Chapter One

 

Was it the car or the way she drove it? Either way, it was a statement, an assertion of what she was. He didn't really care about cars but he knew it was something European; bright green, the color of the leaves in early spring, low slung, with an open top; she said she liked the feel of the wind in her hair. He sat beside her in the passenger seat, seeing how her short white skirt rode up over her finely contoured knees, watching her strong knuckles gripping the stick shift. She drove with rapt concentration, her body at one with the machine. Conversation was impossible above the engine's throaty roar.

She parked on the gravel outside his house, the car skidding a little before it came to a halt. She opened the door and got out, showing him even more of her bronzed thighs. Her heels clicked on the stone steps as she walked up to the door. He followed, watching the firm round buttocks tighten and relax as she strode forward.

She went ahead to his studio, opening the door and sauntering in, looking about her the way she did, her head tilted back.

"Can I see it?"

"I'm not sure," he said. "You know how I feel about work in progress."

"Please?" He was still surprised how she could do this, turn from a young woman confident in her authority, her money, her aura, to a little girl, coaxing, wheedling; as if she could flick a switch in her mind. She didn't seem to see how disconcerting it was.

"Please, Matt?" She sidled up to him, offering her mouth to be kissed. He brushed her lips lightly, then turned away. She tried again, putting an arm round his neck, her legs parted, leaning in to him, offering herself.

"OK," he said. "But I don't want any comments, good or bad. Do you hear?"

"Yes, Sir," she said in mock submission.

He pulled the cloth off the picture. Across the canvas was a splash of color, browns, purples, blacks, a touch of red. It was unmistakably the body of a naked woman, but the face was still indeterminate. She looked at it for several minutes, from this side and that. He stood with his back to her, gazing out of the window towards the trees.

"Who is she?" she asked.

"No one you know. Just a model."

"Is she beautiful?"

"She's a good subject," he said in a tone of voice intended to discourage further questions.

"Have you had sex with her?"

He turned, prepared to be angry. She was giving him her little girl smile. He knew it was just a wind-up. He mustn't fall for it.

"Do I ask you such questions?"

"No," she said, "but you might."

Did she mean, he could ask her if she wished, or that it was possible he would ask her in the future?

"I choose not to," he replied. "You're a free woman, remember?"

It was what she'd said to him when they first met. Introduced at a gallery opening, they'd talked for an hour, then she'd asked him to drive her home. At her invitation he went up to her apartment for a night-cap. He thought she was making it pretty clear she was willing to go to bed, and so first he'd asked her, in his old-fashioned way, if she was seeing anyone.

"Maybe," she said, "but I'm a free woman."

She'd surprised him in bed with her uncomplicated eagerness, her frank enjoyment of pleasure, and her willingness to give it. When she sucked his cock, it was as if she really wanted to, was feeding on it, drawing pleasure out of him. Later, when he was big again and had entered her, she called out in the dark for him to do it hard, do it harder.

Two days later they went out to dinner. Ever the gentleman, he suggested she choose the restaurant. It was expensive; not that it wasn't value for money, but he would never have gone there on his own initiative. It was then he started to realize how wealthy she was. She told him about her business, how she'd seen an opening in the market, a financial service no one else was providing. He didn't really understand it; didn't want to. Money meant little to him. He got by, never better than that. He didn't mind. But he saw how the money gave her confidence. He saw how she spoke to the waiter; not rude, even quite friendly, but always in control.

He wasn't used to women like that. Mostly his girlfriends had been models, other painters, and the occasional student. All indigent, more or less, and mostly, if not exactly in awe of his talent, deferential. They expected him to take a lead: socially, emotionally, and sexually. And he dealt with that the way he'd been taught to. He remembered his father's treatment of his mother. The little gestures, always opening the door, enquiring after her well-being, never a cross word. And his mother telling him once, I live for your father; my only goal is to please him.

She was still looking at the picture. "Would you ever paint me?"

He pretended to size her up with a professional eye. "Well, I don't know. I have very exacting standards for my models. Physical standards."

"Oh really? You think I might not measure up?"

It excited him the way she played these games, leading him on, teasing; even if he wasn't always sure how to respond.

"I think there may be one or two imperfections."

"Oh," she said. She started to undo her blouse. "Perhaps you could show me what they are?"

He watched as she took her blouse off. She stood for a moment, then reached behind and unhooked her bra. She laid it on a chair with the blouse.

"Does this measure up?" She turned so that he could see her breasts in profile, then turned back to face him. Her breasts were not large, but they had a lovely shape. The nipples were small and round and he could see them hardening.