by Alix Nichols
She hesitates. “The village is only twenty minutes away. I’ll be fine—I’m a big girl.”
“Penelope.” There’s a bossy note in Darcy’s voice. “I don’t like the idea of you driving alone on dark countryside roads at this hour.”
She stares at him, saying nothing.
“You’ll sleep at the castle.” He pulls out his phone. “I’ll let Jacqueline know, so she can get you everything you need.”
“That’s very kind of you, Sebastian.” Penelope smiles. “Thank you.”
I approve of his thoughtful gesture, but I can’t help wishing Penelope had refused. The thought of her sleeping in one of the guest chambers under the same roof as Darcy is unpleasant to say the least.
Is he going to join her later tonight, so that they could continue their conversation?
No, he won’t. He’d never do anything that could blow our cover. This scheme of his matters too much to him.
Just as I sigh with relief, a thought strikes me.
I’m jealous.
Why else would I care if Darcy and Penelope spend the night together?
Chill out, woman.
What you’re experiencing is a version of Stockholm syndrome, when hostages end up supporting the bad guy because they’ve spent too much time in close proximity with him. The difference between the classic version of the syndrome and mine is that instead of sympathizing with Darcy’s cause, I’ve become sympathetic toward his body. Fervently sympathetic.
No, this won’t do.
Repeat after me, Diane: Darcy is an entitled jerk. He ruined and nearly killed Dad. It’s sick to lust after him while plotting his downfall. My dream is to see him destroyed.
Excellent.
And now the refrain.
I hate him.
I hate him.
I hate him.
Chapter 14
Diane
Elorie’s skin glows in the soft light filtering through the tall linen-draped window of this high-ceilinged room.
I fiddle with the controls of my camera. “Can you tip your head back a little?”
“Like this?” Elorie asks.
“Exactly.” I release the shutter. “Don’t move.”
She’s straddling a polished wood chair, her back toward me. The paleness of her skin is offset by the dark wood of the chair and the floorboards. I study the image on my preview screen. It’s elegant and free of any vulgarity, yet there’s a touch of delicious decadence you can’t miss. It’s perfect, thanks to this light and this space. If I could afford a professional studio for my portraits, I doubt I could find a better setting.
I click a few more times, gleeful.
This is going to be the best of the three shoots we’ve done so far. It has everything going for it. Especially three things—Elorie’s lovely body, the shabby-chic charm of this room, and our mojo boosted by the best local Chablis from Darcy’s wine cellar.
“More?” I ask, picking up the bottle.
She grabs her glass from the floor and holds it out. “Yes, please. When do you think you’ll be done?”
“I am done, actually.” I fill her glass and hand it to her. “I was going to take a few more pics, just in case. But if you’re tired or cold, we can stop now.”
Before she replies, the door behind me opens and Darcy walks in. Surprise flashes in his eyes as he takes in the scene. He looks ragged with ruffled hair, dark stubble, and a glass of Scotch in his hand. Combined with the jeans and a well-worn sweater, the look is so out of character I can’t help wondering if he’s OK.
Then I remember about Elorie and panic.
The poor thing must be mortified. Oh, and she’ll kill me as soon as she gets over it. Our shoots were supposed to remain secret, and no one was supposed to know it was her in these photos.
“Get out!” I shout at Darcy.
“I didn’t mean to intrude.” He turns toward my model, his gaze trained on the floor next her feet. “Please forgive me, Elorie.”
“It’s OK,” she says.
He glances at me again as he retreats toward the door. “I hope I didn’t ruin your project. Please continue.”
I glare at him.
And to my utter shock, my naked friend turns around, fully exposing to Darcy all her X-rated parts she’s been so eager to hide from my camera. “Hi, Sebastian.”
His lips quirk before he schools them into a polite smile. “Hello, Elorie.”
She picks up her bathrobe and pulls it on. “We were done, actually and I was leaving. So no worries—you didn’t ruin anything.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” he says.
“See you later, alligator.” Elorie waves good-bye to me.
“I’ll get you before the restaurant,” I say as she makes a beeline to the door and shuts it behind her.
“You never told me you did nude portraits,” Darcy says.
I shrug. “Our contract doesn’t require that I tell you everything.”
“Do they sell well?”
“Elorie and I are on our third series,” I say with pride. “So yeah, my nudes seem to be appreciated.”
He points at my camera. “Can I see one?”
My first impulse is to say no, but I remember Elorie’s cavalier attitude and change my mind. Compared to the uncensored view she just presented him, my photos are PG-13.
I hand him the camera.
As he pulls up the pics, I survey him. What would he look like naked? I saw his biceps once when he wore a T-shirt. I’ve leered at the bulges of his pecs discernible through his shirts countless times. His stomach is flat, his shoulders are naturally broad, and his hips narrow. All evidence suggests he’d look very nice indeed. What I don’t know is if his chest is hairy. I picture his bared forearms as an indicator. Hmm… it’ll probably have some hair, but not too much. If I find the right aperture and exposure settings to accentuate the play of light and shadow on the planes of his chest, I could have some amazing photos.
“Will you sit for me?” I blurt.
He gives me a quizzical look.
“As in pose for a few pics… maybe?” I fully expect him to snort and say no.
He tilts his head to the side. “Are you serious?”
Am I? “Totally.”
“Why? Are you having trouble finding male models?”
“I haven’t tried. You’d be my first.”
He glances at the preview screen once again.
I should stop holding my breath. He’ll never agree to my brazen offer. No way.
“So you want me to pose for you,” he says.
“Uh-huh.”
“Naked?”
I nod. “I’ll make them just as clean and artsy as Elorie’s. And I’ll hide your face by shooting from the side and the back only.”
He hands me the camera, a smile crinkling his eyes. “Only for art’s sake…”
Is he agreeing to my insane request? Is he actually, really, going to do it?
I clear my throat. “Is that a yes?”
He doesn’t reply immediately, and I stare at him, a wave of shameful, giddy excitement shooting through my veins, filling my ears with a pleasant buzz and making me light-headed. Darcy is going to strip naked for me. He’s going to position that gorgeous body of his however I instruct him to. I’m going to be able to feast my eyes on every inch of that taut, virile flesh with full impunity. Pretending to be just an extension of my camera and safe in the artist-model role-play, I’m going to lap up every line of that handsome face. It’s shocking how badly I want him to say yes.
“One condition,” he says. “I keep my pants on.”
I do my best to hide my disappointment. “OK, but only the pants. I want your chest and your feet bare.”
He nods.
“I’ll prepare the backdrop while you undress.” I try to sound businesslike. “We have to hurry—this light will be gone in twenty minutes or so.”
He sets his glass on the windowsill and pulls his sweater over his head with the ease of a hunk who doesn�
��t know what body-conscious means.
I don’t budge, watching him.
He kicks off his sneakers, eyes riveted to mine.
I stare, mesmerized into a stupor.
He pulls his socks off and straightens his back. “Weren’t you going to prep something?”
“What?” I wake up from my trance. “Oh. Crap. Yes, I was.” I rush past him to move the chair out of the way and push the curtain a little to the side. My ears are aflame.
“Can you stand by the window?” I ask.
Without looking at him, I go back to my spot by the table and pick up my camera.
Darcy plants himself on the right of the window frame. His upper body is to die for. All lean muscle and tanned skin. Incredibly masculine. Totally camera worthy. Oh, and I was right about his chest, which has just the right amount of hair.
“Press your forehead to the frame,” I say.
He executes.
Click, click, click.
“Now turn your back to me, lift your arms, and place your hands on either side of the frame.”
He does as he’s told.
“Higher. Yes, like that. Lean forward a bit. Perfect. Stay there.”
I click frantically.
“Drop your head to your chest… Good… Now, straighten up again. Drop your right hand behind your neck and touch your back… Beautiful.”
I order him to shift his body in a dozen more ways, each designed to highlight a particular group of muscles on his back and chest, the slant of his shoulders, the shape of his strong neck, his sculpted jawline, abs, hips, backside, and his unexpectedly sexy feet.
Male beauty is so underrated.
“How about a nude?” I ask on impulse. “Just one pic, to crown the series.”
He stares at me, saying nothing.
His silence emboldens me. “I’ll take it from the back, nothing indecent, and I’ll render it in black and white. Please?”
His stare grows so intense it robs me of air. Literally. It somehow makes me unlearn the art of breathing, and I’m about to swoon when he nods and turns his back to me.
I take a few life-saving breaths.
He just nodded, right? He’s going full monty for me.
Dear God, dear God, dear God.
Incredulous, I watch him unbuckle his belt and draw the zipper. In one smooth movement, he pulls his jeans and underwear down and steps out of them.
My gaze travels up his athletic calves and strong thighs and lingers on his derriere. A part of me registers that I’m staring at him directly without the intermediary of the camera.
Another part registers that I’m wet.
“So?” Darcy asks without turning to face me. “Are you taking that shot?”
I raise the camera and click, and click again, and again, and again.
“That’s more than one pic,” he says.
“It’s just to have a few different angles to choose from.”
And look at.
“We’re done,” I say a moment later. “It was very kind of you, Sebastian.”
“Don’t mention it.” I hear the smile in his voice. “I’m glad I could be of help, Diane.”
I turn to the door, hugging my camera. “I’ll give you some privacy to get dressed.”
“That would be nice. Thank you.”
As I march out and pull the door closed, I already know I’m going to spend hour after hour pouring over the series, inventing new ways to edit the photos just to have an excuse to leer at them.
Especially, the last few.
Chapter 15
Diane
Hating a man 24-7 drains your energy. Can you blame a woman for needing a break from it?
That’s what this is—a break. Whenever I find myself enjoying Darcy’s company, I tell myself that all it means is that I’m just taking a breather from constant hating. Neat, huh? In this light, there’s no reason to panic every time I catch myself fancying Darcy’s toothsome bod or admiring a trait of his character.
This theory is the only way to account for what happened in Burgundy. Prompting Darcy to give me an extra hot kiss was bad enough. I can tell myself I did it to spite Genevieve, who’d gotten under my skin, but how do I explain that I nearly disintegrated from it? And how in hell do I explain asking Darcy to strip and pose for me? A fit of madness? An attempt to sabotage my own plan? An admission of defeat?
I prefer to go with the Everyone Needs a Breather hypothesis.
Anyway, back to the here and now. I’m standing next to Jeanne in the middle of the front room of La Bohème, staring at the long windowless wall opposite the entrance. At Jeanne’s request, Chloe had fitted it with little hooks and strings so it could serve as a gallery to showcase local painters.
“Your photos of Parisian rooftops would be perfect for my first exhibit,” Jeanne says.
“I’m flattered,”—and I truly am—“but I wouldn’t want you to feel obligated to offer me this opportunity just because I’m Chloe’s sis.”
“I’m offering you this opportunity because I love those photos, period.” Jeanne cocks her head and winks. “But don’t expect me to pay for the prints.”
“Are you insane? You should be charging me, not the other way around!”
We agree on the size and number of prints, and Jeanne returns behind the bar. I stare at the wall some more, brimming with excitement. Displaying my work outside the virtual world, printed and framed, is a big step toward becoming a real photographer. It doesn’t matter how many photos I sell—this exhibit isn’t about making a profit. It’s my graduation from hobbyist to professional.
Manon zooms by with a loaded tray, mouthing, “Five minutes.” This means she’s about to take a coffee break and wants me to stick around. I pick a table by the window and engross myself in my current whodunit.
Manon’s voice pulls me out of the story a few minutes later. “How can you enjoy that stuff?”
“What’s wrong with detective stories?”
She sits down, placing a cappuccino and an espresso on the table. “All that violence and crime.”
“To me, these books are more about the intrigue and figuring out who the culprit is.” I cock my head. “What I don’t understand is how you can like romance.”
“What’s not to like?” She gives me a dreamy look. “I can never decide what I enjoy more—the thrill of the deepening love, the overcoming of obstacles, or the guaranteed happily ever after.”
“There are no happily ever afters in real life.”
“If you mean we all die in the end, I agree.” She gives me a wink. “But romance books aren’t about eternal life. They’re about eternal love.”
“Does it exist, your eternal love?” I sneer.
She stares at me, perplexed. “You just got engaged. Shouldn’t you be a little more… optimistic?”
“I should—I mean, I am.” I glance at the ridiculously big diamond on my finger. “It’s just… People come together and split up. Or they stay together and hate each other’s guts. That’s real life—just look around you.”
“OK.” She nods, a sparkle of mischief in her eyes, and turns toward the bar. “Let’s see… Oh, look, it’s Jeanne!”
Manon turns back to me, beaming.
I know exactly what she’s going to say.
“Last time I checked,”—she can hardly keep the glee from her voice—“Jeanne was still happily in love with Mat.”
I shrug. “They’re an exception to the rule.”
“What about Chloe and Hugo?” Manon arches an eyebrow. “How long will you give those two?”
Hmm. Very long, actually. Until death do them part.
“My parents divorced,” I say. “So did Sebastian’s, and Elorie’s, and plenty of other people I know.”
“OK, I’ll grant you that,” Manon says. “Not every couple gets their happily ever after. In real life, half of them split up.”
“Ha! You see.”
“But the other half stays together and continues loving each other, ju
st like in romance books. And lots of divorcees remarry happily.” She pats my shoulder. “It’s one of those glass-half-full things—just a matter of perspective.”
“Or a matter of dumb luck.”
“Maybe.” She rubs her chin. “Or maybe it’s a matter of knowing yourself well enough to sense who’s right for you.”
“How can you ever sense that? It’s not as if there’s an alarm in your head that goes”—I cup my hands around my mouth—“weeeoooo-weeeoooo, all systems go! I have a visual. The individual at three o’clock is the perfect match. I repeat: Target at three o’clock. Go, go, go!”
“That’s not how it works.” She smiles and glances at fellow waiter Amar as he walks by eyeing Manon as if she were the Eighth Wonder of the World. “You don’t always recognize it at once, but when you’ve spent some time with the right guy, you’ll know it’s him. Trust me.”
Lucky her. I’ve never felt that confident about anyone.
I guess I don’t know myself well enough.
Chapter 16
Sebastian
Denying yourself someone you crave, and who happens to want you, too, drains your energy. Can you blame a man for wanting a break from it?
I’d been suspecting Diane had a thing for me since March, but the Burgundy trip killed the last of my doubts. I’ll never forget our extra hot kiss, or the look on her face when she asked me to pose for her. Even harder to forget is the giddiness in her lovely eyes when I agreed. Not to mention the pent-up lust roughening her voice when she directed me, and the color of her cheeks when she began to take pictures.
How I managed not to knock on her door that night is beyond me.
I look out the car window as I drive to the 9th. I’m to join Diane and her gang at La Bohème tonight, where they’re watching some show on the bistro’s new TV screen. My original plan had been to take Diane to the opera, but she said she wouldn’t miss that program for the world.
Why on earth did I buy those tickets without checking with her first? I suppose I was going for a surprise. As if I didn’t already know Diane isn’t the kind of woman who’d jump for joy at two center orchestra tickets for La Traviata.
