by Fae Mallory
Gesturing to the paintings that surrounded them, he said, “You will notice sticky notes on every frame. The color of each note corresponds to the painting’s value. We’ll start with the yellow notes and reserve the more valuable paintings for later in the proceedings. Once you’ve removed an article of clothing, pick the painting you want and claim its tag. Those will be the paintings that will go on display at your museum.”
He’d clearly put thought into this, and Violet found herself wondering if he made a hobby of asking women to strip for him in exchange for art. Somehow, she couldn’t believe it. When a man looked like Ian Carlisle, he hardly had to bribe women to take their clothes off for him. “Why are you doing this?” she blurted.
He resumed his seat on the bench and raised his eyebrows. “I thought you wanted to borrow my paintings for the museum.”
“I do, but that’s not what I mean,” she tried to explain. “I mean, why me? You could lease them to us and make some extra money. Why do you want me to strip?”
Carlisle shook his head. “I have plenty of money, Miss Fabre. I don’t need any more. Money doesn’t interest me. I’m interested in art—beauty. That’s what this is about.”
“Beauty?” Violet snorted as she looked down at herself. “You’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“Would you prefer I called off our deal?” Carlisle asked in a silky tone.
Part of her wanted him to do just that to spare her the humiliation of baring her body to a man who surely had his pick of supermodels. However, this was also the best chance she’d ever have to save the museum, and she couldn’t let it slip away. “No. I don’t want you to do that.”
Carlisle nodded. “In your own time, Miss Fabre.”
Inside her shoes, her toes felt as if they were frozen. Carlisle was watching dispassionately, viewing her with the same polite interest with which he might regard a painting from a lesser artist. Cheeks burning, Violet ripped off her left glove and cast it to the floor at her feet, hating his infuriating calm. She was getting ready to take her clothes off—the least he could do was maintain the fiction that she was aesthetically pleasing to him.
When she lowered her eyes in embarrassment, she saw the glove lying at her feet, and Violet realized that she’d made a start. “One,” she murmured, her voice echoing in the cavernous room as she looked at the paintings tagged with yellow sticky notes to see which one she wanted.
“Gloves come in pairs,” Carlisle reminded her.
“Two gloves means two paintings.” Looking up, Violet dared him to argue with her. If he protested, she’d leave the other one on, and the ridiculousness of stripping off everything while still wearing a winter glove should be enough to ruin whatever effect Carlisle was going for in asking this of her.
Giving her a sardonic look, Carlisle said, “They’re an accessory at best. I’m being generous in counting them at all.”
Violet shrugged. “If you feel like that”—she stooped to pick up her fallen glove and slipped it back on—“there’s no need for me to take them off.”
She held his eyes, Carlisle looking as though he’d been carved from marble himself. After an eternity, he inclined his head. “Two paintings,” he conceded.
Letting out her breath in a rush, Violet hastily removed both of her gloves and tossed them aside, turning to examine the paintings. There were two large canvases done in shades of red that would be a perfect introduction to the exhibit if she hung them flanking the exhibition space’s door. Heels clacking on the marble floor, she claimed their tags, placing the sticky notes on the end of the bench farthest from Carlisle.
“Interesting choices,” he murmured as she reclaimed her spot in front of him.
With shaking fingers, Violet went to work on the buttons of her long gray coat. There was some bulk to it, hiding the worst of her figure. Once the coat was gone, Carlisle would be able to see just what a poor deal he’d made, and she kept her eyes cast down, not wanting to see the disgust on his face when she took it off.
Even with her trembling hands, it didn’t take long to undo the buttons, and Violet took a deep breath as she slipped the coat off, immediately holding it in front of her for a bit of camouflage as she smoothed out the wrinkles and furled it into a neat ball. Once that was done, she had no more excuses, and her throat closed up as she let the coat fall to the floor.
“Which will you choose now?” he asked, his voice surprisingly gentle. When Violet jerked her head up, she could detect no sign of distaste in his eyes.
“Mountain Sunrise,” she said at once, going to the tiny canvas. Although Madden usually chose to work large-scale, this painting was barely bigger than her hand, making it somewhat impractical for an exhibit. However, a print of this painting had appeared in one of Violet’s textbooks, and she’d spent hours gazing at it, trying to understand how he’d layered his brushstrokes. It was one of her favorite pieces of art, and she felt that she’d earned the right to display it.
As she retrieved the tag, she could feel Carlisle’s eyes on her. “Very interesting.”
Bracing herself for a protest, Violet took off her scarf, but he maintained his silence as she chose another painting. Apparently, she’d won the battle of accessories. When she slipped off her suit jacket to reveal the waistcoat underneath, his lips twitched. “You planned ahead.”
“Proper planning prevents poor performance,” she rattled off without thinking. A cross-stitch sampler with that motto had hung in Murray’s office, and she’d kept it after he retired. Somehow she’d never pictured these circumstances when she looked at it.
“I’ve often thought so,” he agreed, bracing his hands behind him as he leaned back to study her. His eyes were twinkling with amusement, but Violet had the feeling that he was laughing with her as opposed to at her.
“Isn’t that the Boy Scout motto? Always be prepared?” she asked to distract herself as she unbuttoned her waistcoat and added it to the growing pile of fabric at her feet.
“I couldn’t tell you. I’ve never been much of an outdoorsman,” he admitted. “I like my art and my comforts.”
“But you’ve chosen to live in Maine,” Violet reminded him. “Wouldn’t New York or LA be more suitable?”
“I also like my privacy,” he informed her, his tone inviting her to ask no more questions.
Flustered, Violet managed to unbutton half of her blouse before realizing what she was doing. Apparently Carlisle wasn’t interested in having a conversation, and she flushed with anger as much as embarrassment. She was a person, not a painting, and she had no intention of letting him forget that inconvenient fact. She’d agreed to strip, not to be silent while she did.
“I lived in New York for a while and hated it. I know it’s supposed to be exciting, but to me it just felt crowded and noisy. I always felt like…” She trailed off, not sure how to explain the soul-crushing effect the city had on her.
“Like you couldn’t breathe,” Carlisle said softly, and for a moment, Violet wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or not.
“Exactly,” she agreed, just in case his remark was aimed at her. “I’ll take Owensport any day.”
Carlisle’s eyes met hers, and Violet gasped at the intensity she saw in them, not sure what to make of it. He wasn’t looking at her with anger or lust or any other easily identifiable emotion. Instead, for the first time, he was looking at her as though he really saw her, giving her the uncomfortable feeling that he was seeing her soul as clearly as her body.
“I always liked being outside,” she said to break the tension of the moment, leaving off with her buttons and instead stepping out of her shoes which earned her two more choices. “When I was growing up, we had this big tree in the backyard and my dad built me a swing. I used to play on it for hours. Sometimes if I just sat there quietly, I’d see deer. One time I even saw a moose.”
She was babbling to distract herself from what she was doing as she went back to unbuttoning her blouse, but Carlisle actually looked interested. “When I got older, that�
��s where I sat to sketch.”
Almost at once, she realized her mistake. “Tell me about your sketching,” he commanded, his face intent as he leaned forward.
Carlisle was interested in art—of course he’d want to know more about her sketching. Suddenly, taking her shirt off seemed less revealing than telling him about her work. Having seen the best that the art world had to offer, he’d hardly be impressed by her amateurish efforts. “Oh, you know. I drew flowers and trees, the usual,” she said carelessly, injecting a light laugh. “All the things teenage girls like. I probably even wrote some bad poetry while I was at it.” She sunk her teeth into her bottom lip to prevent herself from saying more, relieved when he didn’t press her.
Feeling like she’d dodged a bullet, Violet tossed her shirt onto the pile. Considering the camisole she was wearing, not much of her skin was on display, but this was more than she’d showed anyone since her ex-boyfriend decided to trade her in for a prettier model.
Carlisle opened his mouth as though he was going to say something, but then closed it again. “You may now choose any painting with a yellow tag or a blue one.” Somehow, Violet didn’t think that was what he’d originally planned to say.
“Thank you.” Without her shoes, the marble floor was cold against her feet, but looking at the artwork warmed her. Madden was truly gifted, and knowing that she would have the freedom to study his paintings at her leisure once they were at the museum made everything she was doing completely worthwhile.
Her skirt was the next thing to go, leaving her in just her slip and camisole. “You’re a greedy thing, aren’t you?” Carlisle asked with what sounded like admiration when he got his first glimpse of her slip.
“I prefer to think of myself as shrewd,” she corrected him primly.
At that, he laughed aloud. “You are that, Miss Fabre. I’m impressed.”
Her body might not be much to admire, but at least he admitted that there was nothing wrong with her mind. Warmed by his compliment, she considered her options. Once the camisole and slip went, nothing would shield her thick thighs and rounded belly from his eyes, but if she took off her stockings and garter belt first, that would buy her some extra time.
Before she’d done more than reach under the slip, Carlisle held up a hand. “No.”
Pausing, Violet glanced up at him. “No?”
“That’s not how this works, Miss Fabre,” he corrected. “I would prefer you to undress from the outside in.”
“You didn’t make any rules about what order I went in,” she reminded him.
“Which is why I’m setting rules now.” Carlisle’s face was calm, but his eyes stormed against her argument.
“You can’t change the rules halfway through.” Violet folded her arms across her chest as much for additional coverage as out of pique.
“You can’t change rules that never existed in the first place. The camisole and slip come next,” he said, his face brooking no protest.
Violet protested anyway. “You said I could stop at any time.”
“And you may. However, I don’t think that ten paintings will make for a particularly impressive exhibit.” That was the true crux of the matter. The paintings belonged to Carlisle, which meant that he had all the power in this situation. Since it was his art, he got to make the rules.
Fighting the impulse to stomp her foot like a child, Violet grabbed the hem of her camisole and yanked it over her head, knocking her curls loose in her carelessness. She could hear the clatter of hairpins hitting the floor and growled to herself as she tossed the camisole to the floor and swiped her hair out of her eyes. “Happy now?”
Carlisle’s jaw tightened. “Yes, thank you, Miss Fabre.”
Violet sucked in her stomach and tried to stand tall. Erect posture was slimming. The one advantage to gaining weight was that her bust had also become more generous, and she hoped that Carlisle was too busy looking at her breasts to notice the rest of her. Grinding her teeth, she pushed her slip down over her hips and kicked it away, staring up at the sun shining through the skylight so she wouldn’t have to watch him look at her for the first time.
“A garter belt,” he murmured. “You’re full of surprises.”
It had taken her a little while to figure out how to work the fiddly little clasps, but once she did, Violet quite liked the result. The lacy garters hid her upper thighs fairly well and the belt helped hold in the bulge of her stomach. It wasn’t as comfortable as wearing her usual control top pantyhose, but for an additional two paintings, she was willing to sacrifice a bit of comfort.
“Make your choices,” Carlisle said, a gravelly edge to his voice.
Conscious of his eyes on her, Violet walked as swiftly as she could without letting anything bounce to two more paintings and pulled off their tags. Now that she could choose either blue or yellow tags, she had almost the entire gallery at her disposal save for five paintings that even untried eyes would recognize as being the jewels of the collection. Four of the paintings had purple tags, and one wasn’t tagged at all. Swallowing hard, she tried not to think about the implications of that.
Resuming her position in front of Carlisle, she tried to figure out the best way to get her stockings off. If she were home alone, she’d simply bend over, but doing that would either give him a look straight down her bra, or if she turned around, a far too good look at her ass. Considering that she was in the middle of a strip show, modesty was probably ridiculous, but she hadn’t yet decided if she was planning to go all the way. He had told her that she was free to stop whenever she wanted after all.
“Okay,” she muttered, padding over to the bench he was sitting on and placing her foot on the end. Immediately, Carlisle scooted to the opposite end, giving her more space.
“We agreed on a six foot distance,” he reminded her when she gave him a quizzical look.
“So we did,” she agreed. She was taking her clothes off for him, and Carlisle was strictly following his own rules in an effort to ensure she was comfortable. There was something sweet about that.
Doing her best to hold her stomach in, Violet leaned down and unfastened the garters, wincing when her clumsy fingers snapped the elastic against her skin. “Careful,” Carlisle murmured, checking a move to reach out.
Violet pulled a face at him, but he didn’t seem to be mocking her. Grateful that her hair had come loose, she ducked her head, allowing her curls to shield her face as she slowly rolled the first stocking down her leg. She’d chosen black for coverage reasons, but now there was no more hiding. As she rolled the silk down, she was conscious of every ripple and dimple in her pale flesh.
To her relief, Carlisle was silent, and if she kept her head down, she could almost pretend that she was alone save for the way her skin seemed to prickle from the weight of his gaze. Carlisle was wealthy and sexy. Surely he’d seen far more attractive women in far less clothing, but she certainly had his full attention.
As soon as she had the first stocking off, she moved to the other side of the bench to place her other foot upon it, keeping her stocking clad leg as the closest to him. Although he turned his body to keep her in his sights, otherwise he remained where he was, silently watching.
“Can I choose a purple tag?” she asked, trying to position her arms to shield as much of her body as possible.
“Not yet,” he replied.
Violet jerked her head up, forgetting to be embarrassed about her plump form. “Not yet?”
“You still have plenty to choose from,” he reminded her, and it was true. There were more than twenty paintings remaining with a blue or yellow tag, but that was beside the point. If she wanted the gems of the collection, she was going to have to doff everything.
Huffing in exasperation, she unhooked the garter belt and added it to the pile, giving Carlisle a challenging look. He nodded slightly, acknowledging that she’d removed another article, but he said nothing about the purple tags.
“Hell,” Violet muttered, aware that she was jiggling a
s she stalked over to three more paintings, adding their tags to her collection. She had fifteen, and that would make a respectable exhibit for the museum. She could stop now. It wasn’t like she’d even shown him that much. Her bra and panties were modest and revealed less than many swimsuits—not that Violet had worn a swimsuit in public in years. She could put her clothes back on, take her fifteen paintings, and go.
If fifteen paintings were good, seventeen would be even more impressive, especially considering the majesty of the purple-tagged paintings. Carlisle was being a gentleman about things, and Violet had to admit that taking her clothes off for him wasn’t nearly as awkward as she’d expected it to be. There was no judgement or condemnation in his eyes for her less-than-stellar figure, just interest which didn’t even appear to be sexual. His posture was relaxed as he lounged on the bench, and Violet felt a bit of irritation at that. Surely, having a mostly naked woman wandering around his gallery should provoke some kind of reaction.
She could stop, but Violet was suddenly aware of the fact that she didn’t want to. She wanted to finish what she started and earn the museum an exhibition that would put it back on the map. She wanted to wipe the calm look off Carlisle’s face and make him feel something more than polite curiosity.
Brash as she was feeling, Violet was still practical enough to make sure that taking this final step would earn her what she wanted. Even one of the remaining five paintings would attract attention from the most jaded sections of the arts community. Having two on display would ensure that people would be willing to travel across the country to see them. “Two to go. If I continue, do I get to pick from everything?”
“Anything with a tag,” he confirmed.
Jerking her head at the one untagged painting, she pressed, “What about that one?”
“Geminids is not available for loan.” Carlisle’s voice caressed the title of the painting.
“And why is that?” The purple canvas had an energy that attracted the eye, the near-random splashes of copper and silver perfectly capturing the winter meteor shower despite its abstract nature.