Page 48 of The Wondrous Life and Loves of Nella Carter
“I write articles.”
“What kind?”
I’d never thought to categorize my writing, other than knowing its strange audience of one. “Human interest stories and, um, travel guides?”
He furrowed his brow, considering the idea. “Interesting. Does it pay well?”
“If you need the money.”
“It sounds as though you do not. And you were going to quibble price with me,” he teased. He added another slash to the painting. “I have a young cousin who dreams of being a writer one day—he’s not bad. Perhaps you could help him.”
“Perhaps, should the opportunity arise.”
He stood back, considering his work, before turning the canvas to the wall.
“You’re not going to let me see?”
“Only when it’s finished. There must be some incentive for you to return.”
He came over and helped me to my feet. “That’s all I can do today while it dries. Come back tomorrow. At the same time.” His words had a bite, a commanding tone I liked.
“And bring some of your writing,” he called as the door shut behind me. “I’d like to see what goes on in that lovely head of yours.”
I was back the next day at noon, papers in hand. My head swirled, filled with images of what might come to pass inside René’s lair as I drew closer to his street. My hand shook when I knocked on the wooden door.
He threw open the entry and smiled in his particular way, with a hint ofI told you so.
“Don’t look at me that way. I had to come. You’re keeping my painting hostage. It was this or call for the police.” I brushed past, the smell of him luring me like a bee to nectar; I wanted to cover myself in all of him.
I sat for the portrait, in the same dress and position, but this time wearing my best perfume, hoping I could intoxicate him with my own presence. The conversation sparked between us as he painted, thickening with curiosity and passion. When I moved too much, he’d lift my chin or adjust my hand, his touch sending ribbons of heat through my body. The more we talked, the more enchanted I became. René was in charge of his fate, painting when he liked and what he liked, commanding top prices.
“I have an upcoming show—an exhibition. Perhaps you’d like to come?”
“Looking for a patron?” It was not an outlandish offer; I had agreed to similar arrangements with more than one artist.
He raised an eyebrow but didn’t answer, instead standing and sweeping one of my long curls behind my ear. “Are you hungry?” The words caressed my ear.
I gawked at him, confused. It took all my strength to not chase his touch with my own.
“You keep nibbling your bottom lip.”
I blushed but licked the swollen, tender skin I’d just been biting. He was entirely too delighted with the way I reacted to him, even as he walked to a small table, unwrapping the basket upon it. He pulled out a dark-red apple and deftly sliced it with thin, even strokes. He arranged it artfully, spreading the ripe fruit on the tray next to thick wedges of cheese and golden, crusty bread.
“Try.” He held a piece of apple a few inches from my lips. “Bite this instead.”
I tried not to smile at him.
“You shouldn’t move from your pose,” he explained, a grin dancing on his face.
My blood thrummed in my veins. I leaned forward and took the apple in my teeth, never breaking eye contact.
His gemstone eyes burned into mine, and I wanted him to kiss me, but he brushed his hands against his smock, breaking the spell. “And what of your art? Did you bring some that I might see?”
I pointed to my papers. From the top, he plucked my favorite piece and read aloud. “‘My footsteps echo on the cold white marble, filling the royal chamber with sounds of life. The gold display, dull from lack of care, struggles to glimmer while the moth-bitten velvet from an age gone by molders silently. The kings don’t question my presence. They can’t. They’ve gone to dust, and the memory of their greatness slides further into nothingness with each passing moment. I breathe in. I am alive for however brief a time.
“‘The Musée des Monuments Français is the perfect place to consider your fate. Where better to contemplate your life than atthe feet of dead kings? People who, despite having enormous wealth, influence, and impact, could not escape Death?
“‘I spent an afternoon this way, dwarfed by the high curving walls that guard the treasures within, relics of the past before the time of the Revolution. The display of the mortal remains of those who had once ruled the world held my attention the longest of all the beautiful things. Charles V, Louis XII, and Catherine de’ Medici, instrumental in the direction and fate of so many lives, were reduced to bone and ash in death. What did it all signify? The pain? The plots? The pursuit of earthly goods and immortality?
