“What do you think?”
Her eyes flared wide at the question. Critiquing any artist’s work to their face was intimidating and Nicolai could see her reluctance to critique his. To his utter delight, she cleared her throat and gave an honest opinion.
“This painting is a deception. The docile pose, the setting, the delicate flowers around her are all lies. They suggest love or romance, but this woman’s ecstasy doesn’t come from those things. Her eyes are the truth. The look in them is chilling. And the set of her mouth is evil. Her ecstasy comes from devouring her lovers."
Julianne looked as if she fully expected him to be insulted.
He wasn’t. She saw the darker undercurrent.
How refreshing.
“Is she your lover?"
“No,” he answered tightly. “She is every lover I’ve ever had.”
And so began the first of many discussions about his art.
October
Julianne grumbled under her breath and headed to the stairs.
Nicolai’s “suitable dress” turned out to be nothing more than a thin white cotton sheath. Awful wasn’t the word, but she understood her place in this little hierarchy of two. To make matters worse, Nicolai insisted she work in bare feet. Punishment, he said, for letting her heels clack on the floor the first day they met.
She looked down at her toes. Punishment, hah. It's torture. I miss my babies.
But this was Nicolai's world and in it, his rules applied. Strange that she found security in that, but she did.
The studio was cavernous with a high ceiling and as large as the gallery upstairs. A frosted glass wall with huge floor-to-ceiling glass doors divided the space, separating Nicolai’s work area from hers. Pewter handles identical to the ones on the exterior doors to the gallery were the room’s only adornment. Everything else was white. White walls. White ceiling. White floor. White light. Nicolai said the lack of color represented discipline, which he believed to be the backbone of creativity. He also said the white setting assured proper reverence for the color of the art being created there. “My studio is designed for creating. Its soul is whatever emerging work of art sits at its center.”
Julianne unscrewed the paint caps, drawing the familiar, somehow comforting smell deep into her nostrils and thought about the man who worked behind those frosted doors. Like his studio, unless you looked very carefully, you could easily miss his essence. The artist was so different from the aloof, contained person Nicolai presented to the rest of the world. Even though she couldn’t see him clearly through the glass, the intense emotion he poured into his work was unmistakable. When he created his art, he exuded passion, heat and raw male sexuality. There was a wildness in him that she could barely comprehend, but could not resist. Given her own hidden nature, she easily recognized the falsity of his outward persona and wondered endlessly about the true nature of the man who had become such a driving force in her life. She liked to believe he hid a loving side.
Because he's sure shown me the sadistic side, she thought as she spread the colors onto her palette with a resigned sigh.
On their first day together, Nicolai told her to paint a still life of a fruit bowl. When she finished, he reviewed her work, then covered the entire canvas in white paint with a roller. He didn't criticize or compliment, only presented her with another blank canvas saying, “Art lives inside the soul, Julianne. Again.”
Using my own words against me. I guess this is my punishment for trying to be hoity-toity with him about Duchamp.
She lifted her brush and began again. She'd painted the same lifeless image so many times she'd lost count. She'd used different techniques to apply color and texture. Painted it from different perspectives. Even experimented with various art styles, from Expressionism to Modernism, copying the techniques of the masters as best she could. But each painting met the same white end.
Nothing she did impressed her extraordinary teacher.
Not yet.
Not even close.
But I will. Even if it kills me, Nicolai, I will. You're not the only one in this studio who is more than they seem.
November
Nicolai checked his watch. Turned from the doors. Paced the length of his gallery. Checked his watch again.
Where the hell is she?
Julianne was volunteering with the Art Saves Center this morning. Can everyone say, "Not Pleased!" But as a benefactor of the Center, he couldn’t exactly say no. Brent called about forty, non, forty-three minutes ago, and the trip from Clichy-sous-Bois should have taken thirty at most.
I have work to do, for Christ’s sake, and waiting around for Julianne isn’t getting it done.
He should start without her, but he was too damn distracted. This is why he’d insisted that his driver accompany Julianne when she ventured into that horrid neighborhood.
She tried to dissuade him. “Arriving at a charity project in a chauffeured Bentley, well, it just seems wrong."
Pardon, but he did not share that opinion. His final words on the subject were, “No Brent, no mural."
She chose Brent.
If he wasn’t sure that Julianne was with Brent today, he would have gone ballistic. Nicolai ripped out his cell phone and dialed…the bell at the door chimed.
Enfin. “You’re late,” he barked.
Julianne hurried through the door, removing her coat as she walked. God, he loved the way she dressed. Sophisticated with a touch of high class sexy. It was a look many women tried for, but few were able to muster. Maybe he should insist that she stop working in Clichy-sous-Bois. The image of her in that dead place, looking so lovely and fresh, made him shudder.
Forget Brent. Next time, I'm going with.
“I apologize, sir. I asked Brent to make a stop before we returned.” Julianne smiled and of course, it was the smile that sent all his anger out the window. “I brought you something.”
“You should have called,” he snapped, ignoring the doe eyes and holding fast to the annoyance Julianne was artfully trying to whittle away.
“I wanted to surprise you.” She handed him a tattered book.
“What’s this?”
“A bit of inspiration.”
He flipped through the sketchbook at a loss for words. The pages were yellowed and the leather binding was worn, but Julianne’s gift was priceless.
“I noticed Merello’s influence in your latest work and called to tell him what you’re doing. He offered this.”
His jaw dropped and Julianne’s eyes lit with happiness. Merello was a favorite contemporary artist and the primary influence for his current series of paintings. To have his sketches was an incomparable privilege.
“We have to return it, but for now, it’s yours. I hope you enjoy it, sir.” The satisfied tone said Julianne knew he would more than enjoy it.
The idea of parting with something so extraordinary challenged Nicolai’s ethics. For the time being, he would cherish it. No one had ever given him such a poignant gift. In fact, most women only took from him.
But Julianne isn’t like most women.
Julianne is unique.
“Your thoughtfulness humbles me, Julianne. Merci.”
December
“Bonjour, Eugene. Bonjour, Hazel. Joyeux Noël.”
Julianne smiled to herself and slipped the key into the lock. Would Nicolai appreciate the irony of her pet names for the exotic sculptures that doubled as door handles at his gallery?
Probably not. The man is too serious for his own good.
Even this early, the rue was bustling. Chatter and laughter echoed over Christmas music. Shoppers decked in holiday finery searched for the perfect last-minute gift for the lucky someone whose personal Santa could afford to shop here. The rich smell of chocolate and chestnut from the buche-de-noel tempted each passerby to join the line that spilled out of the bakery door and disappeared around the corner. But Julianne had no taste for the festivities this year. Or time for that matter. Nicolai had proven to be every bit
the challenge he’d promised to be. And then some. Today, like every other, she followed the strict regimen he imposed on her.
The carols faded as she closed the door.
Impossible that tomorrow is Christmas. Where has the time gone?
Alone in his office, she plucked an antique book on the Renaissance from his extensive collection and began to read. As it turned out, Nicolai liked her "hoity-toity" talk. Debating him about art had become a daily ritual - by far her favorite part of the apprenticeship - but it was hard to keep up. His "hoity-toity" put hers to shame so she always arrived at the gallery first to raid his library or study his work in private before the great debate began.
Guess the strict regimen on my time isn’t solely Nicolai’s design, she thought with a rush of pride.
After an hour or so, Julianne pulled her head out of the book. The memory of those Yule logs had her salivating, but she couldn’t spare the time to go out for food. At this hour, Nicolai would expect to find her here. Assuming he even made an appearance today. She ignored her grumbling stomach and went downstairs.
Positioned her easel to face the stairs – just in case - she began to paint.....
..…footsteps echoing overhead distracted her from her Cubist bananas.
“Bonjour, Julianne,” Nicolai called down to her.
She smiled and called back knowing that was all he would say for a while. Not being talkative herself, she didn’t mind. She was comfortable with silence and he was here. Just hearing his voice was enough. Listening to him moving around upstairs, she knew he would spend a few minutes at the computer in his office, make a phone call or two, and then change out of his suit before coming downstairs.
As if scripted, Nicolai descended the steps wearing his own suitable dress for painting: a long sleeved white shirt and simple white pants. Even without the suit, the man carried himself with a masculine elegance that was stunning.
And with the sight of him came the naughty thought, I've been a good girl. Why can't I have him for Christmas?
The man brought out the vixen in her. And I didn't even know I had one, she thought with a giggle.
Instead of heading directly for the frosted doors as he usually did, he approached her. "Are you alright, Julianne?"
She blinked off the fantasy of Nicolai under the Christmas tree.
Naked.
Feeding her chocolate while he…
"Um." His finger touched the place where her teeth were digging into her bottom lip.
"I apologize, sir. I'm distracted. You know, with the holidays and everything."
He slanted his eyes away from her mouth “It’s cold today. Indulge me, Julianne, and wear this,” he said, holding out a white sweater.
That phrase.
When Nicolai brought food to the gallery, “Indulge me, Julianne, and eat something.”
When he presented her with an iPhone, “Indulge me, Julianne. I feel more comfortable knowing I can reach you at any time.”
When he asked her to stay late while he worked in his studio, “Indulge me, Julianne, and stay.”
The garment was too fine for painting, but once again, Nicolai framed his request as an invitation to please him and she accepted. As she slipped the soft wool over her shoulders, he held out a paper cup.
“Qu’est-ce que c’est?”
“Cinnamon latte.”
How did he know cinnamon latte is my rare and special treat to myself?
She hesitated, a bit uncomfortable with the familiarity of this gesture, and Nicolai flashed the look. The one that got him anything he wanted.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, taking the cup, and sipped the warm drink. Maybe Nicolai's not as distant as he seems. I have to be more careful.
He gave a brisk nod, “Joyeux Noël,” and retreated behind closed doors.
Julianne turned back to the bananas.
Art lives inside the soul.
Her own words, spoken back to her countless times, yet she hadn't a clue what Nicolai wanted her to learn from them. “I swear I will never eat another piece of fruit for as long as I live, but for you, Nicolai, I will paint it until you are satisfied,” she muttered and lifted her brush.
After two hours or so, Nicolai emerged from behind the frosted glass wiping his hands on a cloth while he walked. He almost bumped right into her as if he hadn’t seen her standing there. When he focused, he looked shocked.
“Julianne, it’s Christmas Eve. Why are you still here?”
“The Colonel is at the President’s Ball. He won’t be home until well after midnight and I want to finish this.” She nodded toward the painting in front of her. “I’ll run out and get myself something to eat later.”
“No, you will not.” Nicolai clearly didn’t trust her to feed herself.
And he was right. No way I'm going out alone for food on Christmas Eve. How pathetic is that?
“I’ll have something delivered. Do you like Indian food?”
“Yes, sir. I do.” And I'd love my sexy Santa to feed it to me…oh, shut up, vixen!
“Good. It’s late and Indian is probably our only option at this point. I like it spicy, if that’s alright with you.”
What? Is he serious? He actually wants to share take-out with me in the gallery. On Christmas Eve! The eyes. The posture. So Nicolai. Of course, he's serious.
“Sir, I saw the tuxedo hanging in your office. Please don’t feel you have to stay on my account. I’m fine. I’m sure you have other plans for this evening.”
“Nothing I can’t miss,” Nicolai said as if a formal affair on Christmas Eve was some insignificant event.
She knew it wouldn’t be. They lived in Paris and the French took Christmas celebrations very seriously. She pushed back. “Really, sir, I can’t let you do that. I don’t want you to miss your party.”
His eyes widened slightly, then locked on. Nicolai looked almost mad, well, not mad exactly, more determined. Then his lips curled up in an expectant smile and he flashed the look.
“Spicy or mild?”
Julianne bit her lip to hide her grin. There really is no denying this man when he wants something. And that's too spicy for words.
“Spicy, sir. Definitely spicy.”
January
Jacques pulled Nicolai aside and snapped, “What is wrong with you tonight? Get your head in the game or get the hell out.”
Nicolai didn’t answer. He didn’t have one. Instead of being interested in what they were doing, he was distracted and irritated and he didn’t know why. Maybe the room was too hot or the music too loud.
Or maybe the girl is the wrong girl, a nagging voice in the back of his mind whispered before he shut it out.
This is ridiculous.
To say he had a healthy appetite for sex was an understatement. He was a highly sensual person and the physical expression of that sensuality was as fundamental to him as breathing. But lately, he found it hard to muster any enthusiasm for sex.
It wasn’t as if sex wasn’t on his mind. In fact, for the past several weeks, he couldn’t think about much else. But whenever he found himself engaged in the act, he lost focus, each anonymous encounter leaving him more unsatisfied than the last.
When he was in his studio, however, he was highly focused. A flood of inspiration had come to him recently. He worked with a fervor he hadn’t experienced in years. Piece after piece of new art filled his gallery. At this pace, he would have enough for a show in just a few weeks. He couldn’t understand how he could be so expressive when he was alone and so blocked when he was engaged with another person.
Nicolai shook his head and stared down at the woman beneath him. Unlike Jacques, she didn’t seem a bit concerned that his mind was elsewhere. His body was there and that seemed to satisfy her just fine. Perhaps if he closed his eyes.
Bad idea.
As soon as his lids shut, she appeared. Standing alone with her back to him, her figure was cloudy. His eyes tumbled over the dark mane that spilled to the small of her back. She wa
s a perfect hourglass with a slim waist and a luscious heart-shaped backside. As her small hand danced between her palette and the canvas in front of her, her whole body moved with a silent, sensual rhythm.
But she was oblivious to him.
Didn’t she realize how enticing the gentle sway of her ass looked as she moved her brush? Couldn’t she appreciate how her delectable fragrance washed away even the acrid fumes from her paint? How could she not understand that the exquisite piece of art was not the painting she was creating, rather her own lovely form while she created it?
The animal inside of him raged to mark the woman in his mind. He wanted to see his seed splatter across her back. To smell the combined fragrance of her female musk and his essence. To leave her breathless and sated and fully aware that she belonged to no one but him.
Nicolai groaned and thrust into the bland heat surrounding his shaft. His hips moved faster as the hunger for the woman in his mind consumed him.
Turn around. Turn around. Turn around!
He came in hard, shuddering spasms as he strained to reach her.
When he opened his eyes, Jacques was staring up at him through spiky black hair, his hand wrapped around a breast to hold it up for his tongue. Tonight’s entertainment, whose name Nicolai couldn’t remember, lie spread eagle between them, her eyes glassy from pain and sex and lust.
As he slid from her body, he felt utterly alone. Felt the blackness on his soul left by this endless parade of nameless, faceless lovers.
Will I ever feel clean again?
Have I ever been?
His vision blurred as the walls seemed to close in on him and the mingling smell of three bodies choked off his air.
“I, I…” Nicolai flattened his palms against his temples and stepped back. “Putain! I can’t do this anymore.”
4
Playing with Fire
It was a faux pas. A huge faux pas.
Julianne tapped on the frosted glass. Piercing blue eyes shot to hers. The look practically knocked her off her feet and a forbidden thrill raced through her. Nicolai stalked to the door and yanked it open without speaking.
Masterpiece (The Masters of The Order Book 1) Page 4
