“This is not what I had in mind,” I say, standing in the middle of the room while Claude mixes paints on his palette. I feel exposed in my white sundress, the hem skimming above my knees. He’s donned a deep V-neck shirt and tight trousers that are about as close to casual as I’ve ever seen him. But his hair is still in disarray, wild curls springing every which way. His eyes are bright, almost wild, but shadows linger beneath them.
“You’ll have to trust my artistic vision,” he says, looking pleased with himself. “Personally, I think it’s brilliant. Maybe all this time what I really needed was a beautiful canvas to work upon.”
I roll my eyes and grit my teeth. I hate when he says things like that, because Iknowit’s the sort of line he must use with everyone. But most of all, I hate the way it sends butterflies through my stomach. My body reacts to his flirtations even though my mind knows better.
When he kneels on the tile, heat slowly creeps up the back of my neck, over my ears, until it consumes my entire face in red-hot fire. I try to think of something else,anythingelse to distract me from what’s happening, but it’s impossible when he’s on his knees in front of me.
“There has to be a better way to do this,” I mutter, averting my gaze and trying to take deep breaths.
“Am I making you uncomfortable?” Claude asks, seemingly more focused on his paints. When I don’t answer, he looks up at me. “Nora?”
“No,” I say, my throat tight.
I should be glad I succeeded at getting him to paint again. I just didn’t think he would be paintingonme. Or that it would feel so charged. The air is practically crackling between us.
Surely he can hear the rapid drumbeat of my heart, but he gives no sign of it. His expression is open and easy, unfazed. He’s probably done this a hundred times before, with a hundred women. Probably some men, too. Why should I affect him?
He reaches out and touches my ankle. I shiver at the coolness of his fingers against my skin as he leads my bare foot to rest on his thigh. Instinctively, I grab his shoulder to steady myself.
He shoots me an amused glance. “You can rest your full weight on me. I promise I can take it.”
“Right.” Sometimes it’s dangerously easy to forget how strong he is. Those long artist’s fingers could probably crush bone, yet he cradles his paintbrush with such gentleness.
“Just try to stay still,” he murmurs. He dips the paintbrush into his green paint and brings it up to my leg.
He hesitates for a moment and then the brush drags over the skin of my calf in one long stroke. Cool paint, cooler fingers gripping me to help keep me in place. Goose bumps shiver over every inch of my body, and I resist the urge to squirm, staring fixedly at a wall behind Claude’s head. Watching him do this feels oddly sensual… yet after a few seconds I can’t resist a glance.
There’s a furrow on the normally smooth skin between his brows, and his eyes are narrowed in concentration beneath his long lashes.
After a little while, though, that furrow disappears. His eyes soften. His expression of concentration fades into something different, something open and vulnerable.
I realize I’m staring and look away. There’s a glowing warmth in my chest.I’m just happy for him, I tell myself.He’s finally painting.
Once he starts, he’s like a man possessed. He paints around my calf, my knee, my thigh, all the way up to the hem of my dress. Then he switches to the other leg, pausing only for me to find my balance again. Once I get used to it, the brush of paint becomes pleasant, a delicate tease of sensation over my skin. Claude’s fingertips, too, ghost over my body, here and gone again, maneuvering me with an ease that would be disconcerting if it weren’thim.
When he sets my foot on the floor and stands, I expect him to be finished. But instead he takes one of my arms and continues painting on my skin. Here it is easier to see his work, to watch as vines dance over my skin and petals bloom, a bouquet of flowers spreading over my body. It’s so lovely it makes my breath hitch, yet my eyes keep wandering back to his face instead of his work. He seems lost in his art, his face so relaxed and open, his lips holding the slightest curve.
When he reaches my collarbone, he pauses. His eyes drag up to meet mine. Then he releases me and steps back, walking in a slow circle around me.
I stand still, flushed under the scrutiny but trying to tell myself it’s not me he’s staring at. He’s admiring his work, that’s all.
When he comes around to the front again, he nods once, approving. “You need to see the full effect.” He takes my hand, stepping backward as he leads me. “Come, come.”
He takes me to the parlor and poses me in front of a full-length mirror, gently brushing my hair back behind my shoulders. “Look,” he says, and steps aside.
I lift my eyes to my reflection, and my breath hitches. I thought of the painting as a bouquet earlier, but it’s more thanthat; my skin is transformed into a garden in full bloom. Red and purple and white petals burst across my skin, along with crawling green vines and leaves ripe with springtime life. Lush and vivid and wild. It seems to slide over my skin as I twist and turn to observe myself, giving the effect of a breeze rustling the petals and leaves.
I turn slowly, craning my neck so that I can see the back of my arms and legs. Every time I look, I seem to find new details.
“That’s ivy,” Claude says, finger tracing along the green leaves climbing my arm. “Red roses, of course. Myrtle, and dahlias…”
Dahlias. I think back to my dress at the Valentine’s Day Ball, and Claude’s words to me:They symbolize eternal love, in the Victorian language of flowers. What do the rest mean? I wonder. The words stick in my throat; I’m almost afraid to ask.
Claude steps up behind me, gazing over my shoulder. Our eyes meet in the mirror.
“It’s incredible,” I say. “You’re incredible.”
His eyes widen slightly and then crinkle at the corners as he breaks into a smile wider than I’ve seen from him before.
