Succumb to Me

SUCCUMB TO ME

By

Julia Keaton

Copyright by Julia Keaton March 2013

Smashwords Edition

ISBN:
9781301102631

Cover art by Eliza Black, March 2013

www.juliakeatonbooks.com

This is a work of fiction. All characters,
events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be
confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is
merely coincidence.

Other Titles by Julia Keaton:

His Forbidden Touch

Ravished

Stranger in my Bed

Their Wicked Ways (Coming Soon)

CHAPTER ONE

Winter Stevens gasped as Vincent Giovanni
unveiled his creation to her at long last, whipping the cover cloth
to the side with a flourish that threw a fine mist of dust into the
air. The air born particles drifted through the beam of sunlight
that poured through the open window, shining on the painting with
strange illumination.

Looking upon his creation, Winter felt a bolt
of shock akin to lightening pass through her body. As if she’d
suddenly been transformed into petrified wood, Winter found she
could not move, could not blink, could not even breathe.

It was a monstrosity.

“I call it The Ice Princess,” Mr. Giovanni
said proudly, apparently pleased with Winter’s reaction. He seemed
to be laboring under the assumption that she was stunned speechless
with admiration.

Thaw set in. For a moment, Winter felt
herself hovering between a faint and violent illness. Her stomach
clenched in a painful knot as she continued to gape wide-eyed at
the painting, backing slowly away in disbelief until she bumped
into a chair and collapsed into it with weakened knees that had
turned to jelly. She wanted to cover her eyes, but she was
powerless to look away.

Blissfully unaware of her initial, and
subsequent, reaction, Giovanni remained engrossed for some moments
in studying his latest masterpiece.

Winter took a deep breath, attempting calm,
fighting down the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. She would
not be ruled by her emotions, least of all by stark terror.

She swallowed, trying to unstick her tongue
from the roof of her mouth. She realized after a moment that her
tongue felt swollen and uncooperative for the simple reason that
her mouth had gone dry as dust. She swallowed convulsively, several
times, and managed to gather a little moisture into her mouth.

“Mr. Giovanni, why have you ... what happened
to my ... why has my portrait been composed as a nude?” she managed
faintly.

His accent was heavy, but his English
was flawless. She knew she couldn’t have misunderstood his
intentions when he’d sought her out as a model. She’d been so
thrilled, so defiant of her mother’s stern admonition that she
could not, under any circumstances, pose for the brilliant artist.
He had never mentioned anything of this sort, nor could she
reconcile the genteel old man with any deviousness of character.
Why then, had he done
this
?

She had not—definitely NOT posed for him
without her clothes! And yet, the painting depicted a woman
completely without shame, lounging in a pile of dark, supple furs,
clothed only in her hair. Crystalline walls protected her from the
harsh, beautiful winter raging outside. There was such exquisite
detail in her face and form—no one would believe that she’d been
wearing her best walking dress as she’d posed for him. No one would
believe that this ... this monstrosity was the result of nothing
more than the man’s vivid imagination ... no one would doubt that
she had posed nude for him.

He nodded, so engrossed in his admiration of
his handiwork it was obvious he had not heard one word out of
three. “Nude, yes! Is it not perfection? Is it not exquisite? At
first I was doubtful, but I do not regret that I allowed myself to
be persuaded ... I believe you are one of my best subjects. In
truth, your unusual coloring intrigued me from the beginning. I may
like to paint you again someday.” He thought about it a moment.
“Though in a different setting, of course.”

Winter nearly strangled on her
incredulity. Was the man mad? She would
never
do something like this again if she managed
to recover. Why would he think she would
ever
sit for him again?

Scandal. The foul word clung to her thoughts
like a stench. It was the only thing her mind could wholly grasp.
She deeply regretted going against her mother’s wishes now, for
deceiving her mother into believing these past weeks that she’d
been going to the park with her friend, Sarah. In truth, she had no
friend named Sarah.

When she thought back on the lengths she had
gone to, only to find ruination!

Her mother must never find out. She’d
had far too much heartache in her lifetime to weather her
daughter’s deceit and ruination. It wouldn’t matter that she was an
innocent still. Never mind that Vincent Giovanni was at least
thirty years her senior, no one would believe they
hadn’t
been lovers after viewing his
painting of her. It reeked of intimacy.

Her stomach heaved. She clamped a hand to her
lips, placing her other hand protectively over her stomach,
soothing the ulcer she could already imagine forming.

Her thoughts were chaotic in her desperation
to find a way out of the mess she’d gotten herself in to. Abruptly,
a solution presented itself, uplifting her spirits. All was not
lost! It wasn’t too late. She could destroy the portrait before
anyone else saw it. Once she pried it away from him, she would burn
it in private with none the wiser.

“Thank you, Mr. Giovanni. It is beautiful.
Now, for payment—”

“It has already been taken care of, Miss
Stevens.” He faced her, smiling.

Hope soared, but she tamped it down to
reality. He’d worked long on this project. She couldn’t allow him
to simply give it to her, even if it was what she wanted. “No, I
cannot allow you to give me such a gift.”

Years of pride dictated she not accept
charity, nor could she allow him to go unpaid even if she’d been
inclined to accept charity. It was unfortunate she had not had the
foresight to stow away more of her meager allowance. If she hadn’t
had to pay for conveyance to his studio.... That was over and done
now and could not be helped. She had saved what she could. It would
have to be enough.

He chuckled then and covered the painting
once more.

She was grateful. It was unnerving to see
herself so depicted. His amusement, however, confused her.
Questions burned her tongue for want of asking, but, from his
attitude, she felt he was building to some revelation. She could
feel trouble brewing like a storm about to erupt.

Finally, he settled himself down behind his
desk, devoting his full attention to her.

“The Ice Princess was a commissioned piece of
work. You were requested specifically as the model. I had no choice
but to seek you out and invite you to sit for me. It was fortunate
for us both that you agreed without requiring too much
persuasion.”

Dear god! Winter shook her head, trying
to make sense of his speech. Someone had
paid
the man to destroy her? Someone had
specifically requested her, had plotted to ruin her by
commissioning a nude of her? She’d never suspected something so
vile ... not even in her nightmares.

An ache began pounding behind her eyes. She
was ruined. She had ruined her family—her mother’s good name. It
was all they’d had left and now they would not even have that much
because of her willful disregard for her mother’s warnings. How
could she have been such a vain fool?

With a strength of will she didn’t know
she possessed, she managed to calm the chaos of her mind and form
the question burning her senses away. “Who commissioned this ...
this...?”
Atrocity
. If someone
had deliberately set out to ruin them, she had to know who it
was.

And why. She could think of no reason for
hatching such a plot. What could they possibly hope to gain by
defiling her family name and destroying her reputation?

Blackmail?

She shook the thought off. That was absurd.
It was common knowledge that they had no money to pay.

“I am afraid I can’t divulge that
information.” He steepled his hands, his face gone serious as he
studied her, eyes strangely saddened.

Winter felt that he wanted to tell her
the truth, but something, or
someone
, prevented it. What person could have
such a hold? Only one with power and riches—enough to crush anyone
in their path. Enough to crush her. She prayed that she was wrong
in her fears.

“Mr. Giovanni....” She paused, working up the
courage to beg. “Whoever it is, you must not allow him to take it,
Mr. Giovanni. I’ll be ruined, my family shamed,” she pleaded,
knowing it was useless.

Mr. Giovanni could not have failed to realize
what the portrait meant ... ultimate disgrace. For whatever reason,
he was under the conspirator’s power and could not help her now
even if he had wanted to. His next words confirmed her worst
fears.

“I have no choice. But, you need not worry.
He assured me it was for a private collection. He gave me his word
of honor, or I would not have agreed under any circumstances.
Unfortunately in this day and time, I must accept work when it is
offered me.”

“His word?” Winter echoed faintly, wondering
a little wildly if Mr. Giovanni was feeble minded.

What good was the word of honor of a
blackmailer? A defiler of a young woman’s reputation? The urge to
laugh was almost insurmountable, and she knew hysteria
threatened.

She was not such a beauty as to make
someone desire a portrait of her, in innocence. This person
meant
to plot her ruin. And had paid
handsomely for it. Winter and her mother had only a modest income.
She knew without being told Giovanni had been well compensated, and
she couldn’t blame him for succumbing to the needs of his purse.
Would that she could earn some sort of income for her own
family.... She would have never been placed in this predicament,
never been so powerless.

Still, she could not simply allow
this
collector
to have the
painting. She would find out the man’s name, somehow, and appeal to
his sense of honor and propriety ... if it was even
possible—beg—threaten—whatever it took.

Winter shook herself. She could not let doubt
creep into her now. She had to believe she would succeed. Tomorrow,
she would return with a clear head and try to wheedle the
information she needed from Giovanni.

With that thought bolstering her,
Winter rose from her seat and shook his hand. “Thank you, Mr.
Giovanni. It has been an ... enlightening experience.” If she never
saw him again, it would be too soon.
Vile
deceiver
.

It made her ill even to think what lengths
she would have to go to to pry the information from the man.

She collected her cloak from the rack as a
servant was summoned to see her out. Silently, he escorted her
through the halls to the front entrance, though she needed no
assistance, familiar as she’d become with Giovanni’s studio. She
moved woodenly, her thoughts chaotic with plans as she exited the
house and followed the walkway to the street.

Frigid wind howled and gusted, tearing her
hair loose from her chignon to blow in the wind, tangling over her
face as she walked. She clutched her worn cloak tight to her chest,
watching the ground as she moved, avoiding the sheen of ice that
treacherously coated the worn brickwork. She blew away the thick
tendrils of hair obscuring her vision, but it wasn’t until she had
run into him that she noticed the man headed for Giovanni’s
studio.

He caught her as she stumbled into him, his
strong hands gripping her wool encased arms, steadying her, his
long, tapered fingers trapping locks of her pale hair that twined
about his digits as if with a life of their own. Something about
him struck her as familiar, his pleasant scent teasing her nostrils
with their intimate proximity as she leaned into the broad shield
of his body and recovered her balance on the slick cobblestone.