by Ani Keating
“‘Love me for love’s sake only,’” he reads slowly. A deep V forms between his eyebrows. He looks like he would rather be whipped than loved for love’s sake only.
“Elizabeth Browning could write. But don’t worry, it doesn’t mean it’s coming for you.” I go for a joke, but inside I’m reeling. I have never seen such a visceral reaction against love. As though he does not think it belongs in his world.
He peers at me. “Clearly. What does yours say?”
“‘If you gave me all the kisses in the world, they would still be too few.’ It’s a proverb by Sextus Propertius.”
“Yours sounds more fun.” He smiles, but his eyes remain tight. Then, he takes my hand. “Come.”
I stand, amazed that my knees can support me. We walk through a hallway along the ubiquitous glass wall, our footfalls echoing on the polished hardwood floor. Over the sound system, Neil Diamond croons about a girl becoming a woman. We walk past six open doors and stop at one that is slightly ajar. He opens it and steps to the side. I enter, feeling like I am walking into a haunted house and a dream at once.
It’s his bedroom.
Everything here is gray and cream too, but my attention is riveted by the walls. Here are my paintings. All of them, side by side on the wall facing his bed. The one with my neck is first, then my shoulder, my waist and finally my leg. As though he is undressing me for the very first time. The bottom of my belly tightens violently at the thought.
“In your bedroom? Not where I expected them,” I say, trying and failing to control my blush.
“Where did you expect them?”
“I don’t know, to be honest. But not here.”
“Well, my office seemed inappropriate.” He chuckles, shaking his head, as if he really considered the idea.
My eyes flit to the enormous, cream-colored bed. Resting on it are a white shirt and a pair of knickers. I walk over and pick up the knickers gingerly. My immediate feeling is relief. It’s not a thong. It’s a silk bikini, the color of my skin, with lace only on the sides. I almost jump him in gratitude but that would not help me at all.
“Relieved?” he asks, amused.
“Yes, very much. I was imagining a lot worse.”
“Worse? Hmm, I’d use the term ‘better’. Believe me, I drove myself mad thinking of the options.” He caresses my lower lip. It burns at his touch.
“I’ll let you get ready. Not a good idea if I’m here.” He winks and saunters out of his bedroom.
The moment the door closes behind him, I sink on the floor. Deep breaths, deep breaths. Hydrogen, 1.008. Helium, 4.003. Lithium 6.94… Oh Isa, don’t be such a baby. It’s just a shirt. I stand up, the wine fortifying me a little, grab the shirt and the knickers, and march to what I think is his restroom. The lights brighten again. The restroom is massive, like everything else in the house, but I don’t have enough presence of mind to analyze my surroundings. I turn my back on the mirror, afraid I’ll lose the nerve.
I slide on the knickers, ignoring the way they feel against my sensitized skin. A small but rapid pulse beats between my legs against the delicate silk. I take his shirt and have the urge to smell it. Sandalwood and Aiden. As I inhale his scent, I realize he has already worn this shirt, maybe even today, perhaps to mark it as his. The thought sends me into near convulsions but also, oddly, gives me some courage. Maybe he knew I would be nervous but unable to resist wearing it, knowing it had been on him. I put it on, and his scent brands my skin.
I don’t look like those long-legged blondes in a man’s shirt that seems custom-tailored for them. No, I look like a gawky teenager wearing an extra large T-shirt. The hem drops to the middle of my thighs and the sleeves roll past my fingertips almost to above my knees. The rest is a shapeless sack but at least it’s big enough to cover my breasts. My nipples show a little, but I have no idea what to do about that. Maybe if I put some Band-Aids on them? Bollocks, why didn’t I bring any? I start rummaging under the two sinks, noticing that one of them does not look used at all. No Band-Aids. Not even tape. Oh, bloody hell! I hear a knock on the door and almost collapse.
“Elisa, can I come in?”
“Umm—ah—just a minute.” My voice is at bat-ear frequency again. I fold my clothes, smooth over the front of his shirt, take a deep breath and open the door.
He takes me in from the crown of my head to the tips of my toes, which curl a little at his sight. Oh, good, maybe he won’t like it at all and put an end to the madness. But his eyes are on fire. He takes my hand and walks backward into his bedroom, his eyes never leaving me. I have surpassed the moth stage and am now in snake-and-charmer territory. He stops at the foot of the bed, his body inches from mine.
His gaze makes me squirm, so I break the silence. “Umm, do you want me to wear makeup? I have to warn you, I’m really bad at it.” My voice sounds breathy.
He leans in, his mouth to my ear. “No makeup,” he whispers, and his lips flutter from my earlobe, along my jaw, to my chin, and back. He repeats the circuit three times. I don’t bother to calm my loud breathing. He pulls back, and even though his distance is more familiar than his closeness, I feel adrift.
“It’s not because I don’t want to,” he says as though he senses my doubts. “In case it’s not obvious, Elisa, I’m burning.”
He wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me close. His erection presses against me imperiously. Oh! What an effective demonstration.
“Nonetheless, in light of the fact that your friend will be here any minute, I have to restrict myself to things like kissing.” He smiles and starts rolling up my sleeves. Every time his fingertips graze my skin, my heart thuds so loudly, I’m afraid he will hear it.
My sleeves rolled, he steps back and gazes at me. I’m sure I look ridiculous.
“Why did you pick a shirt for the job?” I ask to distract myself.
“The series is called La Virgen. I don’t know if the title reflects fact, but it seemed that the finale should be about both liberation and belonging. Don’t you think?”
“You mean belonging to you?”
His eyes turn a stormy blue and the tectonic plates I first saw at Paradox shift out of focus—almost like a thousand-yard stare.
“At least in a painting,” he says after a moment.
He takes my hand and we walk out of his bedroom, winding through more airy corridors. Finally, light streams brightly from an arched doorway.
“After you,” he says, but it sounds like he means for you. I walk inside in a trance.
My first thought is that the lights don’t dim here.
My second thought is…peace.
Two vast glass walls curve around the room with sheer white curtains gathered to the sides. Beyond the glass, a wild meadow slopes into the thick forest. Celestial light pours inside, shrouding the room with an almost sacred air. The floor is bleached hardwood and in the very center, where all the rays of light fuse into an earthly North Star, are a chaise and chair identical to the ones in Aiden’s bedroom. The rest of the room is soft white, like a fairy tale version of a blank slate.
“Your bedroom furniture?” I ask with a muted voice, afraid of desecrating the purity of the room.
“Yes.” Aiden’s voice is lower too.
“Why not your real bedroom?”
“Because that’s not for Mr. Solis’s presence. And I wasn’t sure you would want it.” There is battle in his eyes, as if something dark is throttling the glimmer of light that brightens the sapphire depths at certain moments. I take his hand in both of mine.
“Do you want it?”
Chapter Seventeen
Hale and Sun
“I shouldn’t,” he says.
“Why not?”
He shakes his head. I have no idea what his cryptic words mean but I know I shouldn’t want this either. I caress his sculpted cheek, shivering at the combination of
sharp planes, soft stubble and fragrant skin.
“Maybe for today, we can both pretend we should,” I say.
He pulls me roughly against him. His lips mold mine with a new edge of conflict. As though a force urges him on and another restrains him. From outside the door, comes Benson’s voice.
“Mr. Solis is here, sir.”
The effect of Benson’s announcement on Aiden is instant. His posture straightens and tenses. He stands taller, as he did yesterday outside my apartment. The battle is gone from his eyes, and a sniper focus has taken its place. At first I thought this look meant he was mad but I saw mad today, and mad was the Dragon. This look is something else. Vigilance. Or defense. Before I can think of something to say, he sweeps out of the room.
I use the alone time to try to calm down. It will be awkward with both of them here and me in a pair of nude knickers and an unbuttoned shirt. Too soon, their footsteps ring outside the room. I sit on the replica bedroom chair, crossing my arms over my chest and curling my legs under me. I can’t face Javier standing.
Javier and Benson walk in the room first, carrying the easel and cardboard boxes, followed by Aiden. Javier does not look like Javier. He is wearing a button-down pale blue shirt over a dark pair of jeans I have never seen before. His only dress shoes are polished better than the brand-new hardwood floor.
He marches straight to me and sets the box of supplies at my feet. Wordlessly, he takes something out of the box. My white sheet. I almost collapse with relief. He throws it over my shoulders, not looking below my chin. I clutch it over my chest for dear life. If I were not en déshabillé, I would hug him. He must have known I’d fall apart. He gives me a nod and a small shrug. I nod back but then I notice Aiden.
His jaw is sharp, posture rigid, eyes dark, glaring at Javier’s back. Before I can breathe, he flashes to my side. His shoulders twitch as he stands closer to Javier than I’ve seen him stand to anyone, except myself.
“If you don’t want to do this anymore, I can cancel it.” His voice is even, except the slight drop in cadence at the word cancel.
Two hours ago this would have been a gift. Now, it feels like a stab in my stomach. Not so much canceling the painting, but leaving him.
“Of course I do. I’m just putting on my work uniform.” I smile, pointing at my sheet. He searches my face, perhaps for confirmation.
“So, Mr. Hale, what do you have in mind?” Javier interjects politely.
Aiden tears his eyes from me and looks at Javier. “I’ll give you full creative license, Mr. Solis. My only conditions are that she is in that attire and you use the same theme and colors as the others.” I’m not surprised to hear his voice back to cold and detached.
Javier nods and walks around the room, looking at it differently than I do, and probably differently than Aiden. He runs his hand over the walls, the furniture, the curtains. I know him enough to know that he is smelling, listening and maybe even tasting the faint sandalwood scent in the air.
As he caresses the chaise, he asks again, “Do you want me to use the furniture as part of the message?”
“The message?”
“Yeah. Every painting has a message. Given the furniture choice, this one is easy. She can stand or she can sit. Stay or leave. Or she could lounge for a while. What do you prefer?”
I grin proudly like a PTA mum. Javier knows his art.
Aiden measures Javier. “You’re the artist. I’ll be interested to see the resolution myself.” He gazes at me then, and his words from earlier ring in my ears. I shouldn’t. Is that it? A compromise between should and want? Is that the fantasy he is asking Javier to memorialize?
“All right.” Javier nods. His eyes squint and focus on the chaise. I’m willing to bet my next thirty days that he does not choose it. It’s too obvious for his style.
“Now, some business details,” Aiden says. “Of course, you know Feign is expecting payment for this painting even though it’s obvious who the real artist is. I’m sure you agree it’s best not to give him reason to retaliate against either you or Elisa.”
A shiver runs through me. Aiden is right. If Feign doesn’t get something for this, he would report Javier to ICE for theft. Javier swallows hard—his own fear well masked under his politeness.
“He said he pays you a salary,” Aiden continues. “But we all know that’s a lie. So I plan to pay you the same commission that I’m paying Feign—”
“Mr. Hale, no—” Javier starts to protest but Aiden puts up his hand to stop him.
“I want you to take what you deserve, Mr. Solis. On this point, I will not negotiate.”
I want him. Right here, right now. Not because of the money but because he gave Javier some recognition. I know what that means to Javier. One look at his face and I see the same appreciation I feel.
“Thank you, Mr. Hale.” Javier looks self-conscious, his eyes drifting to his polished shoes.
“My pleasure. Now, given your circumstances, I’m sure you understand that’s a significant amount of money to be paid under the table. I’ll consult with my lawyers about the best way to handle it, but for your part, from a legal standpoint, it would help if you thought of the painting, not as work, but as a gift to Elisa and myself.”
I tingle at the sound of him and me together. Javier’s forehead creases—did he hear what I did?—but he nods.
“A gift then,” he says.
Aiden nods back, but his eyes are on me. Thank you, I mouth and he smiles.
“Ready to strike a pose?” Javier says.
“Yes,” I answer with a smile, determined to make this as easy for everyone as possible.
“All right, lean back on the chair,” he says. I was right. Not the chaise.
“A little farther. Yeah. Relax your left arm along the armrest. No, not like you’re falling over. That’s good. Now grip the other armrest with your right hand like you’re propping yourself up. Yeah, like that. No, don’t cross your legs. Point your toes toward the door,” he instructs, his artist eye following each move.
Javier’s Rule Number One is to leave enough vagueness for the viewer to find his own message. And this pose fits that philosophy like a glove. I can’t wait to ask him about its meaning but he won’t tell me with Aiden here. Javier’s Rule Number Two is to never disclose his own interpretation of his art. I am the only exception to that rule.
Javier fidgets until he has me where he wants me. I peek at Aiden. But it looks like he has exchanged places with the dragon again. His eyes are trained unblinking on my feet pointing to the door. The rest of his posture emanates tension waves like scaly wings.
“I’ll leave you to it,” he spits out and strides out of the room before I can say…anything. And, thankfully, before Javier could notice the furious eyes. Benson follows him at his customary, three-feet distance.
Why was he angry? Which interpretation did he see in the pose? Whatever he saw, was it the one he wanted? I draw a deep breath. Well, tonight, I’ll do my best to convince him that, if I could, I would not be sitting in this chair but rather lying on the chaise, for as long as he would have me.
Javier continues to roam about, setting up the easel, deciding on perspective, but he does not speak.
“So, that was very nice of him to pay you as well as Feign?” I start.
“Yes, very nice.” Javier sounds a little off.
“Are you okay?” I ask as he measures the height of my chair.
He pauses and looks up at me. “Are you?”
I smile. “Yes. It’s been a good day for a change.”
He watches me for a moment and then takes a deep breath. “Be careful, please. He seems kind of intense. I don’t know—something’s off.”
“Like what?” My voice is both defensive and curious.
Javier’s forehead crumples, and he squints his eyes like he is looking at an image. “Like he is too
desperate for this or something.” He shakes his head as though the image eludes him.
Desperate? Aren’t we all desperate for our fantasies?
“Anyway, just keep your distance. It’s going to be bad enough without all this.” He waves his hand around the room.
I shiver and clutch my sheet tighter. He is right, as always. But today is demon-free. “I’ll be careful,” I say quickly. “Now tell me, what’s the plan for this?”
He shakes his head again but lets it go. “Well, you want to stay here so you’ll be seated and relaxed, rather than standing. But we know you have to leave, so your feet will point toward the door to illustrate the conflict and uncertainty. He can see what he wants in the image.”
Brilliant. Javier is giving me a choice in art when I don’t have it in real life.
“With that message, I’m guessing you don’t want me to grin like a madwoman or look morose?”
Javier smiles. “You’re guessing right. I want you to be you. Think only of today, only of this room, and only of what you’re feeling right now.” He ruffles my hair and pads over to his easel.
His eyes focus on me. I start to close mine before remembering that this time, I need them open. The sound of his sketching takes over. Soon, I’m daydreaming.
I wonder where Aiden is in this palace. Can he see us? Instantly, I shiver. The idea of his eyes on me—now primal, now soft—sets my skin ablaze. What will we do when we’re alone? Will he still be furious and pin me against a wall, tear off my sheet and growl in my ear you’re staying? Or will the tender Aiden who buys every single flower to guess my favorite be waiting? I don’t know which one I want more. Is there a way to merge them? Kiss them, bite them. My thighs flex and I shift in my chair.
Javier looks up.
“What’s up with you? You look all red.”
“Do I? Must be the heat from the lights,” I mumble.
“Do you need a break or something?”
“No, no! Keep going.”
A break is all I need right now. I want this to end as soon as possible, because now, in this shirt that smells like Aiden, my achy thighs are not the only problem. The bigger problem is that I’m pretty sure this is what people mean by “really wet”. And the silky knickers will probably show it. Hydrogen, 1.008. Helium, 4.003. Lithium, 6.94… Oh, blast, it’s not working. Right. 173 times 432 is—umm—74,736.
