Forbidden or For Bedding?

by Julia James

  For just a moment Guy de Rochemont did not answer her—almost as if he had not heard her speak. He continued to hold his pose, quite motionless, as if he were still under her scrutiny. He didn’t seem to think it odd, she registered dimly, and then wondered just how long—or how—briefly—she’d been gazing at him. Perhaps it hadn’t taken more than few seconds—she didn’t know, couldn’t tell.

  Then, with the slightest indentation of his mouth, matching the socially polite smile Alexa had just given, he spoke.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ve been persuaded to that ultimate vanity. The portrait will be a gift to my mother. She seems to consider it something she would like.’ His voice was dry, and had a trace not just of an accent somewhere in his near perfect pronounciation, but of wry humour too. It also possessed a quality that, to Alexa’s dismay, did very strange things to her. Things she busily pushed to one side. She gave a nod, and another polite smile.

  ‘One thing, Mr de Rochemont, that I always warn clients about—should you wish to commission me, of course—is the amount of time that must be set aside for portraiture,’ she began. ‘Whilst I appreciate that calls on your time will be extensive, nevertheless—’

  He held up a hand. It was, she saw, long, narrow, and with manicured nails that gave the lie to a manicure being an effeminate practice.

  ‘What would you like to drink, Ms Harcourt?’

  Alexa stopped in mid-sentence, as if the question had taken her aback. ‘Oh, nothing, thank you,’ she said. ‘I really don’t have time for a drink, I’m afraid.’

  Guy de Rochemont raised an eyebrow. Alexa felt her eyes go straight there. Felt the same rush of intensity that she had felt when she had first seen him. The simple movement on his part had changed the angles on his face, changed his expression, given him a look that was both questioning and amused.

  ‘Dommage,’ she heard him murmur. His eyes rested on her a moment.

  They’re green, she found herself thinking. Green like deep water in a forest. Deep pools to drown in…

  She was doing it again. Letting herself be sucked into just gazing and gazing at him. She pulled back out again—out of the drowning emerald pool—with another straightening of her spine.

  ‘Completion of the portrait will depend entirely on the number of sittings and the intervals between them. I understand it may well be irksome for you, but—’

  Yet again, Guy de Rochement effortlessly interrupted her determined reversion to the practicalities of immortalising him for his mother on canvas.

  ‘So, tell me, Ms Harcourt, why should I select you for this task, in your opinion?’

  The quizzical, questioning look was in his eye again. And something more. Something that Alexa found she didn’t like. Up till now he had been the subject, she the observer—the riveted observer, unable to tear her eyes away from him. Now, suddenly, the tables were turned.

  It was as if a veil had lifted from his eyes.

  Emerald jewels…

  Guy de Rochemont was looking at her. Straight at her. Unveiled and with full power.

  It was heady, intoxicating—made her breathless! The words tumbled through the remains of her conscious mind, even as she felt the air catch in her throat.

  Oh, good grief, he really is…

  Attempts at analysis, classification, evaporated. They couldn’t do anything else, because all she was capable of doing was sitting there, letting Guy de Rochemont look at her.

  Assess her.

  Because that was what he was doing. It came to her fuzzily, through the daze in her brain from the impact of those incredible green eyes resting on her. He was assessing her.

  Rejection tightened through her. It was one thing for her to study his appearance—she was supposed to capture it on canvas! But it was quite another thing for him to subject her to the same scrutiny. And she knew just why he was doing it. For the same reason any man would do so. And when the man in question was someone like Guy de Rochemont, with a banking empire in his wallet and the looks of a film star, well—yes, he would think, wouldn’t he, that he was entitled to evaluate her to that end?

  Her mouth pressed together, and a spark showed in her eye. She suppressed it. She would not show she was reacting to him…to his uninvited scrutiny, she amended mentally. Because of course she was not reacting to him—not in any way other than to acknowledge, quite objectively, that his looks were exceptional, and that she needed to study them in order to paint them. That was all. All.

  Yet again she recovered her composure, stifling her reaction to him, to those extraordinary eyes.

  ‘That isn’t a question for me to answer, Monsieur de Rochemont,’ she responded. ‘The selection of portraitist is entirely your own affair. If you wish to commission me, that is your privilege, and I will see whether my schedule is congruent with yours.’

  She met his regard straight on. Her voice had been admirably crisp, which she was pleased about. All right, Guy de Rochemont was… Well, she wasn’t about to run through the adjectives again—the evidence was right in front of her eyes! But that didn’t mean she had to put up with being on the receiving end of his attention. Not that she had any reason to be concerned, anyway. There was only one outcome from his assessment. He would be seeing a plainly dressed, unadorned woman who was making not the slightest attempt to enhance her looks to please the male gender, and signalling thereby on all frequencies that she was not on any man’s menu. Even that of a man who could quite clearly take his pick of the world’s most beautiful women.

  She wondered whether he would take offence at the way she’d responded to his question. Tough. She didn’t need the commission, and if—and it was, she knew, a very big if—she took it and if—and that was probably an even bigger if, because a man like him wouldn’t care to be answered off-handedly—he commissioned her anyway, she was most definitely not going to pander to the man. Yes, he would doubtless cancel sittings—because all her clients did to some extent or another—and that was understandable given the demands on his time because of his high-powered business life, and it was something she could cope with. But there was no way he was going to get the slightest pandering to, or her begging for the commission, or anything like that, thank you very much! She offered a service, a degree of skill and artistry. If a client wanted to buy it, that was that. If not—well, that was that too.

  She met his gaze dispassionately as she finished speaking. For a moment he did not answer. She did not break her gaze, merely held his, looking untroubled and composed. The brilliance of his eyes seemed veiled somehow, as if he were masking something from her.

  His reaction, she thought. I can’t tell whether he’s annoyed, or indifferent, or what. I can’t see into him.

  Again, it wasn’t something that was unusual for her, given the calibre of her clients. Powerful men were not transparent to the world, and indeed that air of elusiveness, of restrained power, was something that usually went into her portraits—she knew, with a slight waspishness, that it was a form of flattery by her, to portray them as inscrutable.

  But with Guy de Rochement the masking was, she felt, more pronounced. Perhaps it was because his was such a remarkably handsome face, so incredibly, overtly attractive to women. Women—any women—would expect to see some sort of reaction to them in his eyes, even if it were only polite indifference. But with Guy de Rochement nothing at all came through of what he was thinking.

  She felt a tug of fascination go through her—the eternal fascination of an enigmatic man—and then, on its heels, a different emotion, a more chilling one.

  He keeps apart. He holds back. He shows only what he wants to show, what is appropriate for the moment.

  Then, abruptly, he was speaking again, and her attention went to what he was saying. What his face was suddenly showing.

  She could see quite plainly what it was.

  It was amusement.

  Not open, not pronounced, but there all the same—in the narrowing of his eyes, in the indentation of his sculpted li
ps. And more than amusement there was something else, just discernible to her. Slight but distinct surprise.

  Alexa knew why. He’s not used to being answered like that—and not by a woman.

  She felt a sliver of satisfaction go through her. Then was annoyed with herself for feeling it. Oh, for heaven’s sake, what did she care whether this man was or was not used to having someone answer him like that?

  ‘You do not believe in pitching, do you, Ms Harcourt?’ The subtly accented voice was dry.

  Alexa gave the slightest shrug. ‘To what purpose? Either you like my work and wish to engage me, or you do not. It’s a very simple matter.’

  ‘Indeed.’ The voice was a dry murmur again. One narrow, long-fingered hand reached out to close around the stem of a martini glass and raise it contemplatively to his mouth, before lowering it to the table again. His regard was still impassively on her. Then, as if reaching a decision, he got to his feet.

  Alexa did likewise. OK, she thought, that’s it. No deal. Well, so what? Imogen will be cross with me, but actually I’m glad he’s decided against me.

  She wondered why she felt so certain of that, but knew she did. She’d work out later just what that reason was. Then it came to her.

  Because it’s simpler. Easier. More straightforward.

  Yet even so she felt her mind sheering away. And necessarily so. Now was not the time to analyse why a feeling of relief was going through her not to be painting Guy de Rochement’s portrait—or why the feeling running just beneath the surface of that relief was something quite, quite different.

  Regret…

  No! Don’t be absurd, she admonished herself sternly. It’s just a commission, that’s all. You’ve done dozens, and you’ll do dozens more. Just because unlike all the others this one is young and ludicrously handsome, it means nothing at all. Nothing.

  He was speaking, and she cut short her futile cogitations.

  ‘Well, Ms Harcourt, I think we have reached the end of our necessary exchange, don’t you?’

  Guy de Rochemont was holding his hand out to her. She made herself take it, ignoring the cool of his touch and dropping it again the moment social convention permitted.

  ‘Quite,’ she agreed crisply. She picked up her bag, ready to turn and leave.

  ‘So,’ Guy de Rochemont continued, ‘I will have my PA phone your representative and arrange my first sitting—should it prove possible within the restraints of our respective diaries.’ He paused a moment. Just the fraction of a moment. ‘I trust that meets with your approval, Ms Harcourt?’

  Was that amusement in his voice again? A deliberate blandness in his gaze? Alexa found her lips pressing together as her thoughts underwent a sudden and complete rearrangement.

  ‘Yes—thank you,’ she answered, and her voice, she was glad to hear, was as crisp as ever.

  ‘Good,’ said her latest client, as if the word closed the transaction. And then, as if Alexa had just ceased to exist, he looked past her. His expression changed. ‘Guy! Darling!’

  A woman sailed up to him, ignoring Alexa’s presence as if she were invisible. A cloud of heavy scent surrounded the woman even as her slender braceleted arms came around Guy de Rochemont to envelop him. Alexa caught an impression of tightly sheathed black silk, long lush black hair, and a tanned complexion. Moreover, the woman’s features were definitely familiar. Who was she? Oh, yes, Carla Crespi—that was it. An Italian femme fatale film actress who specialised in sultry roles. Alexa hadn’t seen any of her films, as they weren’t to her taste, but it would have been hard not to have heard of the woman at all.

  She turned to go. It was par for the course that a male of Guy de Rochemont’s calibre would have a woman like that in tow. Someone high-profile, high-maintenance, who would, above all, adorn him. A trophy woman for an alpha-plus male.

  She heard the woman launch into a stream of rapid Italian, pitched too loud for private conversation and therefore, Alexa assumed, designed for public consumption—drawing attention to herself, to the man she was with. Tucking her handbag firmly under her arm, Alexa left her to it and departed.

  She felt strangely disconcerted.

  And it annoyed her.

  She would have felt even more disconcerted, and certainly more annoyed, had she realised that behind her Guy de Rochemont had disengaged himself from Carla Crespi and was looking after Alexa’s departing figure as she threaded her way across the room.

  His eyes were very slightly narrowed and their expression was speculative. With just a hint—the barest hint—of amusement in their long-lashed emerald-green depths.

  Imogen was, predictably, cock-a-hoop at Alexa’s triumph. Not that Alexa saw it in that light at all—not even when Imogen disclosed the fee she had negotiated, which was considerably higher than Alexa had yet commanded.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you you’ll be made after this?’ Imogen demanded. ‘You’ll be able to name your own price, however stratospheric. It’s all fashion—you know that!’

  ‘Thank you,’ Alexa said dryly. ‘And there was I thinking it was my talent.’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ said Imogen. ‘But brilliant artists are ten a penny and starving in their garrets surrounded by their masterpieces. Look, Alexa, art is a market, remember? And you have to work the market, that’s all. Stick with me and one day you’ll be worth squillions—and so will I!’

  But Alexa only shook her head lightly, and forebore to discuss a subject they would never see eye to eye on. Nor did she discuss her latest client, even though Imogen was ruthless in trying to squeeze every last detail out of her.

  ‘Look, he’s just what you said he was, all right? A jaw-droppingly fantastic-looking male, rich as Croesus. So what? What’s that got to do with me? I’m painting him, that’s all. He’ll turn up late to sittings, cancel more than he makes, and somehow or other I’ll get the portrait delivered, get my fee paid, and that will be an end of it. He’s having the portrait done for his mother, and presumably it will hang in her boudoir, or the ancestral hall, or one of them. I don’t know, and I don’t care. I’ll never see it again and that will be that.’

  ‘Mmm,’ said Imogen, ignoring the latter half of Alexa’s pronouncement and rolling her eyeballs dreamily. ‘All those one-on-ones with him. All that up-close-and-personal as he poses for you. All that—’

  ‘All that cool, composed professional distance,’ completed Alexa brusquely.

  ‘Oh, come on, Alexa,’ her friend cried exasperatedly. ‘Don’t tell me you wouldn’t swoon if he made a pass at you. Of course you would—even you! Mind you…’ Her eyes targeted Alexa critically. ‘Dressed like that you won’t get the chance!’

  Precisely, thought Alexa silently. And anyway, not only was a man who had Carla Crespi panting for him never going to look twice at any other female, but—and this was the biggest but in the box—the only thing she was remotely interested in Guy de Rochemont for was whether she could successfully paint him.

  The prospect was starting to trouble her. Up till now her main challenge had been not to make her sitters too aware of their physical limitations. With Guy de Rochement it was a different ballgame. She found she was going over the problem in her head, calling his face into her mind’s eye and wondering how she should tackle it. Wondering whether she could catch the full jaw-dropping quality of the man.

  Will I be able to do him justice?

  Doubts assailed her right from the start. As she had predicted, he missed the first sitting and was ninety minutes late for the next one. Yet when he did arrive his manner was brisk and businesslike, and apart from taking three mobile calls in succession, in as many languages, he let Alexa make her first preliminary sketches without interruption.

  ‘May I see?’ he said at the end, and his tone of voice told Alexa that this was not a request, despite the phrasing. Silently she handed across her sketchbook, watching his face as he flicked through her afternoon’s work.

  Pencil and charcoal were good media for him, she’d realised. They somehow ma
naged to distil him down to his essence. Beginning full-on with oils would make his looks unreal, she feared. No one would believe a man could look that breathtaking. People would think she’d flattered him shamelessly.

  But it was impossible to flatter Guy de Rochemont, she knew. The extraordinary visual impact he’d had on her at her first encounter with him had not lessened an iota. When he’d walked into her studio earlier that afternoon she’d found, to her annoyance—and to quite another emotion she refused to call anything but her artistic instinct—that her gaze was, yet again, completely riveted to him. She simply could not tear her eyes away. She just wanted to drink him in, absorb every feature, every line.

  When his mobile had rung, and with only the most cursory ‘excuse me’ he’d launched into French so fast and idiomatic it was impossible for her to follow a single word, she had actually welcomed the opportunity to resume her scrutiny of him. Unconsciously she’d found herself reaching for her sketchbook and pencil.

  Now, as he flicked through her labours’ fruits, she was watching him again. He definitely, she thought, had the gift of not showing his reaction. Whether he approved of what she’d done or not, she had no idea. Not that his disapproval would have bothered her in the least.

  If he doesn’t like what I produce, he can sack me, she thought, with a defiance she had never applied to her other clients.

  But then never had she had a client like Guy de Rochemont.

  As the sittings proceeded, intermittently and interrupted, as she knew they would—because his diary could alter drastically from day to day as with all such high-flyers who relied on others to accommodate themselves around them—she realised with what at first was nothing more than mild irritation that he started to disturb her. And it disturbed her that he disturbed her.

  Even more that it was starting to show.

  Oh, not to him. To him she was still able to keep entirely distanced during the sittings, to maintain a brisk, almost taciturn demeanour which, thankfully, mirrored his. He would usually arrive with a PA or an aide, with whom he more often than not maintained a flow of rapid conversation in a language Alexa did not understand, while the PA or aide took dictation or notes. Sometimes he took phone calls, or made them, and once he nodded a cursory apology to her when a second aide arrived with a laptop which he handed to his boss to peruse. After he had done so, Guy snapped it shut and resumed his pose again. Alexa coped with it all, and said nothing. She preferred not to speak to him. Preferred to keep any exchange to the barest functional minimum.