His Seductive Revenge

She shook her head.

“Yes.” He lifted a hand to her face, stroked the flesh along her cheekbone with his thumb. “You weren’t born in the wrong century, either. I will paint you not only as you want the future Chandler generations to see you, but as I see you. Then you’ll know how beautiful you are.”

Oh, he tempted her with his words. He wanted to paint some exotic, erotic woman that wasn’t the least like her, maybe even a second, more-personal portrait in the De La Hoya style. And the allure of giving in to the flattery was strong, even as she knew it wasn’t something she would ever feel comfortable doing. What if the painting ended up in some gallery where someone she knew saw it? What if someone told her father? She’d disappointed him enough lately.

And the biggest “what if” of all—what if when Gabe saw her unclothed, he was repulsed. His imagination had undoubtedly painted a better picture than reality.

“I think we should focus on the portrait that will please my father,” she said, aware of changes in her body. Her nipples had drawn taut the moment he’d touched her face and now pulsed with a gentle ache.

She wondered whether he kissed hard or soft, whether he enticed or attacked, whether he would know how inexperienced she was. Jason’s kiss had been one hard, closed mouth pressed to another. She’d bet her trust fund that Gabriel Marquez never kissed with a closed mouth, nor hurried out the door the next second.

Cold seeped into her when he moved back, then she warmed as his gaze dropped to her breasts and he took note of her reaction to him. Confused, she stood and walked to the front window. “I’m not too sure that this is a good idea.”

“On the contrary, Cristina. This is the best idea I’ve ever had. I hope I can convince you of the same thing.”

“Let’s change the subject.”

A few seconds of silence filled the room. From outside she heard a bird trill, a car drive past, a child shriek with laughter. Uncomfortable with the quiet inside, she started to turn.

“Don’t move.”

The sound of pencil on paper held her suspended. She could see him in her peripheral vision, could feel the intensity of his focus.

“Put your right hand on the window, level with your shoulder. Spread your fingers open,” he instructed her. “Tip your head back a little. Look as far into the horizon as you can. Shoulders back. Good.”

He worked in silence for several minutes. “Put your left hand to your chest, over your heart. A bit lower. No—”

Gabe moved closer, then placed her hand where he wanted, spreading her fingers apart like her other hand, not letting his fingers brush her breasts.

A wistful pose, Gabe thought. “Angle toward me a little.” He flipped a page. “Now, turn only your head and look directly at me.” The pencil glided. “Who are you right now?”

A long pause, then, “Someone from a previous life.”

“Tell me.”

“A...a New England sea captain’s wife, I think, watching for my husband’s ship to return after a long journey.”

“A woman who waits.”

“A woman who worries. And pines.”

“Do you love your husband?” he asked.

“Oh, yes”

“How long have you been married?”

A faraway look settled in her eyes.

“Ten years. He’s home only half the year. I worry about him.”

“Do you have children?”

“No. It’s my one sorrow.”

“How do you feel when you see his ship come into port?”

She smiled. “Thrilled. Grateful. Relieved.”

“Do you wait at home for him or go to the ship?”

“He’s too busy to see me for a while. I take a bath, dress in something feminine, make sure there’s something to eat. For afterward,” she added. “He’s hungry for me first.”

“When he comes through your front door, what happens?” He flipped another page. The clean sheet would capture a new impression.

“I fly into his arms. He whirls me around and around. I press my nose against his neck and he smells wonderful. Like him. Like no one else in the world. Then he kisses me, and the long, lonely months melt away. He carries me upstairs.”

Gabe watched the changes in her expressions. She had become the fictitious captain’s wife. Her imagination had taken her away and planted her firmly in the scene. Her muscles were tense, her body taut Her nipples pressed at the fabric covering them.

He tamped down his own reaction, one that shocked the hell out of him. He’d thought himself immune to innocence, to purity, to sweetness. He much preferred an equal partner, one who led, who took, who demanded. He didn’t think that defined Cristina.

Seeing her start to relax, he began sketching and questioning again. “Are you faithful while he’s gone?”

“Absolutely.”

“He’s a good lover.” A statement, not a question.

“Beyond good,” Cristina said, a smile forming.

“Why? What makes him special?”

“It’s not what he does. It’s why he does it.”

“Why?”

“He loves me.”

Dead silence. His pencil skidded, seemed to dig a hole in the paper. Cristina watched his focus shift as he absorbed her words. She was enjoying his game, which tempted her, dared her, excited her—more than any man had done with actions. Part of his allure was the danger, she knew.

“What he does is also important,” he said.

She moved a shoulder. “Maybe. More important is how I feel afterward.”

He continued to sketch, his thoughts well hidden.

“You want to comment,” she said. “What’s stopping you?”

He hesitated. “You might change your mind about posing.”