Fear of Falling

“How can you say that? I have a painting to complete that is due at the printer’s next week. I’m not some machine. I can’t turn talent on and off according to a schedule. I can’t be expected…”

As his voice rose he began to flail his arms, in full rant mode. Natalie folded her arms across her chest and nodded, waiting for him to wind down. There was something impressive about his passion for the subject, something almost sexual about the way his eyes dilated and his breathing deepened, the muscles of his arms and shoulders knotting beneath his plain dark cotton shirt.

As he was winding down, she noticed Laura hovering in the doorway. “Yes, Laura, what did you find out?” she asked.

Laura’s gaze darted to Sartain, then back to Natalie. “I tracked the shipment and it should arrive this afternoon. But there’s a store in Denver that has it in stock. I could drive in and get it.”

“And by the time you got back, the other shipment would probably have been delivered,” Natalie pointed out.

Sartain studied her. “What am I supposed to do in the meantime?”

Natalie shrugged. “You could show me your castle.”

He blinked. “You want me to play tour guide?”

“Or you could return to your studio and practice for your next outburst.”

Amusement edged out anger in his eyes, though his expression remained stern. “Perhaps you can give me some pointers while I show you around.”

He turned and started out of the room, but Natalie put a hand out to stop him. “First, you need to apologize to Laura for shouting at her and thank her for tracking the shipment.”

His eyes widened. “You want me to do what?”

“You need to apologize to Laura and thank her for tracking the shipment.”

His jaw tightened and for a moment she feared he would launch into another tantrum. Instead, he shook his head and turned to Laura. “Thank you for tracking down the shipment,” he said, with more feeling than Natalie had expected. “And I apologize for making you the target of my wrath.” He shifted his gaze to Natalie. “Next time, my business manager will be the one to answer to me.”

This time, Natalie followed him from the office. He said nothing until they were in the hallway leading to the main salon. “I suppose you’re proud of yourself, scolding me like a schoolboy in front of my secretary.”

“She told me she was your personal assistant.”

“She prefers that title.” His lips quirked up in a partial smile. “Given the opportunity, I believe she’d like to place the emphasis on personal.”

Natalie glared at him. “Do you expect me to be impressed that some bimbo is throwing herself at you?”

He stopped abruptly, so that she stumbled into him. She braced her hands against his chest, aware of the taut muscle beneath the thin fabric of the shirt, and pulled back as if burned.

“What does impress you?” he asked. “What kind of man impresses you?”

She frowned. “I don’t think that’s really any concern of yours.”

“No, but I’m curious.” He closed the gap between them. “You were very cool and collected in the office just now, but I sense something more beneath the surface. Feelings a great deal…warmer.”

She raised her eyes to meet his, silently warning him to back off. “Doug warned me you like to pretend you know what people are thinking. In my case, you’re wrong.” She’d had years of practice at keeping her passions tamped down. There was no reason that should change around John Sartain, a man who seemed not to know the meaning of self-control.

She wanted to slap the smile from his face, even as her body responded to the invitation in his eyes. From the articles she’d read and the few minutes she’d spent in his company, he came across as someone who was both exasperating and fascinating. He was handsome, intelligent, talented, powerful and entirely unpredictable. The combination was almost irresistible to a woman who had spent her life in a world where every routine was choreographed down to when to take a breath.

“I like that you won’t answer all my questions,” he said. “I never know these days if people are agreeing with me because they truly share my opinions, or because they want to stay on the good side of a very rich man. But you don’t leave any doubt as to your opinion of me.”

“I didn’t say anything about you,” she protested. “I only refused to answer a personal question.”

“You said everything I need to know with your eyes and the way you hold your head. In fact, your whole body is communicating what you think of me.” He laughed. “You think I’m a spoiled, selfish, intemperate hedonist.”

Give the man an A for perceptiveness. But how much of a stretch had it been, anyway? “As far as I can tell, you go out of your way to promote that image of yourself—as the satyr your detractors call you.”

He nodded, then turned away. “Come, I’ll show you my studio. Maybe you’ll see another side of me there.”

He led her through a maze of hallways to a massive space at the very back of the castle, in a wing opposite the offices. A wall of windows along the south side flooded the studio with light, and the sharp aromas of oil paint and turpentine permeated the room. Canvases in various stages of completion lined the walls, competing for space with framed posters, oversize art books and discarded pallets.

An easel in the middle of the room drew her eye. She walked over to it and bit back a smile when she saw the subject matter of the work—American Gothic with whips and chains. The stern father wore black leather instead of overalls, and carried a devil’s trident, while the somber woman wore a dog collar and studded wrist cuffs and a black leather bustier.

“It’s a commissioned piece for a CD cover.” Sartain joined her in front of the easel. “I’ve done a whole series of them based on classic paintings.”

“It’s amusing. Quite like the original.” The resemblance was really uncanny.

“I try to stay true to the original work in the details. For instance, the old barn in the background, and the position of the subject’s hands. Here, let me show you.” He leaned over and shuffled through a stack of canvases and pulled out what Natalie at first thought was the original American Gothic.

“I did this copy as a study before I painted my original work,” he said.

“Do you often do that? Copy originals?”

He put the canvas back in the stack. “Sometimes. Part of my training was copying original work. But I prefer my own ideas.”

He took her elbow and guided her to another easel in the corner of the room, this one covered by a drape. He removed the drape and she found herself face to face with a portrait of a half-naked woman eating a cherry from a man’s hand. The body of the man was in shadows to the left of the picture. Golden light flowed from an overhead window onto the woman’s face and the bunch of cherries. The lush fruit might have just been picked from the tree, and the tip of the woman’s tongue darted out toward the delicacy, thepassion on her face speaking of a hunger for far more than the fruit.

Natalie’s breath quickened and heat washed over her as she studied the woman’s face. She had never in her life allowed herself to express such open wanting for anything. She felt the loss all the more keenly now.

Sartain’s hand rested heavy on her shoulder. She knew she should shrug him away, but she could not. The warm, human contact was strangely comforting, reminding her she was in a different world now—a world where she might explore all the emotions and desires she’d denied herself for so long.

“I’d like to paint you like that some day,” he said, his voice a soft caress beside her ear.

The meaning behind the words pulled her from her stupor, and she startled. “Wh-what do you mean?”

His gaze held hers, his expression without judgment or guile. “You’d make an interesting subject for a portrait. You have a very expressive face, yet there’s such a strong sense of holding back.”

She moved away from him and forced a sharp laugh. “There you go psychoanalyzing me again. Did you want to be a therapist before you became an artist?”

“I never wanted to do anything but create art. But I’ve learned a lot from the hours I’ve spent with my models.”

Remembering some of the rumors about the Satyr and the women he painted, she bit back a tart remark about the sort of things he’d learned. “I’m not interested in posing for you.”

“Most women are very flattered when I tell them I want to paint them.” He picked up a brush and tapped it against his hand. “Some people even see it as a way of making themselves immortal—their essence captured for all to see, for centuries to come.”

She rolled her eyes. “How poetic. How many times did you rehearse that line before you tried it out on some gullible female?”

“Do you think it’s a line?”

“Your reputation is well known. I assume they don’t call you the Satyr for no reason.”