The Proviso (58 page)

The walls were painted a rich purple and dotted with
gold-leaf fleur-de-lis. The crown and base moulding were also gold
leaf. The carpet, a dark, rich green also dotted with gold
fleur-de-lis, oddly, didn’t clash with the purple walls.

Feathered masks of all descriptions decorated the
walls and ropes of green, purple, and gold beads draped and looped
haphazardly. No other art. A bookcase on one wall was bursting with
books whose titles she couldn’t read. A sleek machine she assumed
to be a sound system hid in the shadows, hung at eye level.

“You’ll be spending the night here with Ford,” the
Virgin murmured and Eilis swallowed. “Possibly more. Are you ready
to see the salon?”

“Yes, please,” Eilis whispered.

A set of dark cherry French doors, whose sandblasted
glass panes allowed some light, separated the bedroom from the
salon. When the Virgin opened the doors toward them, Eilis gasped
anew.

The opulence of 1920s art deco came to life in deep
reds and golds. Deco sconces glowed warm, yet only bright enough to
read by. The carpet was a plush, deep, rich gold with acanthus
leaves sculpted into its surface. A large round table of burled
wood punctuated by ebony inlays sat in the center with four parsons
chairs upholstered in the same rich red as the walls.

A very large mirror hung over a dark, carved cherry
sideboard, which boasted a silver tray with a silver-labeled dark
blue bottle flanked by two oddly shaped glasses, two wide slotted
spoons, an empty water carafe, and a bowl of sugar cubes.

A fully-stocked liquor cabinet of the same cherry
dominated an anteroom that could be seen through a narrow arched
doorway. Following that, she found a gorgeous kitchenette with
refrigerated drawers, wine cooler, ice maker. Beautiful glasses
hung over one counter.

The Virgin led Eilis out of the kitchenette to the
far side of the salon and opened another set of French doors.

Yet more surprises.

It was a bathroom, stark white and brushed nickel,
the floor tiled in 1920s hexagons. Subway tiles rose from the floor
halfway up the walls. In one corner sat a luxurious claw-foot tub
and an enormous shower at the opposite corner almost disappeared
because it was glass. There were two sinks, over which were two
mirrors. Fresh towels and a plush bathrobe, all in white, hung next
to the sinks.

All the expensive scents, body powders, lotions,
soaps, shampoos, conditioners that a woman could want nestled in
white baskets placed randomly about the room. The pretty bottles
and labels gave the room its only splash of color, but delighted
the senses because of its scarcity otherwise.

The only other color in the room was cradled in a
wall vase of brushed nickel between the mirrors, which held a
peculiar plant of dull purple bells, black berries, and golden
stamens. It took Eilis a minute to place it and then she bit her
lip.

Atropa belladonna
. Deadly nightshade: Poison.
Deception. Danger.

She swallowed and felt the Virgin’s gaze on her.

“I’m going to leave now. I’ll be back when Ford
calls me to come get you and take you home. Eilis,” she said,
grasping Eilis’s hands and looking up at her, her peculiar blue
eyes piercing, “do you understand what’s going to happen here
tonight?”

“I—I think so,” she whispered, not at all sure
now.

You’ll be spending the night here with Ford.

Belladonna.

Besides her uneasiness, she had a vague sense of
guilt she didn’t understand.

“Is he— Is he dangerous?” Eilis whispered.

The Virgin looked suddenly horrified. “Oh,
no
,” she breathed. “Never think that. It’s just— I don’t— I
don’t think this is a good idea. For either of you. I don’t know
you, but . . . ” She raised a hand then dropped it, as if helpless
and without words.

“Okay,” she said with a deep sigh after another few
seconds. “Get undressed and go out to the chaise out there. Here’s
a sheet.” She went to the door, and turned, looking at her with
that oddly concerned look. “Eilis,” she said slowly, “don’t assume
anything
. Ford is not what you think. Good luck.”

Eilis drew in a deep breath as the Virgin closed the
door behind her quietly. She heard footsteps on a staircase above
her, leaving her alone somewhere—she didn’t know where—with
instructions to strip down and lie on a couch in a harsh
studio.

Eilis, do you really want to do this?

No. She was frightened, she felt guilty and she
didn’t know why, and she wanted to go home.

But she lifted her chin. She’d wanted this, searched
for it, spent time and money and energy seeking it. If she asked to
leave now, she’d always regret it, always wonder what if— She took
off her jeans and tee shirt, elegant lingerie, and went into the
restroom to freshen up because yes, she would be making love with
Ford tonight.

A man she hadn’t met and knew nothing about.

In a place she didn’t know.

Without allies, without help, without
transportation.

Where am I? How far from home am I?

She screwed up her courage and left the salon, the
sheet wrapped around her body and trailing behind her.

The studio was dim and cold. She sat on the edge of
the chaise and suddenly, bright, bright lights above her blinded
her. They heated up nearly immediately, so she knew the air
wouldn’t stay cold.

She looked out into the darkness and saw the vague
outline of an easel, then a shadow moving beyond it. She gasped and
a low chuckle came from that direction.

“Good morning, Eilis.” It was a hoarse, grainy
whisper, as if he’d smoked too many cigarettes in his lifetime.

“Good morning,” she whispered.

“Well,” he said at that volume in that rough voice,
“I’m glad to finally meet you.” He spoke slowly, but clearly and
precisely, as if it hurt to speak, but he would say what he needed
to regardless of the pain. He snapped on a small light that lit
only his canvas “Let’s get started. See that round pillow? I want
you to lie back on the couch and tuck it under the middle of your
back.”

She did as instructed. “No, the other way. Your head
needs to be at the foot of the chaise.” She clutched the sheet to
herself and laid down, her heart thundering and her stomach
roiling. The bright lights blinded her, and she put her arm over
her eyes.

“Very good. Now lift your left leg and drape it over
the back of the couch.”

That was no stretch for Eilis’s long legs, but the
couch’s finely carved back dug into her calf.

“Right foot on the floor.”

She caught her breath. He was spreading her out,
arching her back, the way she would look while making love.

“Drop your right arm off the edge.”

She did that.

“Take off the sheet.”

She began to, but she must have taken too long
because:

“Do you want to be painted or not, Eilis?” he
demanded gruffly, impatience heavily lacing his voice.

“I think so,” she murmured into the half darkness,
uneasy with not being able to see him. She wanted to see his face,
the person on the other end of the conversation.

“Part of being painted nude is being uninhibited.
You wanted this. What did you think was going to happen? I paint
nudes. You have to be nude.”

“Yes, but I thought—”

“What did you think? That I was going to stroke you
and woo you and make sweet, sweet love to you to get you to look
like a Ford painting?”

She blushed, embarrassed. She snatched up the sheet
and covered herself, then swung her leg off the back of the couch
to leave.

“If you leave now, I won’t give you another chance.
I have very little patience for women who act like little
girls.”

Stung, she gaped in his direction.

“You’ve been watching too many tortured-artist
arthouse films. I don’t work that way. I expect my models to be
able to call up their own sexuality.”

Eilis didn’t believe that for a second. She’d seen
those paintings—she’d owned eight of them once upon a time. Every
single one of those women had been well fucked.

Confused and feeling betrayed, not understanding
why, she simply stood there. She didn’t have enough confidence in
her own body to call up her own sexuality in front of anyone, much
less a man she didn’t know; she had come here depending on him to
make her feel beautiful enough so that she could.

Although she hadn’t intended to tell him that.

His bark of laughter shattered her in a way she had
never known. “Is that right?” he purred. “Do you think I’m the
great Maker of Fertility Goddesses or something?”

Well, yes, she had thought that, but she kept her
mouth shut.

“I see,” he murmured when she remained silent and
still. “Well,” he said, louder this time as he got up and
completely disappeared into the darkness.

The overhead lights blinked out and the only
remaining light came from a candle in a sconce on a far wall. She
waited for what seemed a long time, then started when she heard his
raspy whisper in her ear and felt his hand drawing her sheet
away.

“Since you seem to have such a high opinion of my
skills as a lover—an opinion that you whipped up out of nothing,
might I add—maybe I should take the opportunity to test your
opinion.”

In the darkness, she could only smell him, a mixture
of Ivory soap and turpentine, and
feel
what he did to her.
She shivered at his touch. Gentle, so gentle. He paced around her
slowly, his fingertips brushing across her shoulders, running
through her hair, caressing her neck. He laid his palm flat between
her breasts, his broad hand splayed out over her skin, his thumb
flicking her nipple before he bent and caught it between his
teeth.

She closed her eyes with a soft moan, dropped her
head back. The brush of her own hair on her back and the brush of
his hair on her breasts. His lips pulling at her nipples and
sucking, licking. She sighed and wrapped her fingers in his satin
hair,
Ford’s
hair.

Light as a feather, his fingers caressed her skin,
his mouth following his fingers everywhere. Eilis felt her arousal
as it began to flow and she felt him take in a deep breath against
her skin. She gasped when his hand trailed down between her
breasts, down her belly, through her pubic hair until he slipped
his fingers up inside her, then pulled them away.

“Eilis,” he whispered in her ear as he brought his
fingers to her lips, “taste yourself.” She did, shocked at
Ford’s
fingers on her tongue, wet from her— “That,” he
continued, so softly she could barely hear him, wrapping his hand
around the side of her neck, his mouth in her other ear, “is the
nectar of the gods.”

“I want to see you,” she whispered. “Let me look at
you. Tell me who you are.”

“No.”

He drew his fingers along the line of her jaw so
that she smelled herself on him—

—and choked.

Pulled away.

“I don’t want this,” she whispered.

Silence. Still, deadly. “What. Did. You. Say.”

“I don’t want this,” she repeated, her voice
stronger now.

She’d never said no to sex before—even when she
didn’t want it.

And she regretted that.

She’d never trusted that part of herself enough to
say no. She’d thought that she would want sex with Ford, that he
would be different from all the other men. Yet she didn’t want sex
with Ford and her instincts now told her the same thing they always
told her when she put herself in these situations.

The definition of insanity is doing the same thing
over and over again and expecting a different result.

“I can’t do this. This was a mistake. I’m
sorry.”

“You’ve had investigators looking for me for years.
I brought you to me to give you what you want. What’s the
problem?”

“I— Things have changed in my life,” she said in a
rush, not knowing where the words came from, but knowing that they
were true. “I don’t need you to make me feel beautiful
anymore.”

Another long silence. “What changed?” Funny. He
didn’t sound angry, just curious.

“I think— I think I’m in love with someone, but I
don’t know because I don’t know what love feels like. But if this
is what love feels like, then I can’t betray that. He already
doesn’t trust me and he’s very angry with me. I don’t have a chance
with him now.”

“How can you be in love with someone who doesn’t
trust you and who is angry with you? What are you betraying if
there’s nothing to betray?”

“Myself,” she whispered.

“What’s this man’s name?”

“Sebastian,” she whispered, trembling, ashamed to
her core that she spoke Sebastian’s name to a man with whom she
betrayed him. “I didn’t know until you touched me. Please forgive
me.”

“Don’t you want to be painted?”

“Sebastian’s an artist. I know how he sees me, and
he
thinks I’m beautiful.”

“And you just now figured this out.”

“Yes. I’m . . . ashamed,” she said, her voice
breaking as tears gathered in her eyelashes. “Please let me go.
Please.”

A long intake of breath. “All right, Eilis.” And
then he was gone.

The harsh fluorescents came up and the air grew
colder. She looked around her, seeing for the first time how
dreadfully
wrong
she’d been to pursue this when she had had
a real man in front of her, who was beautiful and magical, who
fixed her soul because that was what he went through life doing:
fixing things.

How
had she missed it?

Shame of a different type of betrayal overtook her,
the kind of betrayal she had never experienced before—not the shame
of having trusted, then being betrayed, oh no. It was the shame of
having betrayed.

Eilis wouldn’t have to worry about telling Sebastian
her past, because she had no future with him. With that thought,
she sat on the chaise, the sheet covering her, her knees tight
together, and curled in on herself and began to cry: