Even so, it took time—and a lot of agonising—to bring herself to the point where she knew she would have to inform Guy de Rochemont of her decision. When to do it? And how? Wait until he turned up—eventually—for his next sitting, and then apologise in front of whichever of his staff were there with him that day? Or, worse, ask him for a word in private and then tell him? One cowardly part of her thought to let Imogen do it—after all, Imogen was her agent. But if there was one thing Alexa knew for sure, it was that Imogen would refuse to let her throw in the towel. No, she would just have to bite the bullet and do it herself, face to face. And it wasn’t fair on the man to make him turn up for a sitting he scarcely had time for anyway and then tell him she was resigning the commission.
So she phoned his office instead.
The PA—whose manner had not improved—told her snootily that Mr de Rochemont was out of the country, and an appointment to see him was highly unlikely before the date of the next sitting. So Alexa was surprised when the PA rang back later, to tell her that it would be convenient for Guy to see Alexa in a week’s time, at six in the evening. Alexa wanted to say that the time would not be in the least convenient for her, but forebore. This had to be done, and she wanted it over with.
When she turned up at the London headquarters of Rochemont-Lorenz, she was kept waiting in Reception for a good half an hour—not a surprise—and then finally taken up in a bronze-lined lift to the executive floor, some twenty storeys above Reception. Her feet sank into carpet an inch thick, and thence she went through huge mahogany double doors into the chairman’s suite.
The setting sun was streaming in through plate glass windows.
Guy de Rochemont got to his feet from behind a desk that was the size of a car and about a tennis court’s length from the entrance doors, and came forward.
‘Ms Harcourt…’
His voice was smooth, his suit so immaculate that it clung to his lean, elegant body like a glove.
And yet again Alexa found herself gazing at him. Drinking him in. Feeling that incredible breathless rushing in her veins as she watched him cross the deep carpet, his gait lithe, purposeful, like a soft footed leopard.
Prince of the pride…
Thoughts, reactions, tumbled through her head as he came up to her.
This is his natural environment. Here in this penthouse, overlooking the City. With money and power and wealth and privilege. An ivory tower remote from the world. Where he reigns supreme, alone.
He had come right up to her, his long-fingered hand extended. Automatically she took it, wishing she did not have to, did not have to feel the cool strength in his brief social grip before he let her go.
He looked at her, studying her face a moment with a flicker of his eyes. The familiar thought stuttered through her brain.
Green eyes—as rich as emeralds… And lashes, those ridiculously long lashes, and that veiling I can’t see through…
‘Is there a problem?’
She stared. How had he known? She’d said nothing—nothing at all—of the problems she was having. She scarcely spoke to him during sittings, and thank heavens he had never asked to see her progress—not once she’d started on the oils. Nor had he made any comment at all on the initial pen-and-ink sketches. She’d been glad. She hadn’t wanted his comment—hadn’t wanted anything to do with him, if truth be told. She had been relieved that he wanted no conversation with her, that he was basically using her studio as an extension of his office. His preoccupation with his work meant she could study him, paint him in full concentration. Hiding completely the fact that she was utterly failing to capture his likeness—his essence—in a portrait.
For a moment she was stymied by his directness. Then, with a stiffening of her back, she answered, moving slightly away from him to increase the distance between them. It felt more comfortable that way.
‘I’m afraid so,’ she said. Her voice was stiff, but she couldn’t help it. She was just about to tell a rich and influential client whose portrait was, as Imogen never failed to remind her, the gateway to unprecedented commercial success, that she was incapable of fulfilling the commission.
He raised a slightly, enquiring eyebrow, but said nothing. His eyes still had that veiling over them.
How’s he going to take this? Finding out all that priceless time of his has been wasted, that there’s nothing to show for it, and never will be? He’s going to be livid!
For the first time she felt apprehensive—not because she was going to have to admit artistic failure, but because it was dawning on her that Guy de Rochemont could ruin her career. All he had to do was say that she was unreliable…
She took a deep breath. She owed him the truth, and could not put it off any longer. He was clearly waiting for her explanation. So she gave it.
‘I can’t paint you.’
His expression did not change. He merely paused, for a sliver of time so brief she hardly noticed, then said, his eyes resting
on her, ‘Why is that?’
‘Because I can’t,’ said Alexa. She sounded an idiot, but couldn’t help it. Couldn’t explain. She took a breath, her voice sounding more clipped than politeness required. ‘I can’t paint you. I’ve tried and I’ve tried, and it’s just not working. I’m extremely sorry but I have to resign the commission. I mustn’t waste any more of your time.’
She waited for his reaction. It would not be pleasant—and who could blame him? His time was invaluable, and she’d wasted a great deal of it. She felt her shoulders squaring in preparation.
But his reaction was completely not what she had steeled herself for. He merely walked back to his desk, gestured to the huge leather executive chair slightly to one side of it, and then lowered himself down into his even huger chair behind the desk.
‘Artist’s block,’ he said dismissively. ‘N’inquietez vous.’