by Moriah Jovan
“You’ll be spending the night here with Ford,” the Virgin murmured and Eilis swallowed. “Possibly more. Are you ready to see the salon?”
“Yes, please,” Eilis whispered.
A set of dark cherry French doors, whose sandblasted glass panes allowed some light, separated the bedroom from the salon. When the Virgin opened the doors toward them, Eilis gasped anew.
The opulence of 1920s art deco came to life in deep reds and golds. Deco sconces glowed warm, yet only bright enough to read by. The carpet was a plush, deep, rich gold with acanthus leaves sculpted into its surface. A large round table of burled wood punctuated by ebony inlays sat in the center with four parsons chairs upholstered in the same rich red as the walls.
A very large mirror hung over a dark, carved cherry sideboard, which boasted a silver tray with a silver-labeled dark blue bottle flanked by two oddly shaped glasses, two wide slotted spoons, an empty water carafe, and a bowl of sugar cubes.
A fully-stocked liquor cabinet of the same cherry dominated an anteroom that could be seen through a narrow arched doorway. Following that, she found a gorgeous kitchenette with refrigerated drawers, wine cooler, ice maker. Beautiful glasses hung over one counter.
The Virgin led Eilis out of the kitchenette to the far side of the salon and opened another set of French doors.
Yet more surprises.
It was a bathroom, stark white and brushed nickel, the floor tiled in 1920s hexagons. Subway tiles rose from the floor halfway up the walls. In one corner sat a luxurious claw-foot tub and an enormous shower at the opposite corner almost disappeared because it was glass. There were two sinks, over which were two mirrors. Fresh towels and a plush bathrobe, all in white, hung next to the sinks.
All the expensive scents, body powders, lotions, soaps, shampoos, conditioners that a woman could want nestled in white baskets placed randomly about the room. The pretty bottles and labels gave the room its only splash of color, but delighted the senses because of its scarcity otherwise.
The only other color in the room was cradled in a wall vase of brushed nickel between the mirrors, which held a peculiar plant of dull purple bells, black berries, and golden stamens. It took Eilis a minute to place it and then she bit her lip.
Atropa belladonna. Deadly nightshade: Poison. Deception. Danger.
She swallowed and felt the Virgin’s gaze on her.
“I’m going to leave now. I’ll be back when Ford calls me to come get you and take you home. Eilis,” she said, grasping Eilis’s hands and looking up at her, her peculiar blue eyes piercing, “do you understand what’s going to happen here tonight?”
“I—I think so,” she whispered, not at all sure now.
You’ll be spending the night here with Ford.
Belladonna.
Besides her uneasiness, she had a vague sense of guilt she didn’t understand.
“Is he— Is he dangerous?” Eilis whispered.
The Virgin looked suddenly horrified. “Oh, no,” she breathed. “Never think that. It’s just— I don’t— I don’t think this is a good idea. For either of you. I don’t know you, but . . . ” She raised a hand then dropped it, as if helpless and without words.
“Okay,” she said with a deep sigh after another few seconds. “Get undressed and go out to the chaise out there. Here’s a sheet.” She went to the door, and turned, looking at her with that oddly concerned look. “Eilis,” she said slowly, “don’t assume anything. Ford is not what you think. Good luck.”
Eilis drew in a deep breath as the Virgin closed the door behind her quietly. She heard footsteps on a staircase above her, leaving her alone somewhere—she didn’t know where—with instructions to strip down and lie on a couch in a harsh studio.
Eilis, do you really want to do this?
No. She was frightened, she felt guilty and she didn’t know why, and she wanted to go home.
But she lifted her chin. She’d wanted this, searched for it, spent time and money and energy seeking it. If she asked to leave now, she’d always regret it, always wonder what if— She took off her jeans and tee shirt, elegant lingerie, and went into the restroom to freshen up because yes, she would be making love with Ford tonight.
A man she hadn’t met and knew nothing about.
In a place she didn’t know.
Without allies, without help, without transportation.
Where am I? How far from home am I?
She screwed up her courage and left the salon, the sheet wrapped around her body and trailing behind her.
The studio was dim and cold. She sat on the edge of the chaise and suddenly, bright, bright lights above her blinded her. They heated up nearly immediately, so she knew the air wouldn’t stay cold.
She looked out into the darkness and saw the vague outline of an easel, then a shadow moving beyond it. She gasped and a low chuckle came from that direction.
“Good morning, Eilis.” It was a hoarse, grainy whisper, as if he’d smoked too many cigarettes in his lifetime.
“Good morning,” she whispered.
“Well,” he said at that volume in that rough voice, “I’m glad to finally meet you.” He spoke slowly, but clearly and precisely, as if it hurt to speak, but he would say what he needed to regardless of the pain. He snapped on a small light that lit only his canvas “Let’s get started. See that round pillow? I want you to lie back on the couch and tuck it under the middle of your back.”
She did as instructed. “No, the other way. Your head needs to be at the foot of the chaise.” She clutched the sheet to herself and laid down, her heart thundering and her stomach roiling. The bright lights blinded her, and she put her arm over her eyes.
“Very good. Now lift your left leg and drape it over the back of the couch.”
That was no stretch for Eilis’s long legs, but the couch’s finely carved back dug into her calf.
“Right foot on the floor.”
She caught her breath. He was spreading her out, arching her back, the way she would look while making love.
“Drop your right arm off the edge.”
She did that.
“Take off the sheet.”
She began to, but she must have taken too long because:
“Do you want to be painted or not, Eilis?” he demanded gruffly, impatience heavily lacing his voice.
“I think so,” she murmured into the half darkness, uneasy with not being able to see him. She wanted to see his face, the person on the other end of the conversation.
“Part of being painted nude is being uninhibited. You wanted this. What did you think was going to happen? I paint nudes. You have to be nude.”
“Yes, but I thought—”
“What did you think? That I was going to stroke you and woo you and make sweet, sweet love to you to get you to look like a Ford painting?”
She blushed, embarrassed. She snatched up the sheet and covered herself, then swung her leg off the back of the couch to leave.
“If you leave now, I won’t give you another chance. I have very little patience for women who act like little girls.”
Stung, she gaped in his direction.
“You’ve been watching too many tortured-artist arthouse films. I don’t work that way. I expect my models to be able to call up their own sexuality.”
Eilis didn’t believe that for a second. She’d seen those paintings—she’d owned eight of them once upon a time. Every single one of those women had been well fucked.
Confused and feeling betrayed, not understanding why, she simply stood there. She didn’t have enough confidence in her own body to call up her own sexuality in front of anyone, much less a man she didn’t know; she had come here depending on him to make her feel beautiful enough so that she could.
Although she hadn’t intended to tell him that.
His bark of laughter shattered her in a way she had never known. “Is that right?” he purred. “Do you think I’m the great Maker of Fertility Goddesses or something?”
Well,
yes, she had thought that, but she kept her mouth shut.
“I see,” he murmured when she remained silent and still. “Well,” he said, louder this time as he got up and completely disappeared into the darkness.
The overhead lights blinked out and the only remaining light came from a candle in a sconce on a far wall. She waited for what seemed a long time, then started when she heard his raspy whisper in her ear and felt his hand drawing her sheet away.
“Since you seem to have such a high opinion of my skills as a lover—an opinion that you whipped up out of nothing, might I add—maybe I should take the opportunity to test your opinion.”
In the darkness, she could only smell him, a mixture of Ivory soap and turpentine, and feel what he did to her. She shivered at his touch. Gentle, so gentle. He paced around her slowly, his fingertips brushing across her shoulders, running through her hair, caressing her neck. He laid his palm flat between her breasts, his broad hand splayed out over her skin, his thumb flicking her nipple before he bent and caught it between his teeth.
She closed her eyes with a soft moan, dropped her head back. The brush of her own hair on her back and the brush of his hair on her breasts. His lips pulling at her nipples and sucking, licking. She sighed and wrapped her fingers in his satin hair, Ford’s hair.
Light as a feather, his fingers caressed her skin, his mouth following his fingers everywhere. Eilis felt her arousal as it began to flow and she felt him take in a deep breath against her skin. She gasped when his hand trailed down between her breasts, down her belly, through her pubic hair until he slipped his fingers up inside her, then pulled them away.
“Eilis,” he whispered in her ear as he brought his fingers to her lips, “taste yourself.” She did, shocked at Ford’s fingers on her tongue, wet from her— “That,” he continued, so softly she could barely hear him, wrapping his hand around the side of her neck, his mouth in her other ear, “is the nectar of the gods.”
“I want to see you,” she whispered. “Let me look at you. Tell me who you are.”
“No.”
He drew his fingers along the line of her jaw so that she smelled herself on him—
—and choked.
Pulled away.
“I don’t want this,” she whispered.
Silence. Still, deadly. “What. Did. You. Say.”
“I don’t want this,” she repeated, her voice stronger now.
She’d never said no to sex before—even when she didn’t want it.
And she regretted that.
She’d never trusted that part of herself enough to say no. She’d thought that she would want sex with Ford, that he would be different from all the other men. Yet she didn’t want sex with Ford and her instincts now told her the same thing they always told her when she put herself in these situations.
The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.
“I can’t do this. This was a mistake. I’m sorry.”
“You’ve had investigators looking for me for years. I brought you to me to give you what you want. What’s the problem?”
“I— Things have changed in my life,” she said in a rush, not knowing where the words came from, but knowing that they were true. “I don’t need you to make me feel beautiful anymore.”
Another long silence. “What changed?” Funny. He didn’t sound angry, just curious.
“I think— I think I’m in love with someone, but I don’t know because I don’t know what love feels like. But if this is what love feels like, then I can’t betray that. He already doesn’t trust me and he’s very angry with me. I don’t have a chance with him now.”
“How can you be in love with someone who doesn’t trust you and who is angry with you? What are you betraying if there’s nothing to betray?”
“Myself,” she whispered.
“What’s this man’s name?”
“Sebastian,” she whispered, trembling, ashamed to her core that she spoke Sebastian’s name to a man with whom she betrayed him. “I didn’t know until you touched me. Please forgive me.”
“Don’t you want to be painted?”
“Sebastian’s an artist. I know how he sees me, and he thinks I’m beautiful.”
“And you just now figured this out.”
“Yes. I’m . . . ashamed,” she said, her voice breaking as tears gathered in her eyelashes. “Please let me go. Please.”
A long intake of breath. “All right, Eilis.” And then he was gone.
The harsh fluorescents came up and the air grew colder. She looked around her, seeing for the first time how dreadfully wrong she’d been to pursue this when she had had a real man in front of her, who was beautiful and magical, who fixed her soul because that was what he went through life doing: fixing things.
How had she missed it?
Shame of a different type of betrayal overtook her, the kind of betrayal she had never experienced before—not the shame of having trusted, then being betrayed, oh no. It was the shame of having betrayed.
Eilis wouldn’t have to worry about telling Sebastian her past, because she had no future with him. With that thought, she sat on the chaise, the sheet covering her, her knees tight together, and curled in on herself and began to cry:
For all the things in her childhood that she’d lost.
For all the things she’d been made to do.
For all the betrayal and pain and anguish that had only stopped when she walked out of a courtroom at fifteen, a jaded emancipated minor, having more than proven that she was better off on her own than with any available adult at her disposal.
She sat on the chaise and curled into herself and cried:
For all the bad choices in men she’d made.
For continuing to search for something that didn’t exist.
For always using sex to assuage her pain, which only made it worse—and she’d never known that until this moment.
The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.
Yet again, Sebastian’s voice, Sebastian’s guiding hand, Sebastian’s ruthless will had saved her—from another bad decision in men.
That man, who wanted her so much, yet would rather let her go than compete with someone who didn’t exist. Who cared for her feelings so much he had let her keep a painting she loved, a painting he should never have let her keep. He had every right to his mistrust and anger with her. He had reason.
Never before had she had anyone who might feel betrayed by her.
She had decided to do something different tonight. If she couldn’t have Sebastian, she would have no one.
You want comfort sex and any cock will do.
Not anymore. Sebastian or No One. And tonight she had chosen No One because Sebastian was no longer an option.
“Eilis,” said a soft voice above her. The Virgin.
I don’t think this is a good idea. For either of you.
Eilis couldn’t fathom why Ford would suffer.
She picked up Eilis’s hands and pulled her gently off the sofa, then wrapped her in a soft robe. “Come with me. I started the shower for you.”
Eilis went willingly, her eyes burning so badly from her tears that she could barely process anything. The Virgin sat her down in the bathroom on a soft bench she had not seen before. She began to gently brush Eilis’s hair as if Eilis were five years old and this woman were her mother. She took her hair and slowly, carefully, braided it. Eilis began to sob again at the kindness and the Virgin patted her shoulder. She didn’t deserve such kindness for what she had done here tonight.
She urged Eilis to rise, pulled the robe back off Eilis, and led her to the shower. She murmured, “I’ll be back in a bit and take you home when you’re ready. I’ve put your bag in the car.”
Eilis nodded and closed her eyes against the hot comfort of the stinging water.
* * * * *
Sebastian flinched when he heard the basement door s
lam closed and the angry footsteps coming toward his bedroom, where he sat on the edge of his bed, naked, his face in his hands, both elated and deeply ashamed.
“What in the hell did you do to her?”
“Almost nothing, Giz,” he croaked, his throat sore from trying to maintain that low rasp. He cleared it. “I swear. She wanted to stop before I was ready to stop for her.”
“You weren’t going to fuck her?”
“No. It would have been rape.”
“Then why is she crying?”
“She thinks she’s betrayed me. She’s ashamed.”
When he looked up after too much silence, Giselle was staring off, out the window, chewing on the inside of her mouth, thinking.
“There’s a lot of pain there, Sebastian. I don’t know what, don’t know how deep. There’s something going on inside her that she doesn’t understand.”
“She’s been waiting for Ford to fix her.”
“And as usual, Sebastian gets the short end of the stick for patching people up and setting them on their feet.” Giselle turned and sat on the bed beside him. “You have to start doing something different, Sebastian. You’re about to get called to Congress because of how you do what you do.”
“I don’t know how to do it any other way.”
“Does Eilis know what you’ve done for her company and that you did it and that she didn’t do it?”
“Yes.”
“You must have treated her differently.”
“I thought it was because of the court order. She didn’t call me and she already knew what had to be done, what I was going to do. Between the trial and keeping her company together, she didn’t have time to untangle that knot of executives and cut through the bullshit before I got there. That had to be done first and she knew that, but she never got the chance to do it herself.”
“Sebastian, you obviously haven’t pissed her off if she’s in love with you. What did you do differently?”
He sighed. “I did what I do with you. I wasn’t her invisible hand. I let her see my anger and I was very blunt.”
“Why?”