‘Hi.’ She appeared at the door as if summoned by his thoughts, the white robe clasped tightly around her waist, the mule slippers on her feet. She’d fastened her hair up as directed, the orchid set above one ear, the vibrant pink contrasting with the paleness of her face. Two pearls dangled from her lobes.
‘Hi.’
‘So where do you want me?’ She grimaced. ‘Stupid question.’
She walked over to the chaise, slow, small steps, obviously steeling herself as she neared the middle of the room. She halted as she reached the chaise and looked at him enquiringly. ‘Do I just...?’
Gael nodded. ‘You can drop your robe behind the chaise or hand it to me, whichever.’
‘I don’t expect it makes much difference. I’m going to end up the same way whichever I do.’ But she didn’t loosen the robe although her hands were knotted around the tie.
‘I could put on some music? If that helps?’
‘I don’t think so, thank you. Not tonight anyway. Do you need silence while you work or could we talk?’
‘I don’t mind either way unless I’m focussing on your face. Your mouth will want to stay in one position then but that won’t be for a few days.’ He usually left conversation up to the models. Some liked to chat away, almost as if they were in a therapy session, others preferred silence, lost in a world of their own. Gael didn’t care as long as he got the pose and expression he needed.
Hope walked around the chaise and stared down at the sheet, the pillow, the rumpled shawl. ‘Looks comfy.’
‘Okay, you’ve seen the painting. You’re propped up on the pillow, your head slightly raised and looking directly at me. One leg casually over the other with the slipper half on, half off—but I can adjust that for you. The arm nearest me bent and relaxed, the other resting on your thigh.’ Although she would be fully nude the pose preserved a little bit of modesty, a nod to the Renaissance nudes that had inspired the original pose.
‘Got it.’ With a visible—and audible—intake of breath Hope untied the robe and slipped it off, handing it to him as she did so. Gael turned away to place it on the floor behind him, deliberately not looking as she lay on the chaise and positioned herself. He had done this exact thing nineteen times before and not once had he had this dizzy sensation, as if the world were falling apart and rearranging itself right here in front of him. Not once had he been both so eager and so reticent to turn around and examine his model.
It’s just another model, another painting. But he knew this girl, knew her secrets and her hopes. Had coaxed them out of her so that he could capture her in oils and hang her up, exposed, for all the world to see. Only right now he didn’t want the world to see, he wanted to keep this unveiling for himself, her secrets to himself. It was his turn to take a deep breath, to push the troubling, unwelcome thoughts out of his mind and turn, the most professional expression he could muster on his face.
She was magnificent. Almost perfect, as pale as the original except for her legs, tanned to a warm golden brown. Petite and curvy with surprising large breasts proudly jutting out and the sexy curve of her small belly. Every woman Gael had dated boasted prominent ribs and a concave stomach; they looked fantastic in the skimpy designer clothes they favoured but felt insubstantial, as if the real joys in life eluded them. Not surprising when they considered dressing on a salad a treat and cheese the invention of the devil.
She was almost perfect, in a way he hadn’t even considered, conditioned as he was by the gym-going gazelles he had been surrounded by for the last fifteen years. Her only flaw was the silver scars crisscrossing the very top of her thighs. There were more lines than he could count, covering the whole thigh from the side round to the fleshy inner thigh. They stopped just where a pair of shorts would end. Where the dress she was wearing tonight had ended, hidden from the world.
She stiffened as his gaze lingered there and when he looked back into her eyes all he could see was shame mingled with hurt pride and something that might be a plea for understanding. ‘It hurt when my parents died. It hurt giving up my dreams. It hurt how much I blamed myself. Sometimes it hurt so much I couldn’t stand it.’
‘You don’t have to explain anything to me.’ He picked up the yellow ochre and squeezed an amount onto his palette before adding in some cadmium red light, the titanium white close at hand ready to lighten the blend to the exact shade of Hope’s upper half.
‘Every time I swore it was the last but then the pressure would get too much and the only thing that let it out was blood. For that second, when the blade sliced, I had peace. But then the blood would start to well up and I would feel sick again, hated myself, knew I was so weak. Faith used to ask why I wore old-fashioned swimsuits, you know, with skirts and I pretended it was because I liked the vintage look. In reality I couldn’t bear for anyone to see my thighs.’ She stopped. ‘They will though, won’t they? They’ll see them on this.’
‘I can’t exclude them. It would be like editing you. Not quite real.’
‘I knew that’s what you’d say.’
‘When did you stop?’
‘When I’d accepted the situation. When it became my reality and not this horrible nightmare with no escape. When I put my old self and my old dreams away and devoted myself to Faith. Then I could cope.’
‘Or you exchanged one mechanism for another? How long have you been locked in that box, Hope? How long have you suppressed who you are, what you want, what you need?’ His voice had deepened and he wasn’t even pretending to mix colours any more, the palette lying in his lap, the brush held casually in his hand as his eyes bore into hers.
‘I don’t any more. I’m at peace with who I’ve become.’ Liar, a little voice inside her whispered.
‘That teen rebel who kept a clear head on her shoulders while she did just what she wanted? The girl who had her future planned out down to where she wanted to study and when she was going to sleep with her boyfriend. The girl with dreams which took her away from the family home, away from London. Has she really gone?’ His words sent an ache reverberating through her for the lost dreams and hopes she barely even acknowledged any more.
‘I am away from London.’
‘Still anchored to your family home. To your sister. Still doing the sensible thing.’
‘This isn’t that sensible,’ she whispered.
His eyes pinned her to the pillow; she couldn’t have moved if she’d wanted to. ‘No.’
Hope had a sense she was playing with fire and yet she couldn’t, wouldn’t retreat. ‘I’m bored of being sensible. So very, very bored.’
‘Your hand,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I just need to position it.’
Hope’s mouth was so dry she couldn’t speak, couldn’t do more than nod in agreement as Gael put the palette down and walked towards her. He had changed into old, battered, paint-splattered jeans and a white, equally disreputable shirt, buttons undone at the neck. She could see the movement of his muscles, a smattering of hair at the vee of the low neck and something primal clenched low down inside her.
She had never been so aware of her own body before, not as a teenager, her mouth glued to her boyfriend’s as she fended off his hands, not as she’d stood in the bathroom, razor blade in hand. Every nerve was pulsing, jumping to the increasingly rapid beat of her heart. She could sense Gael over the ever shortening distance, sense him physically as if she were connected to him on some astral plane.
‘This hand.’ His voice was now so hoarse it was almost a rasp. ‘I need it here.’
The second he touched her she gasped, unable to bear the pressure building up so slowly inside her any longer. His fingers on hers, the coolness against the heat of her skin, the sight of those deep olive tones on her own pale hand, the gentle strength inherent in his touch as he moved her. It was as if she had been craving his touch without even knowing it and that one movement opened
up a deep hunger inside her.
But she had no doubt, no hesitation. She might be inexperienced but she instinctively knew what to do. She half closed her eyes, watching him through her lashes. ‘Here?’ She slid her hand a little way along her thigh and, with feminine satisfaction, watched him swallow. ‘Or here?’ She slid it slightly further so the tips of her fingers met his and, almost of their own volition, caressed the roughened tips.
‘Hope...’ She didn’t know if he was uttering a warning, an entreaty or both but she was past caring. The last few days this man had laid her bare, exposed her deepest secrets and made her confront them. She was tired of confronting, tired of hiding, she just wanted to feel something good—and if her nerves were tingling like this from the mere touch of hand on hand then she had the suspicion this could get really good really soon.
‘I think here, don’t you?’ Her fingers travelled up his hand to explore the delicate skin at his wrist. Gael closed his eyes and Hope thrilled at the knowledge that one simple touch could have such a potent effect, only to draw in a breath of her own as he captured her hand in his, his thumb sliding down to return the favour. One digit, one tiny area of skin but her whole body was lit up like Piccadilly Circus and she knew she couldn’t, wouldn’t walk away.
She should feel shame or embarrassment lying here wearing nothing but a flower in her hair, a ribbon round her neck while he was still dressed but she didn’t feel either of those things. She felt powerful as she tugged at his hand, powerful as in answer to her command he sat at the side of the chaise, powerful as she raised her hand to his face and allowed herself the luxury of learning the sharp cheekbones, the dimple by the side of his mouth, the exquisitely cut lips.
‘Hope,’ he said again, capturing her hand once again, this time holding it still while he looked deep into her eyes. She saw concern and chafed at it. She saw need and fire and thrilled to it. ‘This isn’t right. It’s been an emotional evening. I can’t take advantage of you...’
‘Right now I feel like I’m taking advantage of you.’
A primal fire flashed in his eyes and her whole body liquefied as his mouth pulled into a wolfish grin. ‘You believe that if you want, sweetheart.’
‘Would you be pulling back if I was any other woman?’
‘I wouldn’t be here if you were any other woman.’ The admission was low, as if it had been dragged from him.
Oh.
‘That’s not what I meant and you know it. If I wasn’t a virgin, if you knew I’d been swinging from the chandeliers with a whole regiment of lovers, then would you be pulling away?’
‘No,’ he admitted. ‘But you are and the first time, Hope, it should be special. With someone you love. I don’t do love, I don’t do long term and I don’t want to hurt you. You deserve better.’
‘How very teen drama of you. I’m twenty-seven, Gael. I don’t know how to flirt or date or be in that way. The way things are going I’ll be a thirty-eight-year-old virgin and you holding my hand will be the single most erotic thing that’s ever happened to me and it would be most unfair of you to condemn me to that. I’m not holding out for a knight on a white charger, you know that. If things were different I’d have lost it to Tom Featherstone nine years ago, in his parents’ bed with a White Musk candle to create the mood and James Blunt on the speakers telling me how beautiful I was. I liked Tom. I liked him a lot. I wanted to sleep with him, but I didn’t love him and I promise not to fall in love with you. I know you think you’re good but you can’t be that good.’
His mouth curved into a reluctant smile. ‘That sounds like fighting talk.’
‘It was supposed to be seductive talk.’
The virgin seducing the playboy. It was completely the wrong way round but it turned out that this playboy had scruples. Hope respected them, she just wanted him to get over them already and respect her choice.
Gael studied her for a second longer and Hope stared back more brazenly than she ever had, allowing all her need and want and desire to spill out until, with a smothered groan, he leant in, arms either side of her head, his face close to her, mouth within kissing distance, almost.
Hope moistened her lips.
‘Let’s get this straight,’ he said. ‘If there’s going to be any seducing tonight then I’ll be the one who’s doing it.’
Her body liquefied again, every bone melting so she felt as if she could simply slide off the chaise to lie in a puddle on the floor—and he wasn’t even touching her. Only then he was, one hand tilting her chin up before he claimed her mouth with his and the last coherent thought Hope knew was that when it came to seduction Gael was right: he was definitely the one in control.
CHAPTER EIGHT
IT WAS ALMOST like a relationship. Almost. The doorman let her straight up without even buzzing first, she had a bag with hot bagels and two coffees in one hand and a Bloomingdale’s bag in the other, her toothbrush and a change of underwear in the handbag slung over her shoulder, just in case.
But it wasn’t a relationship. When the lift doors opened and she walked into the studio Gael looked up and smiled—which was an improvement on his old non-greeting—but he made no move to come over and kiss her. They didn’t kiss, or hold hands, or feed each other titbits or cuddle. They had sex. Every night for the last week and a couple of times in the day as well—after all, she was spending most of the day naked—but they weren’t affectionate.
It was as if life was in two halves: the normal half filled with wedding planning, painting, archive sorting and anything else that needed doing—and the secret half. The half when Gael’s eyes darkened to a steely blue and just the look in them made her stomach swirl and her pulse speed up. And the two halves were totally disconnected.
That very first night, afterwards, he had asked if she was okay. Probably still worried that she was going to transfer twenty-seven years of singledom into one giant, all-encompassing ‘thank you for the first orgasm I didn’t sort out on my own’, wholly inappropriate crush. Obviously all the serotonin and oxytocin had been a little overwhelming; she’d wanted to be completely absorbed in and by and round him while her heartbeat returned to its normal pace and her breathing slowed. Hope completely understood, for the first time, how knee-weakening, chest-tightening, dry-mouthed lust could be mistaken for love.
But she’d spent the last nine years ignoring her wants and wasn’t going to let a little bit of—okay, a lot of—sex change the carefully ingrained habits. A wide-eyed, ‘So that’s what all the fuss is about,’ followed by, ‘I can’t believe it’s taken me so long,’ wrapped up with a ‘thank you’ was all that she allowed before wrapping the handy robe around herself and disappearing into the bathroom.
And so she’d reassured him—and herself—that she was more than okay, that she understood exactly what this was. Temporary, fun, no strings, no expectations. Hope guessed that this was what was meant by friends with benefits. Not that they were exactly friends either. Soon to be kind of in-laws with benefits?
Gael threw a pointed look at the industrial clock on the wall. ‘Got lost? I thought you were heading back to yours for a change of clothes. Last time I looked your apartment was a ten-minute walk from here.’
Hope felt a slight twinge of guilt. She was supposed to be cataloguing again this morning. ‘I know I took longer than expected, but I did bring coffee and bagels because, honestly, it is far quicker to go and buy coffee than it is to work that fiendish machine of yours.’
‘Coffee from Bloomingdale’s?’ He nodded at the huge bag in her hand.
‘Well, no. I just popped in while I was passing...’
‘Passing? Your apartment is straight north from here. How were you passing Third Avenue?’
‘Okay, I took a little detour. I know we have an appointment at the bridal shop this afternoon...yes. We,’ she added firmly as he pulled an all too expressive face. ‘I am
not going on my own. But Faith needs two gowns and it’s stressful enough getting one made up on time, so as the New York dress can be a lot less formal I thought I’d look elsewhere. Besides, I haven’t really had a chance to flex the credit card Hunter gave me yet. Shopping with an unlimited budget is a lot more fun than bargain hunting, let me tell you. This might not be an actual wedding dress but it cost more than most entire weddings. I seriously thought they’d added an extra digit by mistake.’
She placed the bag carefully on the floor and opened it. ‘What do you think? It was the last in her size so I bought it straight away but now I’m worrying I didn’t look at enough options.’ She pulled out a delicate cream dress with a lace overlay on the short bodice and cap sleeves, the silk almost sheer around the high waist before cascading into a long pleated skirt. ‘I wanted something floaty and unstructured which will be comfortable to wear. After all, she’s moving around a lot on the wedding day—Central Park, then to the boat for the afternoon cruise.’
Hope had been unsure what to do with the fifteen guests in the four hours between the cocktails at the Tavern on the Green and dinner at the Roof Garden. They were such an odd selection of people from Hunter’s multimillionaire socialite mother to her aunt and uncle who lived in a small village in Dorset and hated big cities. Luckily inspiration had led her to a small business that chartered boats out and she had booked an old-fashioned sailboat for the afternoon to take the guests on a cruise around Manhattan. It would probably be a little unsophisticated for Misty, who actually owned her own yacht, but Faith and her UK guests would love it.
‘Then she’s at the Met and finally the piano bar. It’s a busy day and she wants white for the party and blessing so I wanted to make sure there was a contrast. It’s such a beautiful shimmery cream as well. I got a gorgeous cashmere wrap in a soft gold and both flat shoes and heels so she can swap. What do you think?’
Gael didn’t just nod and say, ‘Very nice, dear,’ as her father used to do. She guessed that was the advantage of wedding planning with an artist and former society photographer. Instead he took the hanger from her and hung the dress from a hook on the wall, standing back, brow creased in concentration.
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