“It just
hasn’t happened.”
“But why?”
“No time, no inclination to repeat stupid
mistakes.” She smiled dryly. “No effort on my part to seek it
out.”
He leaned up, his elbows on his knees as he
looked at her.
“That’s very disconcerting.” Grace looked
back at him. “When you stare that way.”
“I’m fascinated.”
She snorted and shook her head. “Because I
have no sex life?”
Noel didn’t laugh. “You make an effort to
appear cool, very poised. You even describe yourself in terms that
relay an image of practicality. But when you are painted, when I
paint you I see a warm, yes guarded, but very real woman.”
“I don’t pretend to not be real. Sexual isn’t
the only realness a woman has.”
“It’s a big part of both sexes.”
“Men seem to think so.”
He smiled, flashing white teeth. “Women too.
You’re shy?”
“Not really. I don’t think being modest or
slightly reserved equates to shyness."
He sat back. “So very complex, Jane. Nothing
fits, the clothing, the hair, the name, the face.”
“Is that supposed to be flattering? I’m
starting to feel like a bug under a microscope.”
“Not my intention. I like drawing you
out.”
“I noticed.” She looked around. “Why do you
turn the paintings around like that?”
“I like to focus on what I’m working on at
the moment.”
“Can I see the one you did before me?”
He got up and walked back to one of the sets,
flicking on the light and calling her over.
She stood beside him and looked at the
canvas. The painting was of a of the black woman in a panther pose;
shimmering ebony skin, sleek, sensual, and incredibly beautiful
against a backdrop of deep forest.
“Breathtaking.”
“Thank you.”
She glanced up at him. “How many will you
do?”
“I never know. Like anything, I’m finished
when I’m finished. When I feel I’ve reached the limits.”
He shut down the lights and they walked back
to the sofa. Grace wondered if she’d get to the point of posing
nude...she wondered what it was going to be like when they were
done and she went back to living her real life. Her honest one.
She hoped her attraction to him was as
explainable as his temporary one to some of the models. Maybe the
whole episode was simply a part of her that needed to be explored
at this moment and this time. She was fantasizing, something she
never did, having those semi-sleep mental images where they were
more than artist and subject. Grace found her imagination too
vivid, having memorized his voice, his hands, and her daylight
arousal brought on nighttime fantasias that portrayed them as
lovers.
And, like some fascination, it would wear off
once he had painted her. It was too much like a novel or movie.
Yes, she’d been drawn to him, and considering she was playing a
role which was the opposite of herself just to be near him, she
held out for the hope that it would fizzle out. She did have a real
life, two weeks away from today. No way could she work with him
after that.
She was Grace Dean, the accountant in
tweed.
“Your eyes are full of thoughts.”
“It’s that kind of day I suppose.” She smiled
at him. “Seems we’re both having one.”
“Tell me about your lover.”
She couldn’t look at those soft, bedroom eyes
and do it. She also had to think of how to explain it without
giving much of her real life away.
“I was working in an intense and charged
atmosphere, high pressure, very out of my element. At twenty, I
thought my future lay in that direction.” She sighed and admitted,
“Politics.”
Grace wet her lips, let her gaze stop just at
the knees of his Levis. “William was six years older, suave,
handsome, and very charming. Nothing seemed to shake him. He had a
way with the ladies. Completely green, I thought it was a serious
relationship with long-term prospects.
“It was my first time living on my own, not
in a dorm. However, I had fixated that my ambition lay in the
direction of politics. Only
hasn’t happened.”
“But why?”
“No time, no inclination to repeat stupid
mistakes.” She smiled dryly. “No effort on my part to seek it
out.”
He leaned up, his elbows on his knees as he
looked at her.
“That’s very disconcerting.” Grace looked
back at him. “When you stare that way.”
“I’m fascinated.”
She snorted and shook her head. “Because I
have no sex life?”
Noel didn’t laugh. “You make an effort to
appear cool, very poised. You even describe yourself in terms that
relay an image of practicality. But when you are painted, when I
paint you I see a warm, yes guarded, but very real woman.”
“I don’t pretend to not be real. Sexual isn’t
the only realness a woman has.”
“It’s a big part of both sexes.”
“Men seem to think so.”
He smiled, flashing white teeth. “Women too.
You’re shy?”
“Not really. I don’t think being modest or
slightly reserved equates to shyness."
He sat back. “So very complex, Jane. Nothing
fits, the clothing, the hair, the name, the face.”
“Is that supposed to be flattering? I’m
starting to feel like a bug under a microscope.”
“Not my intention. I like drawing you
out.”
“I noticed.” She looked around. “Why do you
turn the paintings around like that?”
“I like to focus on what I’m working on at
the moment.”
“Can I see the one you did before me?”
He got up and walked back to one of the sets,
flicking on the light and calling her over.
She stood beside him and looked at the
canvas. The painting was of a of the black woman in a panther pose;
shimmering ebony skin, sleek, sensual, and incredibly beautiful
against a backdrop of deep forest.
“Breathtaking.”
“Thank you.”
She glanced up at him. “How many will you
do?”
“I never know. Like anything, I’m finished
when I’m finished. When I feel I’ve reached the limits.”
He shut down the lights and they walked back
to the sofa. Grace wondered if she’d get to the point of posing
nude...she wondered what it was going to be like when they were
done and she went back to living her real life. Her honest one.
She hoped her attraction to him was as
explainable as his temporary one to some of the models. Maybe the
whole episode was simply a part of her that needed to be explored
at this moment and this time. She was fantasizing, something she
never did, having those semi-sleep mental images where they were
more than artist and subject. Grace found her imagination too
vivid, having memorized his voice, his hands, and her daylight
arousal brought on nighttime fantasias that portrayed them as
lovers.
And, like some fascination, it would wear off
once he had painted her. It was too much like a novel or movie.
Yes, she’d been drawn to him, and considering she was playing a
role which was the opposite of herself just to be near him, she
held out for the hope that it would fizzle out. She did have a real
life, two weeks away from today. No way could she work with him
after that.
She was Grace Dean, the accountant in
tweed.
“Your eyes are full of thoughts.”
“It’s that kind of day I suppose.” She smiled
at him. “Seems we’re both having one.”
“Tell me about your lover.”
She couldn’t look at those soft, bedroom eyes
and do it. She also had to think of how to explain it without
giving much of her real life away.
“I was working in an intense and charged
atmosphere, high pressure, very out of my element. At twenty, I
thought my future lay in that direction.” She sighed and admitted,
“Politics.”
Grace wet her lips, let her gaze stop just at
the knees of his Levis. “William was six years older, suave,
handsome, and very charming. Nothing seemed to shake him. He had a
way with the ladies. Completely green, I thought it was a serious
relationship with long-term prospects.
“It was my first time living on my own, not
in a dorm. However, I had fixated that my ambition lay in the
direction of politics. Only
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