Madame Picasso

“I’m not an expert but the way you are staring at me right now is not how an artist properly assesses a model. I live with enough artists around me to know that much,” she nervously murmured. Yet the words came as a weak refrain. “Was that not, after all, why you invited me here, to model for you?”

She tried desperately to press back her deepening arousal. She glanced at the bed in the alcove. When she turned back, Picasso closed the gap between them with a sudden, sensual kiss and Eva moved willingly into his embrace.

His fingers ran over the hard point of one nipple and then the other as he kissed her more deeply, filling her mouth with his tongue.

“I want to see all of you,” he said in a throaty Spanish whisper.

Was it his fame, how shatteringly attractive he was or his surprise possession of her that was most alluring? She had not fully imagined any of this an hour ago as she had stood in the actress’s dressing room. What was happening was so forbidden—surely a sin. It was certainly wrong, yet she wanted it just as much as he did. They moved together as one—still kissing, touching, bound by each other—to the little bed in the corner of the room. Their kisses grew more urgent and Eva lost sight of the paintings, of their conversation, of all rational thought. The rough need flaring through Picasso’s warm lips finally took total control of her. She felt her body open to him even before either of them were bare. She was aware of the ache for him deep inside herself as he stripped off her skirt, her stockings, her camisole and her drawers, as he caressed her body, lingering skillfully on every tingling curve and rise of flesh. Please let me be good enough for him, she desperately thought.

He released himself from her for a moment to draw off his own clothes. Then, with moonlight shining through the window on him, he paused before her, naked and unashamed.

They did not speak further. There was no need for it.

Arched over her a moment later, yet still restrained, Picasso ran his hand along her supple body with the precision of a sculptor. His fingers were an artist’s tool moving deftly along the lines and curves of her. He moved until all of her senses were wildly alive, tender and achingly sensitive. She was trembling as his fingers finally found the untouched place between her legs. As he kissed her again Eva tasted a moan of desire deep in her own throat.

In the flickering light of the oil lamp, Picasso forced Eva to lie still beneath him. With exploring kisses and languorously patient caresses, his tongue moved as his fingers had done, until desire blotted out all of her remaining sense of reason, touching her in ways she had never even known how to fantasize about.

He finally clamped his hands on her hips to mount her, and the pleasure turned to a swift sharp pain in a place deep inside her. Only then did she remember how fragile innocence was. He was rough and frenzied with his own need, unaware still, in that passionate moment, of her virginity. She tried her best to open to him as he moved, but her body resisted and she arched her back as he pressed hard into her. A moment later as he groaned into her ear, the pain disappeared and she rocked with him into oblivion, forgetting everything else in the world but this dark-eyed stranger and how he had just now changed her life forever.

Chapter 6 (#ulink_692ae084-fba0-5745-bfbf-6393335218f1)

“Marcelle Humbert, I tell you, you are absolutely brilliant!” Sylvette squealed dramatically after Eva tried her best to slip silently into their room early the next morning.

She was unable to think of anything but Picasso: his warmth, the way he tasted. Her skin still tingled from his caresses. Not wanting the fantasy to end, she had left Montmartre while he was still sleeping. She had gone away so swiftly before dawn because she could not have borne Picasso waking and asking her to leave. He was too famous for it to have ended otherwise.

She knew it would be better this way.

Sylvette knelt beside Eva’s bed, her eyes wide with excitement. “Mistinguett is going to do a number as a geisha, and Monsieur Oller loves the idea! She thinks you are her savior after last night. She has even invited us to lunch today before the show. Can you imagine, she wants us to meet her friends? And all of this because of your lovely little kimono. What an impression you have made at the Moulin Rouge!”

Eva thought again of how her mother had given her that kimono, and regret seized her for a moment. I’m sorry, Mama, Tata, for disappointing you both, she thought, and her heart squeezed. It felt like a lifetime since she had seen her parents. Still, how could she turn back to them now? What would they think of her especially after what she had done last night?

Sylvette paused and looked at Eva more critically. “Where were you last night, by the way? You didn’t come home. Were you downstairs with Louis, finally?”

Eva was uncertain why but she still didn’t feel she could tell Sylvette the truth about Picasso. But her friend would not have believed her, anyway. She could barely believe it herself. Eva grinned coyly and sank onto the edge of her bed.

“Why you little minx, you!” Sylvette giggled, and Eva did not deny it. “So, will you join us for lunch, then? Please? You won’t back out on me, will you? Mistinguett is bringing a friend apparently, and it would be so exceedingly awkward just the three of us without you.”

“All right, yes, I’ll be there, if it means that much to you.” Eva rolled her eyes and smiled. “But only because you helped me get the job in the first place.”

“Oh, splendid!” Sylvette sank back on her heels, the glow of victory shining on her pretty face. “And she really does like you now, you know. You positively saved her with that geisha idea. I never asked you how you thought of it.”

“I learned to be resourceful growing up with little money,” Eva replied as she slipped off her shoes and rubbed her toes, sore from the walk out of Montmartre. She hadn’t wanted to take a trolley and the route was long even just from the subway stop.

“This is going to be exciting!” Sylvette steepled her hands and tucked them beneath her chin. “There’s no telling what can happen with a woman like Mistinguett once she likes you and offers to take you to lunch in her glamorous Paris.”

Eva didn’t have anything suitable to wear for a luncheon with anyone important, which should have concerned her. Secretly, though, her mind was still humming with thoughts of what she and Picasso had done together, and she couldn’t have cared less about dresses or hats or gloves. She was beginning now to regret having left so swiftly before she’d given him a chance to tell her if he had feelings for her, and she wondered what it would make him think of her. Was that not what loose women did, leave before dawn? He was probably accustomed to that, so many women at his feet. Of course he was. He was young, handsome and nearly famous. He had probably forgotten her already.

“Why on earth are there tears in your eyes?” Sylvette asked, bringing Eva back to the moment. “Oh, I will kill Louis if he’s hurt you!”

“He didn’t.” Eva sniffed, brushing her eyes with the backs of her hands. She nearly added that it wasn’t him at all but she thought better of that. “And I would appreciate you not mentioning it to him, either. I’m sure he would be embarrassed that I told you.”

“Your secret, pretty Marcelle Humbert, is safe with me—your very dearest friend,” Sylvette solemnly promised.

Eva stood, feeling the need to freshen up. Suddenly she didn’t want to be reminded of what she had done. As much as she had enjoyed it, she was also a little ashamed. In spite of how dispassionate she was trying to be about it all—and how adult—at the end of the day, Eva could not let go of the reality that she had given her virginity to a virtual stranger. The little girl who still lived inside of her heart wept over her precious surrender, even as Eva smiled and laughed with Sylvette.

Perhaps he would call on her again at the Moulin Rouge. After all, there were such things as romances. But she felt vulnerable and silly for even thinking about it.

Eva gathered up her soap and a towel, getting ready to go down the hall to the bath. Before Sylvette could say anything else a knock sounded at the door. She wasn’t certain why, but she hesitated a moment before she opened it. On the other side was a young deliveryman. Freckles and a driver’s cap met her, along with his dutiful expression. Not many people sent deliveries to a humble place like la Ruche, she thought.

“Mademoiselle Gouel?” he asked with an adolescent lift of his heels.

There was a red leather-bound book poised before him in his hands. The title was displayed in prominent gold lettering: Satyrs, Pan and Dionysus: Discussions in Mythology.

She nodded and the man handed the book to her. There was no note, but she knew where it had come from. To know that he thought of her as something more than a night’s dalliance filled Eva with more excitement than she knew how to process. For an instant, she hugged the book to her chest. Then she closed the door and reluctantly turned around. She knew she was beaming.

“What the devil is that?” Sylvette asked.

“Oh, nothing important. You should wear that violet-colored dress today, the one with the little pearl buttons. The fabric brings out the color of your eyes,” Eva said divertingly.

“Do you really think so?”

“Absolutely. By the way, who is joining us today?”

Sylvette laid two dresses across her bed and looked at them with her hands on her hips as she answered absently. “I’m not totally certain other than that Mistinguett said her name is Fernande Olivier.”

* * *

Le Dôme was the best of the four cafés on the corner of the bustling boulevards Montparnasse and Raspail. It was shaded by an elegant bower of horse chestnut trees and had a butter-yellow awning. Le Dôme was a lively spot, harboring a tangle of closely packed tables with chairs spilling out onto the sidewalk. All of it was full of such life, young Parisians chattering endlessly about politics, art and literature. The newly opened la Rotonde across the street was swiftly becoming its main rival, and there was always someone interesting among the crowds, drinking, smoking, laughing and debating. Progress and possibility was everywhere.

Once, Eva had passed by and caught a glimpse of Isadora Duncan, the beautiful and famous dancer. She had been not two feet away, impossibly striking in a white turban, white dress and man’s black silk necktie. Her spider-long legs were crossed and she held a cigarette poised in an ivory holder, allowing it to punctuate her thoughtful dialogue as she conversed with a group of young people collected around her.

Eva secretly craved an opportunity to be back at that café, near people like that. Fame really was so intoxicating, and she was absolutely starstruck. Just to sip an aperitif, and listen to conversations around her there, was to drink in the pure magic of this city.

Today, Eva felt almost confident in a pale blue dress, ornamented by a delicate string of seed pearls, a beige cloche hat and beige high button shoes. She walked along the boulevard toward the café with Sylvette, who was wearing the violet dress Eva had suggested. Eva had borrowed her own ensemble from a girl down the hall at la Ruche who modeled frequently for an artist named Maurice Utrillo. Fortunately, it fit Eva as if it were her own. In it, she felt for the first time prettier than her tall, willowy roommate, for this one day at least.

When Mistinguett saw them approach, she stood and waved them over. She was seated at a banquette at the back of the café, up against a wall of mirrored glass. Waiters dressed in black-and-white wearing long white aprons wove through the noisy place, full trays aloft. The other young woman with Mistinguett sat with her back to the door. From her reflection, Eva could see that she was tall and her bearing bespoke a relaxed grace that was intimidating. She wore a large hat decorated with a rose-colored ribbon and large pearl-and-garnet earrings. She glanced up but did not stand as Mistinguett embraced each of them warmly.

“Oh, isn’t this delightful! These are the two girls I was telling you about who positively saved me with Monsieur Oller.”

Eva saw the young woman’s face now as she turned her head on a long slender neck. She was lovely with such expressive, wide, olive-colored eyes, full lush lips and long auburn hair in a smooth fall beneath her hat. She extended her own silk-gloved hand to Eva’s bare one as their eyes met.

“Ah, yes, the seamstress with the kimono,” she said in a strikingly seductive voice.

“I am Marcelle Humbert.”

“And I am Madame Picasso,” she said. A reserved smile slipped onto her beautiful face in the same graceful way as all of her other movements.

Eva felt her knees buckle beneath the weight of her slim legs. Her stomach seized with a wave of nausea that, for a moment, was overwhelming. The wife of Picasso’s brother, she hoped. Oh, please, yes, let that be the case! Or a cousin of the artist, perhaps? But no, this woman—this Fernande Olivier—would never have spoken the title with such boastful pride if that were so. Breathless, Eva sank onto the empty chair beside Fernande as Sylvette now extended her hand to her.