my face. “I… well… I don’t know! Your other paintings were all of places and things. Scenes, not people.” The cafe, the cathedral, the lighthouse. I’m surprised how vividly I can recall the paintings I saw at the ball, and I’m certain not one of them included a person.
“True,” he says, dipping his brush into the paint. “But as you may recall, it’s been a very long time. Seems as good a time as any to reinvent myself, no?”
“I…” I squirm in my seat, one foot tapping on the cushions, suddenly itching to be anywhere but here beneath his penetrating gaze. “I didn’t even do my makeup.”
“So? You are beautiful without it.”
He says it so casually. My face is so hot, it must be glowing red. “Surely there are better things to paint.”
He gives me an assessing look, and then shrugs. “I find myself hard-pressed to think of any.”
“But I’m just…” I gesture at myself, fumbling to think of any appropriate words. Unremarkable? Ordinary? Plain?Human?
“Just the woman who reawakened my muse?” he suggests.
“I mean, sure. Maybe there’s something different about myblood. But I figured you would drink it and paint something beautiful.”
“That is precisely what I intend to do,” he says, his eyes never leaving me.
I turn away from him, staring determinedly out the window to prevent him from seeing me blush. I’m scrambling for an argument, but I can’t seem to find one that makes sense, other than a petulantThis isn’t what I wanted.
“That’s a good pose as well,” Claude murmurs.
“I’m not posing,” I snap at him. “I’m just sitting.”
“You’re a natural, then.”
“Stop it!” I turn back to him. He meets my glower with an innocent blink.
“Stop what?”
“Teasing me.” Despite my best efforts to maintain my composure, the heat in my face tells me I’ve failed. I wind my fingers together in my lap.
“Nora,” he says after a moment. “I’m not teasing.”
I continue staring down into my lap, unable to meet his gaze. He sounds sincere, but everything within me rebels against what he’s saying. It’s so much easier for me to accept that he’s full of shit. That this is some sort of game. Maybe his revenge on me for insisting we maintain a professional relationship—he’ll tease me relentlessly, make me blush and stutter like a fool, just so he can laugh at me.
A beat passes.
“May I paint you now?” he asks. “I’d like to chase this feeling while I still have it.”
