Page 24 of The Paris Trip

‘And what if my face gets itchy?’

‘Pardon?’ He was looking perplexed.

‘What if my nose needs to be scratched, for instance? How long do these sittings last? I don’t think I could hold still for hours on end,’ she said flatly. ‘In fact, I’d ruin everything within ten minutes by forgetting to hold the pose or needing the toilet or something. You really don’t want me.’

‘But I do want you,’ he said firmly, a gleam in his eye that unnerved her. ‘And of course you can scratch your nose or take comfort breaks or move about, if you need to. It will make no difference to my work.’

‘I don’t want to do it,’ she said desperately.

She felt a hand on her arm and turned to find Madame Rémy there, sympathy in her kind face. ‘Nobody will force you to do this,’ she insisted. ‘Including Leo.’ She threw a stern look at her grandson. ‘Will you?’

‘No, of course not,’ he said heavily, and turned away, his head bent as though examining the tiny blue flowers in his drink.

‘There,’ Madame said, smiling. ‘You can relax, Miss Eden. Please, sit down. Enjoy the garden.’

Maeve thanked her and sat down, but she felt awful.

She had asked specifically if there was some way she could repay the Rémy family’s hospitality. And then, when a way was provided, she had refused pointblank to do it. And for what reason?

Because she was too shy to be a model? Because it all felt a bit too exciting and exotic? A bit too wild and bohemian, perhaps, for Miss Maeve Eden of North London? Because she wasn’t that kind of girl?

‘No nudity, you said?’ she queried.

Leo stopped pacing and came back at once, his gaze fixed on her face. ‘Absolutely not,’ he told her gravely.

‘And I can move about?’

‘Within reason.’

Maeve took a deep breath, feeling as though she were about to plunge hundreds of feet into an icy ravine, which might have been a relief in this scorching heat, and said, ‘All right, then. If you must.’

‘You’ve changed your mind? You’ll sit for me?’ His voice was blank, carefully neutral.

‘Better take the offer before it’s withdrawn,’ she warned him.

Leo smiled, and raised his glass to her. ‘Can you start tomorrow morning?’ When she gave some incoherent reply, not having thought it would be so soon, he went on, ‘At this time of year, the light in my studio is usually best in the early hours of the morning. Shall we say, a five o’clock start?’

‘Five o’clock?’

She must have sounded as horrified as she felt, because Leo grinned at her expression and said, ‘Six, then.’

He threw himself down onto the bench next to his great-grandmother, who was beaming with pleasure at the two of them. Affectionately, he kissed her on her wrinkled cheek. ‘I’m going to try painting again, Nonna,’ he murmured in French, and took her hand gently in his. ‘You were right. Thank you.’

Watching this, Maeve had a funny feeling in her tummy. She suddenly had no idea why she had agreed to sit for him. But it was too late to back out now. Or not without looking ungrateful and a bit mean.

You were right. Thank you.

What on earth had he meant by that, though?

Right about what?

CHAPTER EIGHT

Leo was close to losing his famous cool. He checked his phone. Two o’clock in the morning. A paintbrush clamped between his teeth, he turned back to the canvas in frustration. Rapidly, he scanned the figure he’d sketched out in pencil, ready for painting, and experienced a burst of fury that he can barely control.

It was wrong. All wrong. He couldn’t get it right. No matter how hard he tried.

‘Damn it to hell!’ he yelled at the canvas, and then stood with his head bowed for a moment, breathing harshly.

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