Allure - Couverture souple

Power, Jo-Ann

Couverture souple

ISBN 10 : 0671034081 ISBN 13 : 9780671034085

Editeur : Pocket Books, 1999

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Chapter One
The main thing is to be moved, to love, to hope, to tremble, to live!
Auguste Rodin

London, England
April 1881
Her palms lingered over him, smoothing across his chest, caressing the sleek muscles as if absorbing his strength through her skin. Her fingers traced the valley of his breastbone, down the ridges of his ribs to the flare of his hip, the cut of his thigh -- and the fullness of his manhood. And then she defined his virility with a lazy fingertip, sweetly, thoroughly, examining each indentation of the huge fig leaf.
Fighting the urge to hoot in laughter, Blake Hargrove clenched his teeth as he stood by the door watching the young woman stroke the statue.
Still totally fascinated and suddenly frustrated, she yanked her tiny glasses down her nose to peer over the gold rims at the statue's bulging bicep. Her eyes narrowed on the flow of the marble, her finger following the blue vein that ran along the contour of the arm.
Who was she? This woman who savored the headless, legless marble man like his living lover? She was bold to stand here in a public place such as this tiny art gallery and explore the fellow as if he were flesh and blood.
Blake grinned at his errant wish that she were caressing his flesh. Lord knew, she certainly roused his blood. Poor form, old man. Look at her walking suit, her carefully coiled chignon. The gleaming red hair. She's of a class which usually does not permit its women to go out alone, much less to a private gallery. Certainly not its back room either, filled solely by classical nudes.
What's more, this lovely woman admired the naked male body with such abandon that she had not heard Blake enter the back room. Even now, she caught her tongue between her teeth in concentration and pushed her nose flush against the fellow's forearm. She appeared to be ready either to kiss him or lick him, head to toe.
Blake wanted to chuckle -- or groan.
Time to break in on her reflections before he lost his own senses.
"Pardon me, madam," Blake injected, bowing slightly, though he hated to take his eyes off her for fear he'd miss another antic. Intrusion into the privacy of a patron visiting the back rooms of art galleries was a breach of etiquette of the highest water. Blake had spent most of his life among dealers and gallery owners, artists and their patrons, so he knew that one only compounded the crime of interrupting them if one embarrassed them for their appreciation of the finer aspects of a work of art. Yet, it was apparent from her gasp and her wild blush that he had committed both faux pas with this lady. "I did not mean to disturb you."
She dropped her hand from the Adonis as if Blake had shot her. "Oh! Forgive me -- "
"I owe you the apology. I did not intend to frighten you. I had no idea someone was here in the private viewing room and I strolled in...evidently" -- He gave her a rueful smile -- "without a sound."
She faced him fully now, her opalescent eyes wide with her surprise and her attempt to hide her chagrin. She put down one hand to hold back the sway of her skirts, which nonetheless furled out to endanger a terra cotta Cupid and one jade geisha. As a result, her glasses teetered on the tip of her nose, and she grabbed them and jammed them into her left skirt pocket.
Blake felt like a dolt unable to put her at ease. "If Monsieur Bartholome had told me someone was here, I assure you, I would have remained in the main gallery and waited until you -- "
"I was admiring him," she declared forthrightly, though her cheeks still flamed with her maidenly dismay. She began to furiously work something in her right skirt pocket. "He is superb."
But so are you. Blake strolled toward her, feeding a hunger to touch her as intimately as she had the work of art. Instead, he let his eyes caress her. "I rather enjoyed your perusal."
She blushed. A delicious cherry red spread across her high cheekbones. Her round face with winged brows, straight nose and jaw told him she herself could have modeled for any sculptor eager to create a new Helen of Troy. From what he could detect of her lush body beneath the gewgaws of the Wedgwood blue wool and endless petticoats, she had the full breasts and hips a sculptor would demand -- and appreciate when he had finished molding for the day -- and wished to spend the night refining his knowledge of her curves.
"The statue is well worth your attention," Blake changed his risqué tone, hating himself for his bluntness, hoping he might induce her to talk at length. "One of a kind." Like you.
Her pale eyes bore into him in curiosity. The color of lightning, they shocked him. Pinned him in place as if he were one of the butterflies in his brother John's dioramas. John collected the most gorgeous array of creatures, but none matched this one for splendor.
Red hair, the French called Titian. Porcelain skin, the English termed rose. A mouth, so generous that most men would say it should best be busied in the bedroom. But her eyes were what held him. Long-lashed, cat-like and so bright, he could barely stand to look into them.
"Pardon me," he began, "but I must -- "
She took a step toward him. "No, you needn't go."
"I never intended it. I was going to apologize further for my forwardness." When clearly you are a woman of sensitivity.
"It is I who have disturbed you. With my rather flagrant study of his..."
"Good points?" Blake suggested and could have kicked himself that he had spoken so brazenly to her again.
To his joy, she grinned. "Assets," she corrected him in a contralto rich as melting chocolate. "And if I haven't embarrassed you totally with my examination of this gentleman" -- she tilted her head at the Greek god who stood between them -- "I ask you to stay and admire him. He certainly is worth every penny of the asking price. I had hoped to speak with Monsieur Bartholome, but he is detained with another customer and I must," she said with regret, "go myself."
"But I could not bear to take you from your inspection of the Adonis. He is unique."
"Yes, indeed," she said with awe and a quick glance at the torso. "He is the only representation of the god of love who truly looks -- " She colored outrageously. " -- sensuous."
Her knowledge of sculpture made him blink. What else did she know about this statue, sculpture in general, and how had she managed to learn it? Blake removed his gloves, putting them and his walking stick on the display table while he trained all his senses on her. "His sculptor is unknown," he offered leisurely, admiring the glow in her eyes at the topic.
"Yes, but we can tell from the type of marble and from his" -- she cleared her throat -- "fig leaf, that he was probably from an Athenian workshop of the first century."
"He was one of many works -- "
"Bound for Rome on a ship owned by Agrippa of the house of Herod."
"But it sank," he added, "near Napoli."
"However, we do know he is the more modestly rendered of the entire cargo," she smiled at their shared enthusiasm and recited more details as if this were a contest. "In fact, the six dancing women and four satyrs -- "
"Were so sensuous as to cause the fishermen who discovered them last year to cover them in blankets before transporting them to Rome." He was revealing that she knew as much as he about the provenance of the piece.
"So perhaps it was best they were shipwrecked because Herod's family would not have been happy to learn he had commissioned such interesting works."
"Nor" -- Blake nodded, taking great pleasure in the way her lips parted in anticipation of what next he would relate about the torso -- "would Agrippa's political supporters have been thrilled to discover that he was part owner of a Roman house of -- " Damn, he had walked into this repartee to lure her into conversation -- and now what did he dare to call this establishment?
"Prostitution," she supplied, but he could see it cost her a flush of her cheeks to mention it.
She was so young. Twenty, perhaps? Or a few years more. Women beneath the age of thirty rarely bothered to regard painting or sculpture. Those few educated enough to distinguish an oil from a watercolor, or a Praxiteles from a Michelangelo, were usually swept up at age nineteen by debuts and balls, swains and proposals, a suitable marriage, a country house and matching one in town, and then within nine months, motherhood. Few of them knew about prostitutes, in Victoria's London or Caligula's Rome, and nigh unto none would utter the word. This woman might be young, but she was educated in art -- and needed to be schooled in the sophistication she would require to continue to appreciate it without demurring like a Madonna.
"Ah, yes," she admitted at his raised brow, "I do know about such things." Blake breathed a bit more easily that she had declared it with such aplomb. "But I realize that as a woman, I am not supposed to."
"That is only what society says. I believe that women should be educated in art, as in all other disciplines."
She tilted her head, her eyes shimmering like moonlight. "Whatever would become of the empire if all British women were so free?"
"I daresay the empire would benefit if we freed more women to admire art such as you have today." He sauntered closer and savored her. She was a delectable looking woman. Ripe as an apple. Her smile, wide and ready. Her skin, without powder, perfect. Her lips, unrouged, were pink and wet, too full to be the fashion. He wanted to chuckle at her because the way she squinted up at him, he could tell she was blind without her glasses. But when he got closer, she relaxed, her eyes huge pale pools that drowned his logic for a moment. "Until then," he said, summoning his thoughts, "most gallery owners will continue to cover their more intricately rendered art with sheets."
She tipped her chin toward the Adonis. "But he was not."
"Monsieur thinks it a crime to hide perfection." If he has seen you, I wager he wants to unveil all your glories.
"Monsieur should be more careful of his treasures."
"Especially for the ladies who venture to the back room."
"Of which I am certain there have been none."
"Until you."
"Precisely. And scandalously unescorted, too," she added with a wicked hint in that mouth-watering voice.
"But how can you appreciate a work of art with another chattering in your ear?" he mused.
She tisked. "Sacrilege. And to that end -- " She side-stepped Blake. " -- I will leave you to admire him in peace."
"But I could not bear to run you out." Blake felt a gnawing need to keep her talking. She was rare. A woman of breeding and intellect who understood and appreciated art. He met so few attractive women under the age of dotage who could discuss art with any twinkle in their eyes -- and here was a connoisseur who discussed it with a charmer's blush.
"You don't. I need to go. I am late for an appointment." She dug her gloves from her skirt pocket -- and sighed at the sight of the delicate crocheting clumped around a tiny ball of gray material.
"Clay." Blake recognized the substance immediately. After his four years of modeling classes in Paris -- and his sister's obsession with sculpting, how could he not?
This woman mimed what Blake knew was a small curse under her breath. "I should have taken it out before I left home." She began to pick at her once white crocheted gloves, the holes of which were chock full of little dribs and drabs of clay.
He grinned. "Do you make a practice to walk around with clay in your skirts?"
"Well, of course," she replied with a merry dose of self-deprecation. "Doesn't everyone?"
"Everyone who wishes to sculpt." Blake put his hand out. "Permit me to help you. I am an expert at such activities."
"Really?" She paused in her picking to survey him with skepticism. "How is that?"
"My sister and I once carried balls of this stuff about in our own pockets. Stroking them, shaping them as we walked or talked or ate. Drove the laundress to tear her hair out when we left the clumps in our pockets."
"Alas," she sighed like a Drury Lane actress, "our butler was already bald."
"Pity."
"Mmmm, yes," she laughed, "but he resigned, nonetheless."
"Why?"
"I dunked clay in the family crystal and mucked the glasses so, he could not clean them."
"Ah, the trials of being an artist," he lamented.
"There are few of us. Fewer women, still. Your sister is a sculptor?" she asked, clearly eager to learn of another Englishwoman who had similar interests.
"Was." Before she died.
"I see," she said, chastised at his curt reply.
"What are you creating?" he quickly added. He did not wish to talk about Barbara, but her.
She looked away, then back at him. "I wish I knew. And you?" she asked after a glimpse of his hands. "Your skin is free of clay dust and charcoal. And your nails are unbroken. Not like mine." She raised her hands and turned them over once and again. She splayed her fingers. "They cramp and I -- "
He caught both her hands in his. "Let me -- " he pleaded as she startled at his effrontery, then closed her eyes as he began to massage her fingers. "I remember the pain I'd get from sketching and afterward manipulating clay into their images. You have elegant hands," he murmured, "callused by your use of chisels and drills."
She relaxed at his ministrations. "But your skin is soft."
"I gave up my art."
"I wish I could," she said with anger, then snatched her hands away. "My apologies. I do not mean to be distasteful. You must think me ridiculous, fondling statues and then speaking so...bluntly."
"On the contrary, I find your knowledge of sculpting beguiling. Your honesty refreshing."
"You need not be polite, sir. Say you find me -- "
"Different."
She snorted and tugged at the glove he held.
"Determined." He kept a tight grip on it. "And strong."
She blew a gust of air up to ruffle her bangs. "It is distressing to fight you for my gloves, you realize. Give over, will you?" she surrendered to the smile that teased her lips. "I am used to men and women who do not understand me."
"Oh, but I do. I, too, was once prone to insights and moods few others suffered."
That secret, shared so easily, quieted her. "Why did you abandon your art?"
"I was not superb."
She searched his eyes. Empathy blossomed in her own.
"And you?" he asked. "Why do you wish to give up yours?"
"I may not be superb, either."
"But you are not certain of that."
"No," she agreed. "Not yet."
"Well, then you must continue, must you not, until you confront all your doubts and have an answer."
"Meanwhile, I dabble."
He picked out one pellet of wet gray matter. "Dabbling is not working. It is play without purpose and can give you no peace. Am I right?" He watched her wrestle with his own bluntness, then determined to soften the blow. He withdrew his handkerchief from his pocket, rolled the specks of clay together and deposited the round mass in it. A glance at her left hand gave him a surprise -- and a delight. You have no husband, he thought with a greed that stunned him because he had never cared to totally claim any woman. Not even a mistress.
"You wear no rings," he ventured, changing the tone of their intimacy so that she might not fly away from him. Handing over his handkerchief and her clay, he felt a glee he explained to himself as one artist exulting in another's freedom. The unvarnished truth was, he was delighted she was unattached.
"My aunt tells me I should."
He arched a brow, relieved he had gentled her. "Ah. The family heirlooms must be paraded, eh?" When I would wager the most precious family jewel is you, dressed in nothing at all but your blushes. Or your chuckles.
She chortled. "How did you know?"...

Présentation de l'éditeur

Award-winning, bestselling author Jo-Ann Power is the Daphne du Maurier of the '90s. She last captivated readers with Never Say Never, the enchanting third installment of her American Beauties trilogy. Now, in her vintage style, she sweeps us back to Victorian England in a compelling tale of artful passion and deadly intrigue.
Cerise Lindsay is a promising young sculptress in Italy when she receives the news that her older sister, Madelaine, has drowned accidentally at a party on the Isle of Wight. Devastated, Cerise immediately returns to England to settle her sister's affairs. Upon her arrival, she finds the estate nearly bankrupt and soon suspects foul play. Cerise vows to solve the mystery, beginning with an investigation of the man who hosted the party that fateful night -- the Earl of Sandown. As the sole heir, Cerise must restore the family's financial stability by selling a beloved -- and valuable -- heirloom, a coveted statue known simply as Allure.
Blake Hargrove, the eighth Earl of Sandown, is determined to get to the bottom of Madelaine Lindsay's death. After all, she died while sailing one of his boats. When Blake and Cerise meet by chance, he's struck by her humor, her impressive knowledge of classical art...and by her radiant beauty. But when Cerise realizes who Blake is, she questions his motives. Then she learns to trust him -- and surrender to a desire she cannot deny. As the pair gets closer to the truth, the closer they grow to each other -- and to a passion burning between them. But before they can see a future together, they must settle the past...before a murderer does.

Détails de l'édition

• Éditeur: Pocket Books
• Date d'édition: 1999
• Langue: anglais
• ISBN 10: 0671034081
• ISBN 13: 9780671034085
• Reliure: Broché
• Nombre de pages: 341
• Coordonnées du fabricant: non disponible
• Personne responsable: non disponible