His Seductive Revenge

“So your risks pay off more often than not.”

He released her hand as they stepped into the garret room he’d turned into a studio. “I don’t seem to run out of beer and pretzels.”

“I’ll bet. Oh! Oh, Gabe, this is wonderful!”

His time in the studio was limited, but he enjoyed every second. Skylights allowed the sun to flood the space. Windows replaced the front and back walls. Although called a garret, it was really too large and airy for the title, thanks to the changes he’d made. He’d spent the morning straightening up the room. Usually he didn’t bother. It was the only area of his life he didn’t keep filed, sorted, computerized or pigeonholed.

He watched her move to the back window, which overlooked his garden, her teal-colored skirt undulating around her calves as she walked, a contrast to her demure sleeveless blouse printed with tiny flowers and buttoned to her throat. On her feet lilac-painted toenails drew attention to her strappy sandals. Gold bracelets danced along her left wrist, tinkling sweetly. She didn’t wear a watch, which pleased him. She wasn’t in a hurry.

“Beautiful,” she said, turning to him.

“I can’t take credit for it. I only enjoy someone else’s hard work.”

“But beauty and color are important to you. You surround yourself with it. That’s obvious in your work.”

“And my subject.” He waited to see if she blushed. She didn’t, but her posture changed, as if she didn’t believe him. “I’ll just be sketching you today, Cristina, and conversing. I need to know more about you before we talk about clothing and tone.”

“My father will want something appropriate to hang with the other generations in the family gallery.” She paused. “That sounds really pretentious, doesn’t it? Again.”

“Traditions die hard. Please, come sit here and let me study you.”

Cristina moved to the appointed chair he’d placed directly under a skylight. Her heart hadn’t stopped thumping since she’d stepped into his house. Her body was warm and her temperature still climbing. She’d intentionally worn something nondescript because...because—She didn’t know why, for sure. Only that she needed some kind of armor for now.

If De La Hoya had actually taken the commission, she would have allowed him—because he undoubtedly would have demanded—artistic control. Except that she certainly wouldn’t have posed nude.

Maybe he’d turned down the commission because he’d deduced that what her father wanted would be too traditional for his interest She’d never know, of course, since his reclusive life meant that they would never cross paths.

“What are you thinking about?” Gabe asked.

Startled out of her thoughts, she fidgeted. “Alejandro De La Hoya.”

“Well. I’m flattered.”

She smiled. “I was uncomfortable having you study me. I had to think about something else. Have you ever met him?”

He made a noncommittal sound as be pulled up a rolling stool beside her and hefted a sketch pad into his lap. “What kind of music do you like?”

“Classical. Opera, in particular. Most especially Verdi. I’m going to see Rigoletto tomorrow night with Jason Grimes. He’s the man you met the other night.”

“Yes, I remember him.”

She listened to the sound of his pencil as he sketched—short, quick strokes detailing her face in profile. She was glad she didn’t have to see him eye her inch by inch. “How about you? What’s your music of choice?”

“Wagner. Miles Davis. Segovia.”

“Eclectic taste,” she commented, tempted to look in his direction. There was tension in his voice that hadn’t been there before. “Why don’t you put on some music now?”

“Because I don’t like it to influence me in the early stages. I figure out what suits the subject, then I choose the music to accompany me while I work. Your hair needs to be pulled back from your face.”

He set down his pad and pencil, then walked to a nearby chest of drawers. In a minute he returned, a length of black ribbon in his hand. He moved behind her.

“I’ll do it,” he said as she started to gather her hair into a ponytail

She closed her eyes. He combed her hair with his fingers as he pulled it back. The cool satin of the ribbon glided across her neck. His fingertips grazed her skin. She shivered. She wasn’t used to familiarity, especially from a stranger.

A man.

She’d grown up in a house where people seldom touched. Oh, she’d felt loved, but physical warmth was missing. Sometimes when she’d stayed overnight with friends, she’d seen how different families could be. On the other hand, no one argued at her house, which was also good. She froze during arguments. Logic slipped away, leaving only the emotion she was feeling, and she could never convey her emotions clearly while under duress.

“One of the first things I noticed about you,” Gabe said from behind her, “was your hair. More beautiful than fire.”

“I was born in the wrong century.” She tried to shrug off the mesmerizing lure of his voice. “I figured Titian would have hired me to model,” she said, referring to the Renaissance painter whose use of color brought him acclaim, particularly his redheaded subjects.

“Your hair is more gold than red.” Gabe moved then, coming to a stop in front of her, staring at her long enough to make her squirm. “Had Rubens gotten a look at you, however—Ah, I’ve made you uncomfortable. Forgive me. I tend to analyze too much.”

Cristina didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted. One of Rubens’s claims to fame was his paintings of voluptuous women. How many times in her adult life had she wished she’d lived in Rubens’s time instead of now?

“I used to be a lot thinner,” she said, then clamped her mouth shut.

“Oh?” Gabe settled in the seat beside her again and started sketching, pleased to be pulling information from her so easily. “Was thinner better, Cristina? Did you like yourself more?”

“No.” She blew out a breath, relaxing. “No. If anything, I hated it.”

He wanted tension back in her face. It would make for a much more interesting portrait than soft and sweet. He could tell her that she was beautiful. That would surely bring back the tension. Some women thrived on flattery, whether true or false. But not this woman. Even her posture had indicated it earlier. “Why did you hate it?”

“It wasn’t me. It wasn’t real.”

“Had you been ill?”

“No.”

She looked at her lap, and he stopped sketching to wait.

“I was a surprise, mid-life baby,” she said finally. “I came along twenty-five years into my parents’ marriage, when my mother was forty-six and my father fifty-five, long after they’d given up hope of ever having a child. They didn’t quite know what to do with me.”

Again, he waited. After a minute he rolled his stool directly in front of her and set his sketch pad aside. He clasped her hands. She looked up. His gaze never strayed from hers. “Tell me.”

She swallowed. “They had certain expectations.”

“Unrealistic ones.”

Cristina nodded. “My father was a state senator, so we lived in a fishbowl. I was to be well mannered, and studious, and a dainty little lady. The well-mannered part I could manage. And when my mother became terminally ill, I tried to make myself into what she wanted—a dainty woman. It was the hardest thing I’d done, but before she died two years ago, I’d made her proud, and I’m glad I did. I learned a lot about myself because of it.” She squeezed his hands. “Why am I telling you this?”

“Because you want me to paint the real Cristina.”

God. He was right! He was absolutely right. “Weight and all,” she said.

“You. As you. You’re lovely.”