With a sultry grin, he chuckled. “As much as I appreciate your roaming eyes—and believe me, I do— I need you to look at me so I can capture you on canvas.”
Ella felt her face flush as she returned her gaze to his striking face. She imagined the full, sensuous lips parting and sampling her own.
And sucking her breasts.
Her nipples tingled, and from the glint in his eyes, he’d noticed the protruding tips which clamored for attention.He has such a powerful effect on me… I’m glad he can’t read my thoughts. Or can he?
As she sat still in the chair, holding the required pose, his impassioned eyes flitted from her face to the canvas, his adroit fingers invoking their magic. Each stroke of charcoal felt like a caress upon her skin, as if he were making love to her through his art.
Legs trembling under her short denim skirt, the rhythmic throbbing and mounting tension between her thighs was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
“You are exquisite.” The deep timbre of his melodic voice strummed her like a harp. “You have such beautiful hair. Long and lustrous…” the charcoal stick slid sensuously in his skilled hand. “Most French women prefer short styles. But I love long hair… like yours.” Another dazzling smile washed her in a luxurious wave of lust.
Ella nearly fell off her chair.
“Thank you.” Her voice quavered as she adjusted her legs, balancing her feet against the cobbled stone pavement.
“Look at me and lift your chin. Tilt your head a bit.Voilà.Just like that. I’m almost finished.”
Breathless with anticipation, Ella’s mouth dropped open when he proudly displayed the completed portrait. It was her, but she looked… beautiful. Exotic. Alluring.
He’d captured her long hair, her slender arms, and the sensuous longing in her sultry gaze. With incredible, artistic magic.
She slid off the chair and approached for a better look. He’d glimpsed her soul. And captured it on canvas.
Ella was astounded. “It’s magnificent. I love it! Thank you so much.”
“You are most welcome.” One side of his full mouth curled upward, his dark eyes glinting in the starlight. He placed a sheet of protective paper over the charcoal portrait, rolled it up, and tucked it into the shopping bag alongside the other small painting of the flamenco dancer.
Ella gave him her debit card. He swiped it and held it out for the signature.
“I’d like to paint you,” he murmured as she signed her name. “To portray the intriguing blend of shyness on the surface…and the smoldering passion hidden underneath.” Desire danced in his dark eyes. “How long are you staying in Paris?”
Ella gulped. He wanted to paint her? The smoldering passion beneath her shy surface? Maybe he had read her lusty thoughts after all. “For the month of June,” she stammered, smoothing the sides of her skirt to wipe her sweaty palms.
“Excellent.” He handed her his business card. “My name is Jean-Luc Cortés. What’s yours?”
“Ella Jacobs.” She searched his face, trembling at the thought of being alone with him in his studio. Of having himcapture her smoldering passion. Desire throbbed between her long legs.
“Are you free tomorrow? Myatelieris close by. Are you staying here in Montmartre?”
“Yes, in arésidencenearla Maison Rose.”
Jean-Luc glanced aroundla Place du Tertre.A few tourists were still getting their portraits sketched, but for the most part, it was quiet. “I have no more customers tonight. And I’m starving. Would you like to get something to eat? Maybe see a show? I’ll bring you back here afterwards and walk you safely home.”
How different from Florida, where everything closes at nine. Here in Paris, you can go to a restaurant and see a show at all hours. Positively exhilarating!Thrilled at the thought of spending more time with Jean-Luc—as a desirable woman rather than a paying customer—Ella whispered enthusiastically, “I’d love that!”
White teeth flashed in his dark, handsome face. “I know a localtablaowhere they serve deliciouspaella, and we can watch a flamenco performance.” Gesturing to the bag in her hand, he remarked, “You loved my painting,La Alma.That’s the essence of flamenco. Thesoulof the music expressed through the passion of dance. I think you’ll love the show.”
“I’m sure I will.” Ella inhaled deeply, the magic of the night bewitching. Beguiling. Beckoning.
Jean-Luc packed up his art supplies, loaded them into a box, and carefully stacked the unsold paintings. “I’ll leave the chairs and the display stand here, but I’ll bring these back to my studio. Come with me and I’ll show you where it is as I drop these off.” He cautiously placed the box of supplies and stack of paintings in a large sack. “That way, you’ll know where to come tomorrow. Say… around one or two? I give art lessons in the morning, but I’m free in the afternoon. Is that a good time for you?”
“Yes, that’s perfect. You give art lessons? I’m a teacher, too. A French teacher from Florida. I’m here on a scholarship. To perfect my language skills as I learn about art in Montmartre.” Ella smiled as he slung the supply bag over a broad shoulder.
With a heart-melting grin, Jean-Luc replied, “You can practice both on me.”
Heat flared in her lonely loins at the thought ofpracticingon Jean-Luc. She swallowed a lump of desire.
