“I—” How could I explain this? I’d always thought about it as moving on to catch the next rainbow. To learn, to grow as a person. To experience life. To not grow stifled…attached. Because attachments could wound and murder parts of your heart, tearing those parts in the most painful manner possible when those attachments left you forever.
He wouldn’t understand.
He couldn’t understand.
And there was no sense in arguing about it, so I did what I was best at. I changed the subject.
Stretching out in a pose, I pushed out my naked chest. “Wil…I want you to draw me. Like one of your French girls.”
His gaze slid down my body, warming the parts of me that it touched. “I have already.”
I licked my lips and smiled. “Like this?”
He didn’t answer, but heat crept across his face.
I sat up. “You did?”
His face was stoic. “I refuse to answer on the grounds that it might incriminate me.”
“Pleading the Fifth? Hmm…now I’m going to have to see this. I’ll make you a deal. I’ll put my shirt back on if you show me.”
He thought about that for a long time. “I could just hold out until you want to go home. You have to put your shirt back on for that.”
“That’s true. But until then, I’d be wandering around topless in your house, maybe even brushing up against you, falling against you. You know…being wanton.”
He continued staring at my boobs as if he was mesmerized.
“You want to touch them again, don’t you?”
He stood. “I’ll show you some drawings if you put on your shirt.”
With a small noise of triumph, I did as he asked. But in reality, I would have won either way. Having him grope me again with those big, callused hands certainly wouldn’t be considered a loss by anyone’s definition.
William gave me the succinct version of a grand tour of his large, ranch-style home. As he led me into his art studio, which interestingly enough was in the master suite, he explained that not only was it the largest bedroom in the house, but the lighting was the best there. He’d even installed an industrial-sized sink and drying rack in the attached bathroom so he could wash his supplies.
The room was equipped to the nines with special tools and items I didn’t even recognize. The floor was polished concrete, and there was special diffused lighting with filters and shades at the ready to adjust the lighting. There were also blackout curtains that could be drawn on all the windows. It was a lovely room and would have made a wonderful bedroom, but as an art studio, it was amazing.
Cabinets and standing equipment lined the walls, along with a roll of different backdrops hanging from the ceiling. A large, high-end drafting table dominated the room, located just under the skylight. Upon that table were a variety of brushes, palettes, boxes of charcoal, pastels and containers of special pencils and erasers, all perfectly organized. I reached over to pick up a shiny metal ruler.
“Don’t touch,” he admonished. After a stern frown creased his brow, he added, “Please.”
My eyes widened and I pulled my hand back. Apparently, the studio was sacrosanct. “I don’t see any of your rules posted in here like in your smithy.”
“That’s because people are not permitted to come in here—besides me.”
I blinked. “Mia said she’s been here.”
“She stands in the doorway, as does everyone else. I don’t like having people in this space.”
“Do you want me to go stand over at the door?”
“No. Just—if you don’t touch anything, that would be good.”
I was a bit overwhelmed at the special status of being able to enter the artist’s temple when his closest loved ones could not. Did that reveal a certain level of special trust? A lump formed in my throat at the thought.
I fidgeted in my spot, then stuffed my hands in my pockets as if to reassure him that I would behave. “Deal.”
He went to one of the easels and removed a blank canvas from it, setting it carefully on the ground. Then he opened up a big cabinet and flipped through a few boards without looking at them. It was as if he knew exactly what he was looking for and exactly where it was.
Moving from the cabinet back to the now-empty easel, he slowly, tentatively set a board on it. Once I got a look at what was on that board, I about fell over in shock. I most certainly couldn’t breathe.
It was an absolutely exquisite acrylic painting of me… Holy. Shit.
Though he’d hinted that it might be lurid, in reality, it wasn’t at all. The image was a close-up of my head and shoulders, depicting me staring over my bare shoulder. I had no shirt on, but as I was turned away from the viewer, there were no anatomical details. Even if he had chosen to be more explicit, I could not have felt more special in that moment than if Dégas himself had painted me with not a stitch of clothing on.
It must have taken him forever, and it was so lovingly detailed—the glint in my eyes, the strands of hair splayed across my shoulders, the curve of my earlobe. I labored to draw my next breath. “I don’t ever remember you taking a photo of me. How—how did you do this?”
He seemed confused by my non sequitur question but answered anyway. “I don’t paint from photos. Photos are two-dimensional. My memory remembers everything in three dimensions. And I’ve seen you enough to recall the details in order to create this image.”
“So is that the reason you didn’t do a full-frontal depiction? Because you haven’t seen me naked?”
He looked away and shrugged.
I couldn’t take my eyes off the painting. It made me feel strange inside—special, like a queen. Janja, ti si kraljica. Those words in Papa’s voice popped into my head. Telling me I was a queen. I’d never felt like one again until this moment. I swallowed.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
I was blinking tears from my eyes. Like it?
“It’s stunning. I’m just so…”
“What?”
“Overwhelmed…” I shook my head. “You’re amazing, Wil.”
He didn’t reply, but he did turn back to look at the canvas.
“Would you paint me if I modeled for you?”
“Naked?” I laughed at his shocked face, which was good. It helped those strong emotions dissipate, and I welcomed that. Because with those memories came pain. And I didn’t want to remember. Not now.