Dr. Pinel had listened patiently as she told of losing Jacob and of her feelings for Ward Gabriel.
“Whether you discover the man you were meant to marry seems to me to lie entirely in the hands of fate. Pandora, you must simply live your life as best you can and never give up hope,” Pinel encouraged.
At that point, Pandora ended her sessions with the doctor to begin living her life. She had no choice. Although she was a wealthy young woman, her vast fortune was in trust and would remain there until she married or turned twenty-five, whichever came first. She was still one husband or three years short of that. Her uncle had been most generous with her while she remained under his roof. But now she must make her own way. After only a short time in Paris, her funds were all but exhausted. She had to find some way to support herself.
She had told Ward once that she would be an artist and now was the time to try.
As for the rest of what she had told Ward—that she would take many lovers—that now seemed laughable! Having known the Francos, the Vincents, the Edouards of the art world, she had serious doubts that Laffite would have come back as an artist’s model. Never—not if she lived a thousand years—would she ever forget her first experience with one of the mad models of Paris. Edouard was tall, painfully thin, elegantly beautiful, with intense violet eyes and a voice as rich and smooth as aged brandy. She could see their meeting now as if it were happening for the first time.
He walked toward her as she stood at her easel, painting the Seine and the boats. She had not yet worked up the courage to ask a man to pose for her. She glanced up to see the tall man drawing near, but had no idea he was headed directly to her.
He stopped before her, blocking her view, and in a voice that was as rich and sweet as warm honey, he whispered “Let me model for you. I ask no pay. It would be my honor, beautiful lady.”
Shocked speechless, Pandora found she could only stare at him. Her first impulse was to run away, but she couldn’t make her legs move.
“Please, mademoiselle, I am not mad.” He shrugged in that eloquent Gallic manner. “Well, perhaps, just a bit. But then are not all artistic people better if they are slightly insane? You must let me pose for you. I see in your eyes that we share a great, secret passion.” His gaze then traveled the length of her, coming to rest at her bosom and making her tingle inside. “I beg of you, mademoiselle! May I you come to your studio… pose for you?”
Pandora finally agreed. She was nervous beyond all reason, having never painted a male model from life. When he arrived at her studio—a cold, wretched garret in Montmartre, but the best she could afford—she changed her mind again. “No, no, Edouard!” she told him. “I’m sorry. Please go.” The slightly mad man would have none of it. He began disrobing before her shocked eyes.
Beautifully naked and weeping real tears, he begged on his knee, “My very life depends on you, mademoiselle. If you make me go now, I will have no choice but to kill myself.”
When he lunged toward the table, taking an evil-looking bread knife, threatening to plunge it deep into his thin, but beautiful breast, Pandora finally relented.
She could still remember her uneasiness as she’d glanced about her, uncertain how to go about posing the man.
When she remained frozen to the spot, Edouard came to her, an imploring smile on his full, beautiful lips. Before she could move away, he took her in his arms, whispering reassurances, telling her that he was sure they would be magnificent together once the painting was done. And then, Edouard kissed her… and kissed her… and kissed her. Deep, wine-flavored kisses that melted her will and set her trembling inside and out. By the time he finished with her, she found herself totally, overwhelmingly infatuated with him, as mesmerized as if Dr. Pinel had spoken his magic words over her.
Edouard is Laffite!
It had to be, she told herself as she arranged his wondrous body with trembling, loving hands, then set to work creating her first masterpiece.
To her vast disappointment, Edouard, pleading fatigue, did not make love to her when they finished their first session. Nor did he on any other occasion. She remained, their whole month together, trembling on the very brink of ecstasy. Before each sitting, Edouard kissed her, stroked her, fondled her almost to the point of release. But never further. He told her she kindled his fires of passion and that they made her canvas glow with a special light to inflame the viewer. He promised her their time would come. She accepted that, dreaming all the while of the day she would finally finish her work and of the marvelous, passionate love they would share in celebration.
While Pandora had a room elsewhere, she allowed Edouard to live in the studio. On the day she was to finish the canvas and be fulfilled at last, she arrived early, glowing with expectancy.
Today was the day! she told herself. Edouard would make her his woman at last!
She arrived too early! She burst in to find her beautiful Edouard in the arms of his lover—a husky, hairy brute named Gaspar. She would never forget that sight. The two men lay naked and entwined on the very couch where she and Edouard had lain together, kissing and fondling and waiting—waiting for what could never be.
With a cry of sheer anguish, she had ordered her would-be lover out of the studio, warning him never to return again.
Edouard’s portrait sold almost immediately. The buyer’s agent contacted her and offered an enormous sum. She did not know the new owner’s name, nor did she care. She only wanted all memories of Edouard wiped from her mind. Rave reviews of her work were published in the Paris papers. The painting was the hit of the season in Paris when it was shown at the “luxurious studio of the renowned art connoisseur, Monsieur Gaspar Lemercier.” The whole city was guessing who this female genius was who had painted such a masterpiece. Names were suggested in gossip columns and whispered at coffee houses. Many claimed a man had actually done the work. Edouard and his lover kept silent and no one else knew for sure.
Pandora was careful to keep her two lives separate. Her friends had no idea that she was the much whispered about artist, Nicolette. They would never have suspected that a gently raised American lady could paint such scandalously realistic portraits of male nudes. She told her models no details of her personal life—not even her real name. She spoke French, Italian, and German fluently. The men who posed for her knew nothing of her American background. Only two people might guess her true identity by the way she signed her works, Dr. Pinel and Ward Gabriel. The doctor would keep her secret in professional confidence. As for Ward, she only wished he would make the connection and come back into her life.
Putting the final touches on Franco’s portrait, Pandora thought ahead to her plans for the evening. Tonight she would see an old friend from home. Magnolia Hempstead, who had married an Italian count, was giving a masked ball at her villa on Capri. The occasion for the party, other than the usual frantic round of post-Easter festivities, was Count Bellini’s recent acquisition of one of her early French portraits.
Pandora, hearing about the purchase, had considered declining the invitation. But the party promised much amusement and very little danger of discovery. Besides, she missed her old friends and longed for news from home.
She sighed suddenly, thinking that if she did not finish with Franco soon, she would not be dressed in time to catch the boat that the Bellinis were sending over to transport their guests from Naples.
“Not much longer,” she told her model.
“Un momento, cara?”
Franco was teasing her again. A moment to her, he had told her, could mean an hour or a day. He often accused her of painting out more than she painted in during most sessions.
Her hand and shoulders ached. Pandora closed her eyes for a moment, but her mind refused to be still. For some reason her thoughts kept flying in all directions. She felt as if something were about to happen to her yet she had no idea what it might be. Perhaps she was only excited about the gala tonight, about seeing someone from Galveston after s
o long. Magnolia would have all the latest news from home.
When she had run away three years ago, she had cut all ties. She had written her aunt once, to tell her that she was in Paris, but did not intend to remain there much longer. She had given her family no address. They could not write to her and she did not write to them. Sometimes she felt sorry for that. There were things she would like to know. By now, Jacob and Angelica’s child must be a toddler. Perhaps their second or even their third was on the way.
“Finito!” Franco’s cry of exultation made her jump. While her mind wandered, he had left his spot to come look at the canvas. She stared at him, then at her work. He was right. It was finished.
The naked model grabbed her and hugged her enthusiastically. Pandora could not share his excitement, feeling only relief. She stretched her arms over her head, experiencing a prickling sensation like tiny needles stabbing her flesh. Then reaching to a nearby chair, she grasped a green velvet drape and tossed it to Franco.
“Get dressed!” she ordered good-naturedly. “You’re embarrassing me.”
Franco gave her a sound kiss on her cheek. “Ah, signorina, I would like to do more than that to you. You are molta artista… molta femina!”
She laughed at the sexy come-on. “You’re not so bad yourself, Franco. Would you settle for some wine?”
He still stood there, gazing at the painting with sheer delight in his dark eyes. “Magnifico!” he whispered.
Pandora turned and took a blood orange from a bowl by the window. She sank her teeth into the tough skin, taking a deep bite of the red and orange flesh. Juice dribbled down her chin, but she didn’t care. She was famished.
Franco opened a bottle of chianti and brought two glasses. They toasted the masterpiece, she paid him handsomely, then he dressed, and left.
A short while later, Pandora left the apartment. Outside the late afternoon sunshine was warm. It felt good on her face. She decided to walk the few blocks to catch the boat to Capri. She felt wonderful. Perhaps it was because the portrait was finally finished or more likely, she mused, it had to do with seeing someone from Galveston again. She sighed, wishing she could go back. Surely by now she had matured enough to return and accept all that had happened to her there.
Countess Bellini, a tall slender woman three years Pandora’s senior, rushed to greet her childhood friend. Pandora stared, wondering at the vast change in her, until she realized that Magnolia had hennaed her blond hair for the occasion. The fiery tresses transformed her entire appearance. Her hazel eyes were hidden behind a jeweled mask.
Magnolia was costumed as Queen Zenobia of Palmyra, complete with the heavy golden chains about her wrists and ankles that the Emperor Aurelian was said to have used on his lovely prisoner. Magnolia’s costume was not quite authentic, for according to the histories Pandora had read, Zenobia wore nothing but those gold chains as she was paraded through the streets of Rome so long ago.
“Pandora dearest,” the countess cooed, kissing her old friend on both cheeks. “I am furious with you. Why didn’t you let us know sooner that you were in Naples? You could have stayed with us. I won’t scold you; you’re here now.” She held her friend at arm’s length. “Let me look at you. Oh, you are gorgeous. I know now who will win the prize for the best costume of the evening.”
A dozen guests were assembled already in the spacious, airy ballroom of the Bellini villa. The moment Pandora entered, the buzz of conversation ceased as all eyes drank her in. She became self-conscious under such close scrutiny. She hadn’t planned to draw undue attention to herself this evening. Perhaps she’d gone too far with her costume. She was dressed as the huntress goddess Diana, her form caressed by a gauze-like, clinging silver drape. Ropes of silver formed a girdle at her waist. She wore silver sandals. Her hair, piled high in flaming waves held in place by golden hairpins, was crowned by a crescent moon that glittered with brilliant stones. Her golden mask, too, was encrusted with the sparkling glass gems.
“Come, Pandora,” Magnolia insisted, tugging her from the staring crowd. “Let’s have a glass of wine and talk. There’s so much I want to know about home. I love Italy, but sometimes I think I could die for the tiniest glimpse of Galveston.”
Pandora was relieved to be alone with her friend in a quiet sitting room, but she admitted that any news she had to share was at least three years old.
After her first disappointment, the countess’s face brightened. “Then I’ll simply have to tell you everything. Mother and my sisters write every week. I know of course about your broken engagement.” Magnolia studied Pandora’s face to see if the subject offended. When her friend only nodded and smiled, she realized she was on safe ground.
“Was it a boy or a girl?” Pandora asked. The other woman looked puzzled by her question. “Jacob and Angelica’s child.”
Magnolia slapped her fingers to her lips and drew in her breath, delighted to be the first to tell Pandora this choice bit of gossip. “My goodness, you have been out of touch,” she whispered. “There was no child. Angelica lied to Jacob to get him to marry her. Why, it was the scandal of the whole island. Can you believe it?”
Somehow Pandora could not share her friend’s shock. How like Angelica. How very like her. Poor, dear Jacob. He had counted so on having a son to carry on the family name and medical practice.
“They’ve had no children?”
“None, rumor has it that Jacob left her bed after he found out that she had deceived him.”
During the next few minutes, Magnolia told her about everyone she knew in Galveston, everyone she cared about—everyone except Ward Gabriel. Pandora was dying to ask about him. Was he still there? Had he built his fine house? Had he married? But she couldn’t bring herself to mention his name. Everytime she thought of him, she felt guilty and ashamed.
“Ah, ladies, here you are.” It was Count Salvatore Bellini, Magnolia’s darkly handsome husband—older than she, but obviously wild about his American beauty. “You must join us now. It is time to unveil my new masterpiece. Come, come.” He offered an arm to each of them and smiled down into Pandora’s eyes. “We are honored to have you here, signorina. And later, we have a special surprise for you.”
Again, Pandora felt her heart give an extra beat. She convinced herself that he referred only to the contest; there was no way that they could have found out she was the artist, Nicolette.
The painting of Vincent was unveiled by the count amidst much sighing and exclaiming from the guests. Pandora stared at it, remembering those strange days in her cold, drab studio in a back alley of Paris. How she had shivered as the winter rains pelted the city. And Vincent, ah, Vincent—with his wild hair and one cocked eye, but the most magnificent body.
When she had complimented him on his physique, he had been quick to warn her off. “Be careful, mademoiselle. I know of your reputation. I will allow you to paint me, but I will not make love to you.” She could still hear his pompous voice in her head. She had not asked him to. “You see,” he’d continued, “I no longer allow myself the luxury of taking a lover while I’m posing. To make love is to sap the spirit of its strength. The model must be as great a genius as the artist. The creative juices can flow in only one direction. The wise genius allows them to flow from his fingers and his spirit. The stupid one spews them out through his penis. You will remain celibate also while I am posing for you. Am I understood?”
He had refused all but meager payment, thinking her deprived because he would not bed her. Pandora smiled at the memory and at the painting. Vincent had insisted on creating his own pose. He stood naked with his hands caressing the marble breasts of a statue of Cleopatra. Despite her best efforts to the contrary, Pandora had been unable to give the painting anything other than erotic overtones. Vincent looked as if he were either about to make love to the cold marble or plead with the exotic queen to come back to life to soothe his passionate longings. It was almost comic art, albeit masterfully done. She had the urge to giggle, but ev
eryone around her was rapt with awe.
“Magnificent!” she heard a woman behind her say in a voice choked with emotion. “What I would not give for one night with such a man.”
“You have such a man, madame,” Pandora heard the woman’s husband remark in a gruff whisper. “That pretty fellow who tends the horses at our country place. I know all about him.”
After the initial excitement over the painting, the party went into full swing. Musicians began to play and Pandora found herself whirled about on the smooth marble floor for hours. As midnight and the unmasking neared, she felt ready to drop. Perhaps she would excuse herself and hide away in Magnolia’s bedchamber, escaping the final waltz and the inevitable soggy kiss of some stranger at the moment of the unmasking.
As she started to slip away, someone caught her hand.
“Signorina, per favore?”
Trapped! She was in the masked man’s arms before she could say a word. One of the count’s Italian friends she could tell. They were all dark and earthy-looking, although this one was taller than the others. He spoke to her only in Italian, but with an odd accent she couldn’t quite place. Every province had its own peculiar accent; Pandora found it impossible to keep them all straight.
“Your costume, signor?” she asked. He was dressed in high boots, tight pants, a wide sash, and a full-sleeved shirt, all in brilliant colors. She noted the golden ring in his ear and the bandana covering his head. “You are a gypsy prince?”
He laughed and the sound of it struck a chord deep in her heart. “No, I was never any good at disguises, signorina. I am supposed to be a pirate—that French scoundrel, Jean Laffite.”
Pandora missed a step and then another. Some latent fury from long ago boiled up in her. “He was neither a pirate nor a scoundrel, signor!”
He bowed in apology, still smiling, and swept her back into the waltz. “I will not argue that point with you since I know little of the man. If one so gentle and lovely as you defends him, then I am sure he was a gentleman of the first order. But I am disappointed. I chose this disguise hoping to emulate the man’s personality as well. I hear he had quite a way with the ladies.”
Forever, For Love Page 24