“This is really strange,” she had to say.
“Mmm.” He sounded distracted.
Grace made it through the rinse and having
the towel wrapped around her head. She looked into the mirror while
his front was lined against her back. He stood shoulders and head
taller behind her, eyeing her face too. He removed the towel. Grace
waited for that look of disappointment, but Noel seemed
preoccupied. He reached above her, took a comb out of a sanitized
wrap, and ran it through her hair. Her sweater was damp, itching
and beads of water ran into her cleavage.
He combed her shoulder length hair, slicked
it back, and then dropped the comb into the sink. He rested his
hands on her shoulders a moment and their eyes met again.
Grace wondered what her ordinary face was
doing here and when his thumbs hooked into the sweater collar and
pulled it wide, she let out a strangled cough. “I thought I was
modeling?”
“You are.” He easily pulled the material down
her arms and the tulip cups and straps of the dark purple silk bra
showed. “Take this off.”
She undid the buttons, glancing at them, then
back up to him, while he peeled it off. He’d stepped back from her.
She jumped when Noel touched the tattoo. Her mortification was
complete when he wet a cloth, and washed the thing off.
“We’re ready.” He took her hand, leading her
back to the setting. His strong hand and long artistic fingers
flipped another switch, which cast the light first in yellow, then,
deeper amber. He switched colors until he was apparently satisfied
with soft saffron.
“Where did you grow up?” He walked to
her.
“Indiana for a while. Here mostly.” Grace let
him pass. He moved objects again. “You?”
“All over the world. My father was a
diplomat, my mother an artist. Even after their divorce they were,
close.”
“Unusual.”
“Yes. Any siblings?”
“A brother. Yourself?”
“No.” He stood by the stump. “Can you balance
on this?”
She cocked her brow.
“Stand on it.”
She climbed up on the stump, feeling pretty
stupid.
“Bend over as if you were touching your toes.
Bend your knees slightly.”
Grace bent double, bent her knees.
“Let your fingertips touch the edge of the
stump and look at me.”
She did, wondering if the blood was rushing
to her head.
“Hold that.” He left and came back with
canvas, easel, and a palette and made some bold swipes. “Lift your
head more, as if you were sensing someone coming.”
She did, her eyes on him. As stupid as she
felt, she loved hearing him speak.
He painted silently for some time, and then
told her, “Come down, Jane.”
She did, arching her back and muttering,
“That’s an odd pose to hold.”
“Walk around. It works the kinks out.”
She did, and came over when he signaled.
Grace sat on the stump, trying not to stare at his stomach while he
stood so close to her. She could smell his warm scent. She glanced
up to see what he was doing.
“This is body paint. It will wash off.” He
dipped a brush in the metallic gold and began to paint her
face.
“It tickles.”
“Yes. Don’t scrunch.” He dipped another color
and kept painting.
Grace found it was better to stare at his
focused face, to watch his expression as he painted her, than it
was to try and look left or right.
“Arch your neck.”
She did, feeling the brush sliding down it
and the paint drying on her.
He painted to the top of her breast. “I must
paint your torso.”
“Couldn’t I just—”
“No,” he murmured.
Grace brought her head back to its normal
position, looking at him, sensing that he was seeing her more as
canvas than woman at the moment. She reached back and unhooked the
bra. Not daring to look down as he asked her to lean her body back.
Her nipples went rigid and tight as they reacted to every stroke of
the brush that flowed to the waist of her jeans. It was
disconcerting, and arousing.
“Turn around. Stand up.”
She did so, closing her eyes at the sensation
of him painting her back and spine the same way. Only when he let
her turn again did she look down and see the tiger stripes on her
body. The warm tan, brown, dull gold, the lustrous gold too, and
the feathered strokes made it look like fur. Her breasts were
tight, peaked, and chills blanketed her skin. She glanced up when
he was once more at the canvas, to see him watching her again.
He said, “I’m going to turn on a fan but it
blows warm air.” After doing so, Noel instructed her to get back on
the stump, to hold her pose again.
For Grace it was a bizarre experience, she
did math in her head, sang songs in her mind, and tried not to
stare at the face of the man who was putting her likeness on
canvas. She wanted to lick her lips, but felt the paint on them,
figuring she shouldn’t.
“Crouch.”
She did so, feeling the denim and the thong
pinch.
“Uncomfortable?”
She swallowed. “No.” Only my ass.
“Spread your knees.”
Grace did, putting her hands on the edge
again, feeling the fan blowing back her hair, her knees out.
“I need you unclothed...Jane.”
Grace closed her eyes a moment. This was a
good time to confess all, to tell her real name, to admit she was
modest and that she...
“But if you’re not ready, we can work up to
it.”
Her eyes opened. “I’d have to…work up to
it.”
He smiled and met her gaze. “I know.”
Grace said nothing, holding the pose while he
painted and then getting down when he told her to take a break.
She went to the restroom, startled to see
herself in the mirror. The fan had blown her hair straight back,
enhancing the tiger face that turned her eyes to a burnished gold.
She took care of her business; glad her palms were unpainted, but
fascinated by the creature staring back at her in the mirror. It
was her, but it was so, cat-like, feline, primal.
Several moments later, she padded back to
find him relaxed on the sofa. He handed her a glass of wine,
inviting her to sit.
“The paint will rub off.”
“We’ll fix it.” He shrugged, sipping and
watching her sit on the edge of the sofa.
Grace eyed his relaxed pose, slumped in the
corner, arm along the rest and one knee on the sofa cushion, the
other foot on the floor. She sipped, looking at his face. He was
staring at her.
“This is for the animal paintings they were
speaking of in the newspaper?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have any finished?”
“One.” He shrugged.”
“I don’t see myself as a tiger.”
“No?”
“No.” She took another drink.
“What do you see yourself as, in relation to
animals?”
She thought a moment. “I’ve no idea.
You?”
He laughed softly. “No. You use your eye and
tell me.”
She looked at him a long time, sliding her
gaze from head to foot and lingering on parts. “Things come to my
mind, but few are animals.”
“What things?”
“Warriors, gods, statues, hawks, horses,
midnight, velvet, just...things.”
He was still as he murmured, “That’s a very
rich imagination.”
She snorted. “My brother would beg to differ.
I would too, since I am normally an analytical person. I haven’t a
creative bone in my body and while I enjoy beautiful things, I am a
task person, a...” She stopped talking as she spied that smile on
his lips.
He quirked his brow. “This is a new
experience for you.”
“I’ll say,” she muttered and sipped the
wine.
“You’re challenging to paint, Jane.”
“Really?”
He dipped his head. “We must work on reaching
inside to your core. Your deepest instincts. You describe yourself
as one dimensional, but what is beneath there? We are creating this
art together, you and I.”
“I thought this was about artist
interpretation?”
“Yes. However, you must reach deep, so when
you are looking at me, when you pose, you are living in the skin of
the creature. Your eyes, your expression, and your soul will react
to what is happening around you.”
“Yeah.” She was still aware of being without
a shirt or bra. Striving to keep slamming the door on her
mortification, which kept trying to creep out. She was never going
to see him again, she kept telling herself, and this was art, not
sex or porn. Yes, Grace, that’s why you’re having carnal thoughts
when you look at him, she mentally snorted. I’m half-nude here. I’m
showing my breasts to a stranger, oh God.
“Do you ever paint men?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“They don’t intrigue me.”
“A valid reason.” She glanced at him.
“Doesn’t a trained model know to project whatever you require?”
“I paint what I myself react to. I use
models, but instinct guides me.”
“You’re saying you go up to women and tell
them you want to paint them nude, and they just do it?”
“Most of the time, yes.”
Well, looking at him, she could believe that.
“I don’t get it. I don’t get why you saw me as a tiger. Seriously
other than having brown eyes...”
“You’ll get it when we are through.”
She glanced around the room. “I read
somewhere you were engaged.”
“Yes.”
“Do you paint her?”
“I did for a time. But not now.”
“Why not?”
“No reason, just that Elisa is busy, and what
I wish to paint isn’t right for her.”
“It doesn’t bother her that you paint
nudes?”
“No. Why should it? It’s not
pornographic.”
“Sorry. You’re right. I just figured it would
be tough to have your boyfriend looking at nude ladies all
day.”
He laughed. “I am not looking, nor lusting in
any way... but creatively. Elisa knows this.”
“I see.” Grace nodded, not really getting it.
“So how long does it take to finish?”
“It depends. It is finished, when it is. I
don’t set a time or have a schedule. There is just a moment, a last
brush stroke, when you know it.” After a long silence he said, “You
may shower before you go. Come back early in the morning.”
She stood up, placing her glass on a table.
“Sure.” She went over to collect her bra before going to the
bathroom. She did stand, looking at herself, thinking that the
stripes made her sleek, the paint defined the shape of her body,
and the face made her look primal, like a she-tiger. Shaking her
head, she climbed in the shower and bathed. Stepping out to a
fluffy towel.
He was still sitting when she came out;
dressed, but her hair wet.
“We’ll work though lunch and dinner
tomorrow.”
“Doesn’t this cramp things for your
girlfriend? Not much time together.”
“We see each other at the gallery and
weekdays. Does the schedule cramp your social life?”
“No.” She put on her coat and boots.
He was looking at her when she glanced at
him. “See you Sunday.” Grace left.
Chapter Seven
Grace didn’t sleep well again and she was
ready much earlier the next day because of the no-make-up
requirement. She found him in the same state of semi-dress. They
began work as soon as he’d painted her body. She felt guilty having
taken three photos of him when she came in.
The music was louder, the sounds of wild
creatures, and that drum beat under the surface. Noel spoke little
as he painted, and seemed to lose himself in his process. When he
looked at her, Grace wondered what he was seeing that put that
light in his eyes, the expression on his face. It was an odd
experience to be viewed as art, to be focused on in a non-sexual
way, yet to be aware in her mind, that he saw something in her that
inspired him.
It was too unreal in her saner moments.
He stepped back after two hours and seemed to
remember her. He switched off the music and told her to take a
break. Grace pulled on the shirt, a button-up one she’d worn with
black slacks. She sipped coffee, watching him pour his own, and
move almost restlessly around the room.
It was quiet except for the ping of cold rain
hitting the outside of the building. She could see the gray sky,
dreary and dark, through a large window, but it was bright inside
the studio.
She sat on the sofa watching him prowl,
sipping wine, one leg under her. She was sort-of growing used to
the feeling of paint on her skin.
He turned around, and came to half sit on the
chair arm in front of her, one of his bare feet almost touching
hers. Grace noticed how blue-black his hair shone in the lights,
the warmth of his skin tone.
“Are you mixed ancestry?
“I’ve Italian and some Spanish blood.”
She nodded.
He captured her gaze a moment. “Do you and
your brother look alike?”
“No. He’s tall, blond, and blue eyed, very
handsome. He looks a lot like our father did...” She saw him
searching her face. “I saw Elise. She’s very attractive.
Stunning.”
“Yes.”
“Have you known each other long?”
“Two years.”
“Did you meet through your work?”
“In a sense. She was working for an art
dealer in Paris. I was still starving.” He smiled. “Trying to be
discovered.”
“And now that you are, how does it feel?”
He shrugged. “It pleases me that people enjoy
what I create.”
“You’re gifted.”
He shook his head. “My mother is. I had to
work at it. For her, it was God given. My father took her talent
for granted. He wanted me to have a serious profession, a real
job.”
“They’re still alive?”
“Mother lives in Milan. My father died in an
automobile accident.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yes. He was a very serious man. He and my
mother made a strange couple. Much better friends than man and
wife.” He took a sip from his glass. “How old are you?”
“Twenty eight.”
“Really?”