by Mia Downing
What surprised me, though, was how Leo chatted with casual fluency as we followed the gentleman through the gorgeous home, across marble-tiled floors and through rooms decorated with priceless antiques. We wound up an elegant staircase, and the gentleman opened the first door on the right. He gestured for us to enter, and Leo gently pushed me from behind.
The formal sitting room held a sofa, love seat, and two chairs upholstered in mint green. I turned as the gentleman again shook Leo’s hand, nodded to me as he spewed out more Italian, and then promptly left.
I had no clue what to say. Leo stood by the door with an unreadable expression on his face, his hand sinking into his pocket to jingle change in a way I’d never heard. His Adam’s apple bobbed once, and then twice, and he refused to meet my gaze.
If I didn’t know Leo any better, I would have sworn he was nervous.
He gestured with a hand toward the far wall. “I thought you’d enjoy seeing some paintings.”
“Oh?” I turned, curious, and made my way to the wall behind the sofa.
A trio of breathtaking paintings had been hung with care on gold wallpaper, all beautiful portraits from the early eighteenth century if my art history teachings were correct. I took a step forward, intrigued.
The young blonde woman in the largest painting shared a hint of a shy smile to the viewer. Shocked, I looked closer, because she reminded me of…me from a different era. Her ivory and pink satin dress flowed from a modest décolletage, the sheer volume of satin and lace a testimony to her wealth.
Unlike a lot of paintings from that era, she had a lifelike quality that called to me, maybe because something about her echoed of my features. The shape of her face, the sparkle in her blue eyes… The blossom of color on her cheeks bespoke excitement, her pink lips parted as if breathless before her lover. I waited for her to breathe, to speak, to laugh so I could hear if she sounded like me, too.
Leo’s warmth closed in behind me, and the jingling of change stopped as he cleared his throat. “Her name was Beatrice. I painted her. I fell in love, and I lived to regret it.”
My heart skipped a beat as dawning settled. His paintings. Something his human self had created and he now shared with me. Though I wanted to turn and gape, I instead reached behind me and fumbled for his hand. His was damp and clammy, and he clasped mine fiercely.
I somehow evened my breathing. “She’s lovely.”
“You’ve always reminded me of her, around the eyes and the angle of her jaw. The cheekbones, too. You’re just as breathtaking.”
Breathtaking? Me? I wanted to barrage him with questions. Who was she? Why did I look like her? Did she sell her soul, too? Patience wasn’t my thing, but I feared the answers almost as much as I wanted them.
“She belonged to another,” Leo finally said. “An Italian duke. Her betrothed paid me handsomely to paint her in different poses to be hung about the manor after their wedding.”
He stepped so he was next to me and gestured to the portrait with his free hand. “We spent a lot of time together, and I knew every inch of her though it was clothed. I learned every line of her face, every seam of her dress, every inch of lace. Each breath she took ensnared my heart in an iron grip.”
He glanced at me with a sardonic smile. “I know that waxes poetic, but that’s the kind of man I was then.”
I couldn’t picture Leo waxing anything, so it indeed came as a shock. A pleasant one, though. I wet my lips and squeezed his hand as I peeked up at him. “What happened?”
He shrugged and sighed. “She fell in love with me as well, though she never spoke of it. Neither of us did since she was nobility—the firstborn daughter of a marchese. I was a mere portrait painter. But one day, she shed that dress and invited me into her arms. It was her first time. Mine as well.”
A twinge settled in the region of my heart from the pain etched in his words and on his handsome face. A part of me whispered there was jealousy mixed in, but I ignored it. “How old were you?”
“Early twenties.” He shrugged again, his expression cast in sadness. “I had apprenticed with famous artists, and I had worked sun up to sun down my entire life to try to make a better life for myself and my family. I didn’t have time for love, and I wasn’t using a whore.”
His distasteful tone at the word “whore” had me wondering. But instead, I ran my thumb over the back of his, stroking his skin in a soothing manner, still holding his hand. “I wasn’t judging your virginity status. Just asking out of curiosity.”
He nodded, took a deep breath, and nodded again. The blood had drained a little from his face, and his eyes fixed in a vacant stare as he took in Beatrice’s visage with longing.
I had no clue where to go with the conversation, but the haunted look on his face had me a little worried. “So…what happened? Were you discovered?”
That seemed to shake him to the present as the color returned to his face. “No. She said her maid had said if a lady rode a lot, the maidenhead was often broken. And indeed, her maid had been right.” He gestured to the painting to the left. “She rode daily. ’Twas what the duke loved about her as he was an avid horseman himself.”
In a painting on the left, Beatrice sat sidesaddle in a midnight blue velvet riding habit on a gray horse. The white plume in her hat almost seemed to bob with the nod she gave the artist, her lips turned up into a sweet smile. Again, the painting took my breath away with the lifelike qualities, the attention to the tiniest detail.
“It was an arranged marriage, as were most in nobility at that time.” He pointed to the right hand painting, featuring the lady in light blue and a graying gentleman in an elaborate waistcoat, both sitting for tea at an ornate, wrought iron table. An elegant fountain and privet hedge filled the background, the water droplets frozen in time and space as if a photo taken by a high-speed camera. “The duke, her betrothed. He fancied less formal portraits in a more English style for the time.”
“He looks much older.”
“He was. Old enough to be her father at best.” Leo cleared his throat, and the change jingled once, then twice in his pocket. “We made love several times afterward, right up until the wedding. A part of me hoped and prayed…” Those strong shoulders rose and fell in another dejected shrug. “I sold my soul the day she married. I asked for fame and fortune as a court painter.”
What did one say to that? Before I could comment, he tugged my elbow and gestured to the wall opposite the bank of windows.
Above a table hung a portrait of a young gentleman in rather plain attire, his dark brown hair pulled away from the familiar handsome face. He stood in front of an easel, the painting half-finished, his shoulder turned to the artist as if disturbed mid-stroke of his brush. The look he gave the artist was one of distraction that I knew well, the brown eyes vague, and the purse of the lips impatient to return to the world his paint created.
“And this…” Leo swallowed, his breathing uneven. “This is Giovanni Reni de Palma. The artist. A self-portrait completed days before his death.” Squaring his shoulders, he turned. “This…was me.”
My heart swelled at the introduction, practically lodging in my throat so I couldn’t swallow or breathe. I gulped around the lump and studied the painting again, drinking in the delicate strokes and bold colors. The same hair, eyes, jawline—all Leo. I wanted to reach forward and caress that face captured in oil, the angles as familiar as the expression he’d reproduced.
“Not Leo,” I murmured.
“No. A demon takes a new name on creation. Most demons don’t remember being human as I do.”
“You look the same. Very handsome.” I smiled up at him, the lump in my throat growing larger by the minute. “You look the same way when I disturb you while watching the Travel Channel.”
He chuckled, the sound breaking the tension, his hand easing its hold on mine. “The gentleman who owns this house is a relative of Giovanni’s and was thrilled to have us come and view the paintings. He takes great pride in having a court painter
as part of his lineage. He believes me to be a relative.”
“No wonder he was excited to see you.”
“Yes.”
Though Giovanni waxed poetic at times, Leo seemed to be having a hard time with the whole sentence thing. He had a shell-shocked look about him as he contemplated me, his gaze never lingering for more than a moment before darting back to the painting as if overwhelmed by how surreal all of this was.
I took his hand—now more dry and still—and squeezed it. “Leo. Thank you for sharing this with me…this glimpse into your former life. You don’t know what it means.”
“I do.” His hand slipped from mine. He reached his hand into his pocket and withdrew a small, square box in black velvet. Sinking to one knee, he took my hand and met my probably terrified expression with one just as scared. “As you know, Samuel said we had to get engaged.”
The box popped open to reveal a modest, antique gold ring with two hands clasped around a heart-shaped stone in sparkling blue. My bottom lip quivered though I begged it to be still, and my hands shook just as much as his holding the box.
I’d expected him to chuck me a box with some ornate thing inside. I did not expect this delicate, thoughtful ring given during such an intimate moment.
He took the ring from the box and reached for my hand. “I’m asking you to accept this ring not from Leo, but from Giovanni. I refuse to give you a ring from my family under his demand.” His voice grew firmer and more resolved in his choice.
He slid the ring onto my finger, the point of the heart facing my body. “Please honor me by accepting my ring, Olivia.”
I held out my trembling hand, turning it so the sunlight from the windows caught the stone, setting it on fire. I hadn’t wanted this, and yet…I wanted this moment. So many emotions twisted and turned.
My eyes teared as one nameless emotion squeezed my chest as my heart melted. “It’s beautiful. Thank you. Yes, I accept.”
He rose and admired the ring, too. “I had this ring made for my mother before my death. I couldn’t get her a mourning ring, so I opted for this, a play on the fede ring to show my love and affection.”
“I’m sure she cherished it.” I didn’t want to think that about him dying shortly after.
He nodded slowly. “And now, it’s yours.”
“But how—”
“Signor Reni was more than happy to part with it for a good cause and a lot of money.”
At the sound of his name, the little man burst into the room, his round face beaming as he carried a tray of flutes holding sparkling wine. He exclaimed to Leo and handed him the tray to admire the ring on my finger. I had no clue what he whispered as he kissed both of my cheeks.
I blushed and smiled, the joy inside me mixing with guilt and shame.
Yet another deceived.
****
The good Signor Reni saw us to the outside gate, and Leo and I left, hand in hand. I faked a smile and waved, the new ring sparkling in the sunshine, reminding me of yet another lie told.
“What’s wrong,” Leo asked after we’d rounded the corner of the villa. He stopped and lifted my chin with a finger so he could search my eyes with his dark gaze.
“We have dinner tonight with Samuel and my mother. Will we make it on time?” On top of the guilt, the thought weighed on my very full mind. I was in enough trouble with Samuel already.
“Of course.” He cocked his head, his gaze probing. “I’m sure your mother will be pleased with our good news.”
I swallowed, and damn my eyes for watering a little. I tried to look away, but he held my chin fast.
“What’s wrong?”
I swallowed, hating having to be honest. “It’s just another lie. I’ve lied enough to bankrupt my soul.”
Leo sighed and released my chin. “You’ve got a long way to go to hit bankruptcy.”
I closed my eyes to gain composure only to find myself pressed into his strong arms, his large palm cradling the back of my head. The human-like embrace almost undid me. I tried not to tremble as I fought to keep the tears from falling, the stress almost too much. I inhaled his citrus cologne on breaths that grew more even as I focused on the sunshine on my shoulders, the gentle caress of his hand smoothing my hair, the other palm rubbing my lower back.
Something warm swirled inside me again, something that wasn’t lust. That warmth surged upward, mixing with the poignant, spreading through my chest to twist around my heart. My breath caught.
Oh no. No.
He stiffened and pulled away just enough to frown with confusion. The hand in my hair slid to my cheek, cupping it as he smoothed away a tear that had escaped. His Adam’s apple bobbed, and his gaze flickered down to my lips.
Slowly, he closed the gap between us, and I was able to gulp down a ragged breath before his lips touched mine. The chaste caress intensified the warmth in my belly, and that part of me that didn’t want to name the sensation recoiled in fear. But he seemed to relax into the kiss, his mouth gentle yet firm as his hand held my cheek.
He pulled away, holding me in his embrace. “I told you once you’re my friend, Olivia. My first—and probably last—friend. I gave you a special ring and shared my journey because I can’t give you anything else. Focus on that so it’s not a lie. Please. We need to stay on track.” For the first time, a note of pleading laced his voice instead of a demand.
Unfortunately, this wedding was looking more and more like the maiden voyage of the Titanic, and I was riding down to the bottom of the ocean, first class.
I blinked back fresh moisture. “A true friend wouldn’t make me do this.”
He sighed and tugged me into his arms again.
I took even breaths of his cologne, trying to draw strength from his firm chest and arms.
“Could you do me a favor?” I asked against his shoulder, the fabric of his suit jacket growing damp with my tears.
He thrust me away from him, holding me at arm’s length. “Olivia—”
“Don’t let Samuel set me on fire in front of my mother. Please?” I wiped tears from my eyes, mindful of the mascara. “He’s tried twice. I don’t need my mom’s last vision of me to be an inferno.”
Instead of worried or the huge sigh I expected, he looked relieved. “Okay.”
“That’s it? Okay?”
“Well, yes.” He smiled as if he’d granted me three wishes and had given me a million bucks. “That request is easy.”
“Why?”
“Because Samuel has never been able to kill you. I own your contract, which means you’re protected by me.” He shrugged. “Sure, you can die of natural or earthly causes, but another demon can’t kill you since it negates your contract. You’re safe. You’ve always been safe.”
Mouth gaping, I stared at him with growing horror that made me want to shriek and beat him. “You couldn’t tell me this sooner?”
“Where would the fun in that be?” He kissed the tip of my nose, the corner of his mouth quirking with a naughty smile. “Come. I have more to show you.”
****
The next leg of our voyage took us into the dark hall of a building. Leo placed a finger to his lips and opened an old, wooden door to a tiny room. He snapped on a light. Inside, an ancient sofa lined a wall under a bank of old, lead glass windows. The wall across from it held paintings. The wooden floor creaked as we entered, and Leo shut the door behind us.
“Where are we,” I whispered.
“The Palazzo Farnese, an art gallery inside an unfinished palace in Piacenza.”
“Still Italy?”
“Yes, in the north. Not far from my home village of Parma. I spent time here…after. Painting these.” He gestured to paintings on the wall.
I knew what after meant. I stepped closer to inspect the paintings with dread creeping along my skin. I gasped.
Decadence in the sexual sense filled these three paintings of a ménage in an opulent bed with an ornate headboard. A naked man settled between the plump thighs of a woman, gazing up at her a
s he licked her clit. Another man stood bedside, partially clothed, holding his cock for her to stroke and fondle while he caressed her ample breasts.
The exquisite details brought the trio to life—the gleaming bead of cum on the guy’s cock, the glistening moisture coating her folds, the perfect shading in the creased velvet and satin fabric of the bedding. Surprised at the growing ache in my groin, I shifted. Giovanni’s work was that erotic…that decadent. Real.
“This was my life after I sold my soul. Staid portraits of royalty by day, ménage paintings by night. For obvious reasons, these aren’t displayed in the main museum.”
I licked my lips. “You were incredibly talented.”
He shook his head. “That became my life, Olivia. I wasn’t sweet and kind like you, screwing a demon to keep her mother alive, giving away lotto tickets to the neighbors. I painted and fucked and drank and did opium. I gave most of my money to my mother and sisters and squandered the rest.”
He pointed to another scene in the ménage. A man’s bare buttocks clenched from between a woman’s spread thighs. Only his long, dark hair showed, his head thrown back in ecstasy. The woman was just as enthralled, her eyes closed in pure joy as she deep-throated another man’s cock.
“They allowed me to paint myself in their grouping,” he said, “though I did from behind out of shame.”
The enormity of his confession meant he’d recently spent time contemplating his human life. His human actions, both before and after his contract.
Unsure what to say, I pointed a shaking hand to his left buttock. “You missed a dimple in your ass.”
He stared down at me, shocked. “A dimple.”
An apology poised on my lips for making light of his serious admission, but he tossed his head back and laughed. I couldn’t help laugh, too.
When he finally quieted, he pulled me to his side and wrapped his arm around my shoulder. “Oh, Liv. You’re precious. A puzzle I just can’t solve.”