Girl in Bath Read online

  Their faces were pictures of serenity, but their eyes were flinty. She was taunting him and it was working. All he could picture was getting her alone and giving her a sound thrashing. His trousers were strained with the image of it playing in his head.

  “That’s awfully kind,” Jonathan managed. “But I wouldn’t go so far as to say that.”

  “Oh, Jon, here you are,” Daphne said, slipping an arm into his and taking a glass. “Have you been offering my champagne to every pretty girl in the Salon?” She chuckled amiably and he knew it wasn’t feigned.

  Daphne had been widowed at twenty-six. Her husband was nearly thirty years her senior and, the rumors held it, had been quite controlling and cruel. She would have danced on his grave had it been the proper thing to do. Because Daphne Kohl was the picture of propriety—in public.

  Jonathan had met her by chance nearly a year earlier on one of his visits to No. 9 Rue de Navarin. Chez Christiane was known for its special appetites. Daphne, in her white-blonde hair and guileless baby blue eyes had seemed quite out of place in the den. And, upon closer inspection, she was glass-eyed from intoxication. He thought, rightly it turned out, someone had taken advantage of her and he spirited her from the club like a white knight.

  Yet Daphne Kohl was an unusual woman. The very picture of an angel—it did occur to him just how much she physically resembled his ex-wife—yet in bed her appetites were anything but innocent. They shared this mutual interest and deep affection, but it was little more than that. For now, it served them well.

  “Is this your piece, monsieur?” Daphne asked.

  “Oui, madame,” Daan replied.

  “The bathers are abstract and yet it seems to give some weight to the piece. And the dimensions under the canopy of trees seem to be just right.” She looked at Jonathan. “Wouldn’t you say, darling?”

  “I would.”

  “You’ve captured it, madame,” Daan said.

  Daphne smiled prettily. She hadn’t been educated in art as well as some. Certainly not Joselin, who claimed it like an unusual pet. But she was unafraid of her ignorance and eager to learn. A happy combination.

  “I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure of being introduced,” Monica said, extending her hand to Daphne.

  “No, we haven’t,” Daphne said.

  “I’m so sorry,” Jonathan said. He wasn’t sorry. The last thing he wanted was for his current and future to be acquainted. “Mademoiselle Fauconnier, this is Madame Kohl.”

  As the women exchanged greetings, he was struck by how physically different they were. One tall and dark, even something exotic in her beauty. The other shorter and blonde, somewhat cherubic. Yet both stirred him.

  It was more awkward still when a man approached.

  “Monica.”

  They all turned.

  “Aubrey.”

  Daphne gasped. “Is it—Could it be? Are you Monsieur Talac?” Slack-jawed, she looked at Jonathan then back to Talac.

  “You know my work?”

  The artist smiled and appeared approachable. Yet there was something overweening in his weasel eyes. He was tall, nearly as tall as himself. His tie and shoulder-length chestnut hair seemed deliberately askew as if he couldn’t be bothered with the simple social grace of grooming. Jonathan didn’t like the man.

  “I was hoping you’d be here,” Talac said to Monica. “May we talk? Somewhere private.”

  “Wait a moment,” Daphne said. “You’re Girl in Bath. Of course! This is Monsieur Talac and you his mysterious figure model that all the art world raved about not two years ago. Do you remember, Jon? Is it not her?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “There’s no ‘perhaps’ about it. The resemblance is uncanny.” She slapped him teasingly on an arm, then turned to Talac. “Will you paint her again, monsieur?”

  “I’d like to, madame.” He took Monica’s arm. “It was a pleasure to meet you. If you’ll excuse us.”

  Chapter 6

  “You came for Daan,” Aubrey said after he’d pulled her into a corner.

  “Yes, we came for Daan. It’s a beautiful piece. And we miss him.”

  Aubrey ran a hand through his hair. “What about me? Do you miss me? Do you ever think of me?”

  He looked at her with pleading in his eyes. Once again she marveled at the idea that this man, so gifted, could be so insecure. He had made her his sun, happy to orbit around her if only she would shine on him.

  Eighteen months had passed since she’d last seen him. She’d been heartbroken, as if he was the one leaving her. He didn’t understand. How could she make him see when she was conflicted herself. Yes, she loved him. Yes, he loved her. But how, if he loved her as he claimed, if he was a dreamer and an artist like herself, could he not see that she needed to perform as much as she wanted to love him.

  Then, in his petulant, childish anger at her leaving, he had spread a scurrilous rumor. So vicious and so damning. In its way, it had been a kindness. She had been missing him dearly only to hear that he had been running his mouth and running her down in equal breath.

  She had hated him for so long. Just imagining lashing him with her tongue made her breathless in anticipation.

  But the sharpness of that anger had dulled over time. Now, standing before him, she was reminded of his dark beauty, his warm eyes when fixed on her, his open heart. How he had loved her. And how she had loved him.

  “I don’t miss you,” she said.

  In this moment, when she couldn’t seem to summon her righteous anger, she knew that was a lie. Aubrey Talac had been the great love of her life. So great, in fact, she’d allowed him to swallow her up in it. She came to Paris to sing and fell for a promising young artist.

  The sitting that became Girl in Bath was the only time she had ever modeled. New to Aubrey and love and the wonders of her body and sex, she hadn’t given much thought to baring herself for the painting.

  So drunk from the orgasms, her body had that freshly fucked glow and her long hair was wild. The bath was steaming and ready and she gathered her midnight-brown hair up to secure it.

  “Beautiful, ma cherie amour. Now turn your body slowly and look at me.”

  “What are you doing? Put that away.”

  “Can’t,” he said, scribbling frantically. “I wouldn’t be an artist if I didn’t at least try to capture the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

  She moved to climb into the tub.

  “Stop,” he said. “Whatever you do, don’t turn away. Don’t move a muscle. Your beauty and this light, it’s parfait. You must allow me to capture it. Please.”

  She sighed. “You’re not going to show my face, are you?”

  “Yes,” he said absently. He was in another world, where the light of inspiration meets the beauty of subject and everything else falls away but the rush of that thing so divine, it feels handed to you by God. “Look here.” He pointed to his square jaw. “Look right here.”

  “You’re not going to show that to anyone, are you?”

  “You’re so provincial, Monica. Will your Brazilian mama spray you with holy water?”

  “Yes.”

  He smirked sweetly at her and she relaxed a bit.

  When it was finished, they stood before it.

  “It’s an incredible painting, Aubrey.”

  He nodded. “It’s the subject.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. You have to let me submit it to the jury. It could be my big break.”

  She exhaled sharply. “You can’t be serious. I thought you were painting it for yourself.”

  “Would you deny me my success?”

  “That’s not fair. You have great talent. You can paint another of someone else. Of something else.”

  “It won’t be the same. This is a singular work. I’ve never captured anything like this before. Surely you can see that. There’s something there.” He pointed to her face, her eyes.

  And that was the greatest irony of all. What he had captured was exactly what
she’d told Jonathan Derassen. She was still hungry, then. The painting’s great success threatened to extinguish it.

  They fought over it for weeks, but in the end, he submitted it without her consent. Its reception was all he had hoped for and more. Everywhere they went, his unsteady arm was wrapped around her waist as if the two of them had somehow created it together.

  He had captured something, he said. To art critics and art lovers. He had. Her. And he held on so tight, she couldn’t breathe. She loved him and she had to leave him.

  She couldn’t be anywhere near him or she could so easily fall back. He knew it.

  “Are you seeing anyone?” he asked.

  She glanced at Monsieur Derassen who seemed to be keeping an eye on them out of the corner of his eye.

  “No.”

  As if sensing they were being watched, Aubrey took her arms and pushed them behind one of the towering palms that seemed to sprout among the exhibits.

  “I miss you, Monica. So much. I can’t paint without you.” There was the truth. She gave him a perturbed look. “I-I can’t live without you.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic, Aubrey. You seem to be doing quite well for yourself.”

  “Clothes. A steady following. An income that allows me to paint. But it’s nothing compared to you. I want you back.”

  She shook her head.

  “Why are you being so stubborn? You love me. Still. I can see it.”

  “And do you love me? Or do you just love what we had?”

  “Of course I still love you. Of course. There could never be anyone to compare to you. You know that. You’re my muse, ma cherie amour.”

  “I need to go. Gabby will be looking for me.”

  “Daan misses her. You can’t be happy in that wretched blanchisserie. Come back.”

  “I need to go.” She pulled away.

  “Yes. That’s what you always say. I won’t give up.”

  Monsieur Derassen suddenly appeared. “Is there a problem?”

  “No,” Monica said. “Thank you, but no.”

  If she went back to Daan and Gabrielle, Aubrey would only follow as if he were meant to be there, so she wandered for a while. Finally she stopped before a series of three small nudes. They were tucked away from much of the Salon’s exhibits. And when she saw the scandalous signature—Joselin Caron—she knew why.

  “They’re unusual,” she said to Madame Caron standing before them. “But remarkable, I think.”

  The willowy blonde in a robin’s egg blue dress had an ethereal beauty about her. Yet she appeared sad as she studied them.

  “You think so?” Madame Caron gave her a watery smile.

  “Yes. A woman’s eye can’t help but see the female form differently. They’re really something special. Congratulations.”

  Madame Caron’s brow furrowed as she studied Monica. Then her jaw dropped and she pulled in a breath as if to speak—

  “They are something special, aren’t they?” Monsieur Derassen said as he greeted his ex-wife. The embrace wasn’t perfunctory or polite. He held on a beat too long; his lips on her cheek lingered.

  “So special, they’re tucked away over here where no one can see them,” Madame Caron said.

  “One step at a time, Jos,” he said.

  “Right. And if it weren’t for my ex-husband, they’d be outside on the street somewhere clamoring to get in.”

  Jonathan shook his head. “Joselin got in on the merits of these paintings. Anyone can see it.”

  He looked at her with something more than admiration. Not simply pride. Love. Monica was struck. She’d been so intent on the lovely Madame Kohl, it never occurred to her he was still in love with his ex-wife. Here was the woman who held his heart. If he loved her, perhaps Monica could manage a flirtation with him and it would be nothing more.

  “Here you are,” Aubrey said, stalking towards her and exhaling in exasperation. “I thought I’d lost you.”

  The four of them stood beside each other, their arms wrapped around their partners. As Madame Caron and Aubrey talked about the optical effects of color, the use of saturated shades and broad brushstrokes to evoke an artist’s inner turmoil, Jonathan and Monica pasted polite smiles on their faces. They nodded, adding to the conversation here and there. But they were not a party to it. Their gazes, tense and searching as they flit to each other, were having another conversation entirely.

  Chapter 7

  Four days later, Monica stood before No. 7 Rue de la Paix with a note in hand:

  Monica,

  My carriage will arrive for you at 12n on Saturday.

  JD

  The House of Worth. She couldn’t afford even a speck of dust on the floor of the place, let alone a haute couture gown. What was she doing here?

  After seeing Aubrey at the Salon, she was certain it would signal an end to Jonathan Derassen’s interest. But when she walked in the door, he was waiting.

  “What am I doing here?” she asked after exchanging courtesies.

  “You need an evening dress and we need to get your measurements.” He directed her to a room filled with cast figures wearing the most elegant dresses she had ever seen.

  “They’re beautiful, but I can’t afford these dresses.”

  “I can afford them.”

  “Have you suffered a head wound?”

  He chuckled. “No. My mind is perfectly sound.”

  “Need I remind you, we haven’t come to any arrangement.”

  “I know and I’ve been giving it a lot of thought.” He folded his arms across his chest and leaned against a divan. “You have this idea of how wonderful your life will be when you get on that stage. But you haven’t any idea how wonderful it might be with me. I intend to show you.”

  She narrowed her brow over an amused smirk.

  “This is merely a costume, so that you may play your part.”

  She sighed. “What part is that, I’m almost afraid to ask?”

  “My mistress, of course.”

  She shook her head.

  “One night. Give me one night and I’ll give you your audition.”

  “I’ve told you I won’t have sex to sing.”

  “This isn’t that. It seems like it, looks like it, feels like it…”

  “But it isn’t.”

  “It isn’t. You paired the two together. I didn’t.”

  He was right. He hadn’t.

  “And before you say her name, Daphne’s a good sport. She sees other people. I see other people. We see people.”

  “Your ex-wife? Do you see her, as well?”

  “Jos has no interest in seeing me.”

  “But you have an abiding interest in her, I think.”

  He smiled flatly as he stared at her. Finally, he said, “I’m not looking for love, Monica.”

  “Neither am I.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  One week later, when Monica came down the stairs in a sapphire silk gown with detailed deep blue and black embroidery, Jonathan’s eyes widened. His gaze traveled from her high bun—grudgingly done by Gabby with tiny braids and sapphire ribbons—to her low pumps.

  “Will this costume suffice?” she asked.

  “You’re exquisite.” He took her hands and kissed her politely for Madame Pelletier’s and Gabby’s watchful benefit.

  “And you’ve dusted that unfortunate suit off from the back of your wardrobe, I see. No doubt intending to be handsome.”

  He wore a black evening cape over an elegant matching suit. His bearing was straight, one arm was tucked behind his back while the other held his top hat. His auburn beard was neatly trimmed and his hair looked as if he’d styled it, then run a light hand through it. His eyes were cool, but his smile was self-aware and pleased.

  “Shall we?”

  “What time will you bring her back?” Gabby asked.

  Monica frowned at her while Jonathan appeared to think.

  “It could be very late,” he said. “I wouldn’t wait up. But I promise to r
eturn her safe and sound.”

  “I’ll have your word on that,” Gabby said.

  No sooner had they gained the carriage when he kissed her, his fingers pulling down her chin to open her mouth. Her breasts tightened and her sex seemed to pulse and pant. She’d been attracted to Aubrey, but for Jonathan she seemed to ache.

  “Monsieur, please,” she said when he broke the kiss.

  He looked at her, his face filled with wonder, as if he’d been outside himself and had suddenly come back to his own. Then he pulled the tie on her cape and peeled it open. He took his time looking at her bodice, the intricate beadwork on the tight curves was its own work of art. Then he pressed a wet kiss at the hollow where her collarbones met.

  “Tonight you’ll call me Jonathan,” he said as he re-tied her cape. “I insist. I think you’d like to do that, but your misplaced pride is holding you back.” Once again he bent over her mouth and kissed her, this time soft yet somehow more sensuous with how he teased and pulled back.

  “Really,” she said. “Tell me more about me.”

  “I intend to,” he replied with such promise she was equal parts excited and worried.

  When the carriage pulled up to the creamy Beaux-Arts exterior of the Paris Opera House, Monica felt the sudden press of terror. With her dreams and ambition and the dogged sense that she could achieve whatever she imagined, she’d never really thought herself inferior to any crowd, for ignorance nor class were nothing to be ashamed of when they were dynamic things. Yet, for some reason, she felt conspicuously out of place. For the first time—a pretender.

  As they climbed the stairs to the entrance, she squared her shoulders and straightened her posture, still her fingers flit nervously.

  “Stop fidgeting,” he said.

  “I’m not.”

  “You are.” At the top of the stairs, he paused to look at her and she immediately stilled. “Relax,” he breathed warmly into her ear. “You’re the most beautiful woman here. And if you know it, they will, too.”

  When they walked into the stories-high grand foyer, she was stunned by the magnificent marble stairs that wound up into balconies, the carvings and gold leaf, and all the grand chandeliers. The dark sculptures holding tiered trays of lights like glowing desserts.