Page 37 of The Paris Trip

Getting up, he strode across the bar, grabbing Jean’s arm before he could escape. ‘What the hell are you up to? Were you taking a photograph of us?’

Jean looked at him in astonishment. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was just checking something on my phone.’ Wresting his arm free, he headed back into the kitchen.

Leo stared after his cousin, suspicious and conflicted. He didn’t trust Jean. But he couldn’t make a scene here in the bar. People were already staring.

He went back and sat down.

‘What’s the matter?’ Maeve asked, frowning.

‘Nothing.’ But he was now keen to get out of there, restless and impatient. ‘Shall we head back? They can put the bill on my tab.’ He saw her surprise and added brusquely, ‘I can’t wait to paint you.’

‘Paint me?’ Her eyes stretched wide. ‘You mean… Right now? Tonight?’

‘Why not?’

CHAPTER TWELVE

Maeve stood embarrassed and uncertain in the middle of Leo’s studio. Why on earth had she agreed to do this?

Last time she’d set foot in this room, she’d been greeted by the sight of Leo rolling about with a naked woman, and she didn’t want to be the next woman to shed her clothes for him. Or roll about on the floor with him, for that matter. Not that she had any qualms about her body. Although nothing special, her body was perfectly functional. But it was one thing to strip off in the gym showers without worrying too much about lumps and bumps, and quite another to pose nude under the cool, discerning eye of Leo Rémy.

She hugged herself, looking about. ‘I… I’m keeping my clothes on,’ she told him, and winced at the high-pitched, prudish note in her voice.

He laughed, going about the high-ceilinged room and flinging open the windows to the sounds of distant traffic and beeping horns, with sudden flurries of music behind those.

‘Naturally.’

She was relieved by that reassurance. No nudity. Though on a scale of one to ten, her relief was still only about a four. The other six points were screaming at her to get out while she could…

‘Where do you want me?’ she asked stoutly.

His head whipped around and he stared at her. ‘Do I want you?’ he repeated in astounded tones.

‘No – God, no!’ She also stared. ‘I said… Where.’ She huffed out a breath, her heart thudding. ‘Where do you want me?’

‘Oh.’ Leo blinked and ran a hand through sleek hair. Why did he have to have such magnificent hair? She wished he was in his seventies with a head of woolly grey. Or younger than her, perhaps, with dreadlocks down to his waist and a cheeky grin that meant she didn’t have to take him seriously. As it was… ‘Sorry. I must’ve misheard.’

Dragging a stool forward, he pointed to it. ‘Sit. No, facing me. One hand here,’ he ordered her brusquely, positioning her as though she were a mannequin. ‘And one there, in your lap. Yes, that’s it.’ He stared at her intently, then stalked around the stool, examining her from every angle. He did something to her hair from behind, while she sat still and alert, staring at the far wall. ‘A few inches this way?’ She shifted obligingly, and he stopped her, a warm hand on her shoulder in the sleeveless dress that Bernadette had lent her. ‘That’s enough… Perfect. Now, don’t move.’

‘You said I wouldn’t have to hold still,’ she grumbled.

‘Did I?’ He bent to a wooden chest, gathering pencils and sketchpad. His bottom was rather magnificent too, she thought, and realised she had been staring fixedly at it. When she didn’t respond, he glanced at her over his shoulder and she hurriedly averted her eyes, pretending to be fascinated by a particular spot on the floor. ‘Yes, my apologies. That was a lie.’

Abruptly losing interest in the floor, her gaze shot to his face again. Not his bottom, she told herself firmly. Never his bottom.

‘What?’

‘Well, not entirely a lie. You can move later, once I’ve got the basic outline down,’ he elaborated with a grin. He returned to what he’d been doing and unknowingly her gaze drifted back down to his nether regions. Goodness, he looked very… fit. ‘Until then, you need to keep still, okay?’

‘Hmm.’

Leo shrugged out of his jacket, slinging it carelessly over the back of a chair. Flipping open the sketchpad to a fresh page, he started sketching her with swift, fluid pencil strokes. His dark gaze switched between her and the sketchpad every few seconds, penetrating and yet impersonal at the same time.

Maeve sat as still as she could. It felt unnatural. And her nose was itchy. She could feel it demanding that she lift a finger and give it a good old scratch. But he had told her not to move. She resisted. It got itchier. It became maddening. She bore it for a few more seconds, aware of her face twitching, and then demanded, ‘How long before I can –’

‘Hush.’

‘Move?’ she finished.

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