Copyright © 2007 Katrina Strauss
All rights reserved, Freya's Bower.
By reading this excerpt, you are stating that you are at least 18 years of age. If you are younger than 18 years old, you must exit this site at once.
One thick brow lifted, and the émigré's lips curved at the corner. "La Doña, she tells her girls not to talk to the painters, no?"
Hannah smiled down at her hands, folded demurely in her lap. She shook her head.
Smooth, supple fingers brushed her jaw line. Pavel tilted her chin back up, angling her face from one side to the other, scrutinizing her with the cool, detached manner of the artist with which she had grown accustomed; yet unlike previous painters, his touch warmed her, leaving an odd flutter in the pit of her belly.
"I have a new client. He wishes for paintings that are, how would one say it...suggestive?"
Hannah jerked her head straight, her pale cheeks instantly scalding. La Doña had assured her that she could say no if she did not wish to participate in any project that went against her morals. In fact, she was to report any request or action that left her uncomfortable.
On the other hand, she had traded cards behind La Doña's back. And some girls had whispered that more provocative sessions proved a good way to earn extra money, which a model might then stash in her pocket unbeknownst to their mistress.
Hannah flushed harder and forced herself to speak. "You will pay extra?"
Pavel chuckled heartily. "Ah, there. You are ten times more striking with color to your face."
Though his laugh sounded casual, he averted his gaze, his dark features gone ruddy. "Of course, I will pay extra. But please, do not worry. I will not ask you to fully undress."
Hannah detected his mutual embarrassment. A few painters had left her vaguely unsettled during the most pristine of sittings, yet she sensed no lechery on Pavel's part, only professionalism. She exhaled slowly and willed herself to relax.
Pavel returned to his stool. He took a tin tube of paint from the easel tray and squirted a dollop of red on the palette. Brush in hand, he began dabbing and mixing the fresh paint with a spot of blue. The color orchid, the same shade as her dress, gradually emerged.
"Perhaps you might wish to sit more, er...comfortably? Turn around in the chair, like a man sits." He waved his hand, gesturing with his rainbow-splotched palette. "Go on," he assured her, "I will not watch. I will be a gentleman and mix my paints."
Hesitant, yet somehow excited, Hannah rose and turned. Awkwardly, she straddled the seat, then lowered back down with caution so as not to tear her skirt. Her hem eased up, exposing her stockings where she had rolled them right above the knees. Her cheeks blazing hotter, she clutched the arc of the backrest.
"Good, good," said Pavel, glancing at her absently as though it were nothing.
And indeed, it is nothing, she told herself. He was an artist, she was his model, this was the twentieth century, and she was mature enough to show a hint of flesh.