“What is this picture we’re working on now?”
“You mean, what is the name of the piece?”
I nodded but stayed silent looking out over the wet street.
“No Love For Me.”
Of course. It should be my fucking theme song. “I’m ready to get back to work.”
Alec led me over to the canvas once more. No words were spoken when I removed my shirt, fluffed my hair and got into position.
Finally, I broke the silence.
“What’s next?” I asked with a renewed focus.
“We find you love of course.”
Chapter 3
Day three of being with Alec brought me back into the loft. Last night, we returned from a long day of shooting stills in what felt like a million subtly different poses. We’d even skipped lunch; apparently, when the muse strikes, one takes advantage. Objectively, when a woman removes the top half of her clothes and you’re a hetero male, it’s not too far a leap to think the muse is going to go haywire. All men are pigs in one way or another. This one just happened to be masquerading as a hot artist guy Frenchman.
Gotta admit though, it was totally working for me. I was dying to get my hands on him. Anywhere. His hair, especially his hair. Long waves of russet and gold that fell perfectly to his shoulders. Tall, muscled frame with a narrow waist had me salivating for the second day in a row. Unfortunately for me, Alec was a workaholic to the extreme. After we finished in the loft and came back to his loft, we ate pizza for dinner, and he was off to the loft to work on the image he’d done that day. Didn’t even come home before I went to bed alone…again. It irked me that he hadn’t so much as tried anything other than that single kiss. I was primed and ready to take the next step. I needed to rip off the Band-Aid so to speak. To stop thinking about Wes and the surfboard keychain that held the key to his front door and his heart.
Today, Alec wasn’t waiting for me in the kitchen. Once I’d butt-scooched down the stairs, I’d expected to find him up and making me breakfast like yesterday. Not so. What I did find was a note in his slanted male penmanship sitting by the coffee pot. It said:
Ma jolie,
Meet me at downstairs when you’re ready. There is much to do.
~A
I ate a banana and had a cup of coffee before making my way on the crutches to the elevator and down to the loft. Today was far busier than the previous day. Again, there were several men in black scurrying around doing this or that, taking pictures, probably those boring test stills. I was glad that Alec personally did the test shots with me. At least that way I had someone I could talk to. The men in black had an issue with the models speaking. Every few minutes I’d hear a shush or “still” or “quiet” from one side of the room or another. Even though it was all very strange, it was quite interesting to see the inner workings of a world-renowned artist as he perfected his art and managed the minions doing the grunt work.
“Finally, you’re here,” one of his men in black approached on a huff. He gripped my arm and tried to pull me along faster than my crutches would allow.
As I struggled to keep up, my crutch’s rubber end hit a wire trailing across the concrete floor. It hit it at a weird angle that caused me to tilt forward and nearly put all my weight onto my sprained ankle. I swayed precariously, but caught myself midair by balancing on the crutches. That was it! I’d had it. Thoroughly irritated, I yanked my arm out of his grasp. “Watch it, dude. You’re about to get a crutch up your ass if you don’t quit pulling on my arm. I’m not your dog on a leash.” I pointed the crutch at his face and swung it around. “Back off!”
“Que se passe-t-il?” came an agitated voice behind us. Alec stood, hands on hips, a twisted, angry look marring his features. He looked lethal, like a lion ready to pounce on its prey. “What is the meaning of this?” he finally spoke in English.
“Mr. Dubois, your model was not being speedy and you were expecting her an hour ago,” the minion replied. An hour ago? Screw that! If he wanted me to get up early, he should have set an alarm, maybe even have found interesting ways to wake me. Since he didn’t, I was not taking the blame.
“Imbécile,” he murmured loud enough for the two of us to hear but not loud enough for the growing audience building around us. “Do you have poor sight?”
The man scrunched his nose and his head whipped back. “Sight? As in can I see?”
“Are you deaf too?”
This time the man took affront. “Look, Mr. Dubois, you said the models were to follow the rules and that included being on time. She was late, really late. A whole hour. I was just trying to move her along…”
“Enough. You,” he pointed to the waif of a man, “are an idiot. Do you not see she is injured and cannot run with crutches?”
“I was just trying…”
“Assez!. No. Shut your mouth before you dig a hole so deep you’ll never find your way to the surface,” Alec grated. He looked around the room and held his arm out, scanning the space. “Now, to everyone listening, and I know you are...” A few people tried to look away as if that was going to hide the fact that everyone had been paying close attention. “This woman is Mia,” he pointed to me. “She is the entire muse for ‘Love on Canvas’. As far as you are concerned, she is as precious and priceless as any of my paintings. Treat her as such. Now, back to work.” He clapped his hands together twice before coming to my aide.
“Are you okay, ma jolie?”
“Fine, he just annoyed me. Tugged on me too hard and I almost fell. It’s an honest mistake.”
“One he will not make again,” he bit out, then leaned forward and scooped me into a princess carry again. “How was your sleep?”
This was my chance so I took it. “Would have been better with a nice warm body lying next to me,” I finished boldly. He stopped and stood still, his gaze on mine, tawny eyes turning a shade darker, pupils dilating.
“Is that so?”
“I never lie,” which wasn’t exactly true. I lied all the time when it suited me or I was stuck in a bind. Even though this suited me, this was not one of those times.
Alec grinned. “I find that hard to believe, ma jolie.” He brought me over to the same place we were working yesterday and sat me in the chair I’d used.
Before he could let me go, I whispered, “Believe it Frenchie,” into his ear then kissed his cheek sweetly. Nothing more than a reminder of our heated kiss a couple days ago.
“It seems we’ll have to do something different with our sleeping accommodations posthaste. Don’t want you to be uncared for.”
“That would be a tragedy.” I smiled wide.
His response was a wink before he turned around and got out the paint again and a small brush.
“Painted lips again?”
He came toward me and lifted his chin in a silent request that I look behind me. I turned sideways in my chair, staying mindful of my sore foot. That’s when I saw it. Not it…me. Two of me. One was a black and white painted image of me. The other a combination photograph on one half of the canvas, the other half blank. Bright red lips were the only point of color on the second picture. The first painted image was so lifelike, even more so than the actual photographic image on the other canvas. I stood and hopped over to the painting. The brush strokes were miniscule and almost a perfect duplicate of the photographic image. You could even see the tear streaming down my face. The sadness in my eyes, the stance, slumped shoulders showed a tortured woman. Sad yet still…beautiful. A moment caught in time.
“It’s…I can’t believe…how?” I whispered and lifted a hand to touch the painting. Before I could, Alec gripped my wrist and pulled it back gently.
“No touching. It’s still wet. I worked on it through the night.”
My eyes went wide and I gasped. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t realize. That’s dumb. I mean, I should have known, it makes sense. Sorry,” I frowned.
Alec’s hand reached out and he caressed a lock of my hair, rubbing it together with his fingers before trailing one f
ingertip down from my temple, cheekbone and along the side of my chin. Goosebumps broke out against my arms and I shivered.
“Cold?” he asked with a hint of a smile. He knew what he was doing to me. How his touch ignited something inside.
“No,” I licked my lips and stared brazenly at his, wishing he would lean forward and put his lips on me. Anywhere. Everywhere.
“Well then, let’s get started.” He combed his fingers through my hair, pushing it over my shoulder. Then repeated the movement on the other side. Not what I was expecting, but it felt good, so I went with it. “Sit, I’m going to paint your lips.”
I groaned but hopped back over to the seat, plopped down and rolled my eyes before he came around and knelt in front of me. “Do you ever think about anything other than work?”
“Are you referring to the fact that I want to kiss you until I’ve stolen all your breath? Or the fact that if I could, I would shred your shirt, and suck on your pink tips until you begged for me to make love to you?”
“Make love?” I snickered even though his words made me hot and bothered; they were hot...and bothered me…a lot!
“Of course, chérie. the French make love. There are many forms of making love. Hard. Fast. Slow. Deliberate. I plan to do all those things to you, and for many, many hours. But not now. Now is the time for work. Later, we play.”
I nodded not able to speak any further. I wanted to know what ‘play’ meant to him. I had a pretty good idea it was the kind of play I hoped it was. God willing. Slowly Alec painted my lips with the goopy cherry red paint. When he was done he lifted me from the chair and carried me over to the painting of me he’d done.
“This is where it gets tricky. I want you to place your lips over those on the painting exactly where they are painted. I will guide you as best I can. You will get close and then slowly press them against the painting so that the paint transfers.”
I gave him a hard look, but, like yesterday, I didn’t want to speak and mess up the paint on my lips. Now, more so than ever before. He gripped my head and I placed my hands on each side of the wall around the painting. First, I got really close.
“Be careful not to touch the painting anywhere else, or I’ll have to redo it,” he warned which sent a fissure of fear tumbling through me. I sucked in a long slow breath through my nose and let it out, then leaned super close to the painting. When I got to where I thought I should be, he centered me lightly by holding my head on each side before pushing ever so slightly so that I’d move forward.
I puckered my lips and kissed myself then pulled back. He helped me reverse so I wouldn’t lose my balance and helped me to the chair. The black and white painted image now had a perfect set of red lips. It actually looked almost as though he’d painted them there, but you could tell it was a kiss. It wasn’t perfect, but I thought it looked good.
“Exactly as I pictured it. You amaze me, Mia,” he said in awe as he stared as his masterpiece. His arms were crossed over his chest, one arm supported by the other, one hand holding up his face at the chin where he stared and stared at his painting.
“Ever heard that saying, ‘take a picture it will last longer’?” I giggled.
His head turned in slow motion and I caught his gaze. “This will last a lifetime in someone’s home. Get passed down from generation to generation leaving a legacy for years to come.”
Well, when he put it like that, I guess it was pretty flippin’ fantastic.
***
The rest of the day, he had me doing stills again. This time, I stood completely naked on top, facing the blank canvas that had half a picture of me printed on it.
“I don’t understand why I have to be naked for this,” I said, my hand covering my naked chest. The girls were covered in gooseflesh, and I didn’t think that made for a very nice picture. My hair was down and wild once more, only this time he’d had someone come in and professionally mess it up. That had me laughing so hard he left the space on a turn of his heel to go check on his other work. Really, I knew I was annoying him. He probably wasn’t used to his muses talking back or giving him a hard time. Made me wonder how many muses he’d had in the past. The thought that I was just one of many irked me.
“Have you ever hired a muse?” I really didn’t want to know the answer but couldn’t refrain from asking.
The camera clicked and he spoke to one of his attendants in French who adjusted the big lights a few inches. Another click. “No, ma jolie. You’re the only one,” he finally answered. And it was enough. I liked being his only muse for hire. Not sure that made me any better than the other models, but for my own mental stability, I pretended it did.
“What are we doing anyway?” I asked facing the blank section of canvas on the unfinished picture.
“I’m going to make you love your image. Which will translate to the viewer as loving yourself.”
I’m certain my eyes narrowed unattractively at his statement. “Come again?”
He let out a tired breath. “Ma jolie, I need to finish these stills so I can paint and have dinner with you, make love to you, then paint your image onto canvas. There is much to do,” he said like a broken record.
That wasn’t what slithered through my subconscious though. It was the way he made a laundry list of things he had to do and having dinner with me and “making love” to me where part of his chores this evening. “Don’t do anything on my account,” I responded angrily.
“Mia, your mood is affecting your image. Please stop thinking about being frustrated with me and focus on the job at hand.”
I turned around beyond pissed, hands on hips, forgetting my tits were flailing in the wind for all to gawk at. “I can’t do that,” my voice rose several octaves, getting additional attention from his men in black working around the room. I thrust a hand over my bared breasts trying for a modicum of modesty. “I don’t even know what you want me to do!” came out through my clenched teeth.
Alec came over to me and positioned me back at the wall. He leaned in close, pushing the hair off my shoulder and neck where he nuzzled in. “Ma jolie, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to anger you. Tensions are high. Let’s focus together, and we’ll talk more later. Oui?” He said in that calm tone that, after only two days, seemed to work like a charm at calming me and centering my focus at the same time. With the barest of pressure, he kissed the top of my shoulder. It felt like a promise, one I’d be making sure he kept later this evening.
“Now, place your hand here,” he lifted my right arm alongside the wall. The other, I want at the bottom of the canvas over your image’s heart. I placed my hand delicately on the canvas. Even though it was a silkscreen image I didn’t want to mess it up. Alec went back to his camera. “Okay Mia, please stare at your image. Think back to a time where you felt loved. Beautiful. At home in your own skin.”
Instantly, I was catapulted to a memory of being a small child. It was before my Mom abandoned us. We were a happy family of four then. I had just won the lead part in our county’s children’s play. Mom was even happy for me, and she usually was primarily focused on her own desires and wins. But not that day. That day, she gave me a hug and a kiss, and told me she was proud of me and would always love me. Then my Dad scooped me into his arms and held me close. He whispered into my ear how he always knew I had something special. Something no other little girl had. And in that moment, secure in my dad’s arms and my mother’s love, I believed him. Best day of my life.
The camera clicked like wild. Then the memory continued, the next day, Mom left and never came back. I never did star in that play. For a long time I thought it was my fault that she left. Because I did something so well and got all Dad’s attention, something I knew she craved a lot of, even when I was only ten years old. Now as an adult, I knew different. Well, mostly.
I looked up at twenty-five-year-old Mia’s teary face in the image and pitied her. For just a second I allowed myself to feel pity for my upbringing, for the choices my family made, and how I later chose to l
ive my life. How I was living my life now. What I saw wasn’t a pretty picture anymore. It was of a sad girl who’d lost something precious. Something beautiful.
Without asking if we were done or if he’d gotten what he needed, I put on my bra and shirt, hopped over to my crutches and hobbled away. The wall around my heart was barely intact, crumbling at the seams. One more hit and I’d be on the floor in a puddle of rubble.
“Mia!” Alec called but I didn’t stop, just waved goodbye over my head. It was late and the day had been long. He couldn’t fault me for needing rest.
I made it up to the loft, went straight to the kitchen and found an open bottle of wine and a wine glass, poured a huge helping of the crimson liquid and took a huge gulp before allowing the tears to fall.
That was when Alec returned. He came to my side, grabbed another wine glass and poured his own. Then he leaned against the counter and looked at me while I tried to compose myself and pretend I hadn’t just been bawling like a baby.
“Why don’t you love yourself?” His words hit my wall like a sledgehammer and left a giant, gaping hole in their wake.
Chapter 4
“I love myself.” The words spilled from my lips like acid hitting bare flesh.
Alec’s gaze settled on mine. I was leaning against the kitchen island having just poured myself another glass of wine.
“Do you? Could have fooled me,” he responded flippantly before tossing back a heavy slug of the red wine.
“You think you know me? After only a few days?” I ground my teeth together and narrowed my eyebrows.
Alec’s lips pinched together and he turned his head and looked at me. That look said it all. Frustration, stubbornness and something else. “I think I know you better than you know yourself, or at least better than you will admit to yourself,” he came close and cupped my cheek. I pushed it away and hopped back on one foot, protecting my ankle.
“What? You think because you’re an ‘artist’ you have some type of special ability to read people? If that’s the case, your magic is way off, Frenchie, because the last person I want to be near right now is you!” I slammed my glass down on the counter and the wine sloshed out both sides onto the counter. “Fuck!” I hobbled over to the paper towels and pulled frantically at the roll, grabbing far too much for the tiny spill.
February (Calendar Girl Book 2) Page 3
