Her eyes skittered over him, taking in everything and anything—the sculpted face, the slant of his eyebrows, the thin blade of his nose, the finely shaped mouth, the edged line of his jaw, the sable hair that was perfectly framed around his head. She drank him in, unable to do anything else but succumb to the impact.
Dimly she was aware that he had half-risen at her appearance, but had sat back again as she had already sat down, and was now sitting with a kind of lean grace that—again—she could viscerally register without conscious assessment, one long leg crossed over the other and arms resting on the curving contour of the tub chair, relaxed and completely at ease with himself.
That’s the pose, she felt herself think, feeling the familiar leap of conviction when the physical world arranged itself to perfection, ready for her to capture it t
o canvas.
Her eyes narrowed slightly, her brain still processing what her eyes were conveying to her. There was a rushing feeling going through her, a breathlessness. She was used to getting the buzz of pre-creation, but this was different. Far more intense…
Different.
She knew it was different—so different. She also knew she had never reacted in this way before in her life, but she pushed the knowledge to one side. She would deal with it later. Wonder about it later. Analyse it later. Right now… Right now all she wanted to do, all she could do, was simply let her eyes work over that extraordinary face, the incredible arrangement of features that just made her want to gaze and gaze and gaze at them.
Then, as if from far away, consciousness forced its way through. Awareness of what she was doing. Staring wordlessly at the man sitting opposite her. Who was letting her gaze at him.
And even as the consciousness came through she felt, as if in slow motion, a wave of reaction. More than consciousness—self-consciousness. Her jaw tightened, and she stiffened, deliberately blinking to cut off her riveted perusal of him, regain some normality again. But it was hard. All she wanted to do, she knew, was to go right back to gazing at him, working her way over and over his features.
What colour are his eyes?
The question seared across her brain, and she realised she couldn’t answer. It sent a thread of panic through her that she didn’t know his eye colour yet. Her gaze pulled to get back to his face, to resume its study. She yanked it back. No! This was ridiculous, absurd. Embarrassing. She wasn’t going to gaze at him gormlessly like a teenager! Or scrutinise him as if he were already sitting for her.
She straightened her spine, as if putting backbone into herself. Forced a polite smile to her mouth that was the right mix of social and business.
‘I understand you are considering having your portrait painted?’ she said. Her voice sounded, to her relief, crisp and businesslike.
For just a moment Guy de Rochemont did not answer her—almost as if he had not heard her speak. He continued to hold his pose, quite motionless, as if he were still under her scrutiny. He didn’t seem to think it odd, she registered dimly, and then wondered just how long—or how—briefly—she’d been gazing at him. Perhaps it hadn’t taken more than few seconds—she didn’t know, couldn’t tell.
Then, with the slightest indentation of his mouth, matching the socially polite smile Alexa had just given, he spoke.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ve been persuaded to that ultimate vanity. The portrait will be a gift to my mother. She seems to consider it something she would like.’ His voice was dry, and had a trace not just of an accent somewhere in his near perfect pronounciation, but of wry humour too. It also possessed a quality that, to Alexa’s dismay, did very strange things to her. Things she busily pushed to one side. She gave a nod, and another polite smile.
‘One thing, Mr de Rochemont, that I always warn clients about—should you wish to commission me, of course—is the amount of time that must be set aside for portraiture,’ she began. ‘Whilst I appreciate that calls on your time will be extensive, nevertheless—’
He held up a hand. It was, she saw, long, narrow, and with manicured nails that gave the lie to a manicure being an effeminate practice.
‘What would you like to drink, Ms Harcourt?’
Alexa stopped in mid-sentence, as if the question had taken her aback. ‘Oh, nothing, thank you,’ she said. ‘I really don’t have time for a drink, I’m afraid.’
Guy de Rochemont raised an eyebrow. Alexa felt her eyes go straight there. Felt the same rush of intensity that she had felt when she had first seen him. The simple movement on his part had changed the angles on his face, changed his expression, given him a look that was both questioning and amused.
‘Dommage,’ she heard him murmur. His eyes rested on her a moment.
They’re green, she found herself thinking. Green like deep water in a forest. Deep pools to drown in…
She was doing it again. Letting herself be sucked into just gazing and gazing at him. She pulled back out again—out of the drowning emerald pool—with another straightening of her spine.
‘Completion of the portrait will depend entirely on the number of sittings and the intervals between them. I understand it may well be irksome for you, but—’
Yet again, Guy de Rochement effortlessly interrupted her determined reversion to the practicalities of immortalising him for his mother on canvas.
‘So, tell me, Ms Harcourt, why should I select you for this task, in your opinion?’
The quizzical, questioning look was in his eye again. And something more. Something that Alexa found she didn’t like. Up till now he had been the subject, she the observer—the riveted observer, unable to tear her eyes away from him. Now, suddenly, the tables were turned.
It was as if a veil had lifted from his eyes.
Emerald jewels…