Lovechild. Metsy Hingle
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helped me with one of my most memorable ones.”
A rush of color raced up her cheeks at the reminder of the afternoon when he’d given Liza her first sculpting lesson and how that lesson had ended—in a maelstrom of frenzied lovemaking that had left them both exhausted and wanting more of each other.
“I see you do remember,” he said, pleased by her reaction.
“And I see you haven’t changed. A gentleman wouldn’t deliberately attempt to embarrass someone this way.”
“But, ma chérie, have you forgotten? I am no gentleman. I am a Frenchman.”
The look she shot him could have turned flames to ice. Jacques chuckled, only making her expression grow even more chilly. “You would do better to save your wintry glares for someone else, Liza. They did not work on me three years ago, and they certainly will not work on me now. I have grown—how do you Americans say—? ‘a thicker skin.’”
“And evidently an even bigger ego.”
“I will take that as a compliment.”
“It wasn’t meant as one.”
Jacques took her hand and raised it to his lips. He kissed her fingers and enjoyed seeing the cool facade slip a notch. Suddenly the need to bait her, to force a reaction from her, withered at the feel of her soft skin. Desire took its place. It swirled around him, covering him like mist. “Then I guess I will have to try to change your opinion of me. Perhaps by working with you on this fund-raiser, you will discover something in me that is worthy of your praise.”
Something flickered in her eyes. Pain? Regret? Longing? Or was it his own feelings he saw reflected there?
“Jacques, I—”
“There you are, Liza. I wondered where you had disappeared to.”
Jacques stiffened at the sound of the man’s voice.
Liza pulled her hand free and turned toward the approaching man. “Oh, Robert. I’m so sorry. I’m afraid I forgot all about asking for coffee to be sent in.”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s been taken care of. I suspected you got sidetracked when you didn’t come back.” He turned to Jacques and flashed him a smile of perfect white teeth. “Robert Carstairs. I’m the Art For Kids’ Sake committee’s co-director,” he said, extending his hand.
“Jacques Gaston, your new co-director.”
At Carstairs’s lifted brow, Liza explained, “Jacques is filling in for Peter. The Gallaghers aren’t going to be able to take part in the fund-raising activities this year, after all. Peter has asked Jacques to take his place on the committee. Jacques is an old friend of the Gallaghers’.”
“And of Liza’s,” Jacques amended, shaking the other man’s hand.
“Always happy to meet a friend of the Gallaghers’ and Liza’s.”
Custom-made suit, soft hands, old money, Jacques sized up the other man. And given the warmth in the other man’s expression when his gaze lingered on Liza, his interest in her went beyond the committee’s fund-raising endeavors. For some reason the realization irritated Jacques, and he found himself biting back the urge to put a proprietary arm around Liza and draw her closer to him.
“Gaston,” Carstairs repeated. He narrowed his eyes as he continued to study Jacques. “Gaston. Gaston. Why does that name sound so familiar?”
“Perhaps Liza has mentioned our friendship,” Jacques offered, earning a scowl from Liza.
“Jacques is an artist,” Liza explained. “Some of his work has been on display at Gallagher’s Gallery in the past. You’ve probably seen it there.”
“Of course. Now I remember,” Carstairs smiled again as recognition dawned. “You’re the sculptor.”
“One and the same,” Jacques acknowledged with a flourish.
“Liza’s right, of course. I have seen your work. Very impressive.”
“I like to think so,” Jacques replied, seeing no need for false modesty.
“As you can see,” Liza said, her voice tinged with sarcasm, “Jacques doesn’t suffer from any lack of self-confidence.”
Carstairs chuckled. “Don’t be too rough on him, Liza. Confidence is not such a bad thing to have. In your case, Gaston, I expect it’s probably warranted. I caught your exhibit at Gallagher’s Gallery last spring. As I said, it was most impressive. There was one piece in particular, a nude of a woman. It was stunning. I must admit I was quite taken with it.”
“Thank you,” Jacques said, inclining his head. “I know the piece you mean. La Femme. Woman,” he said, translating. “It is one of my favorites.”
A grin tugged at Carstairs’s lips that said, as a man he could certainly understand why. “I guess that explains why my offer to buy it was turned down.”
“Yours is not the first offer I have refused for her. The piece is part of my personal collection and not for sale. Usually I do not even allow it to be shown. But Peter caught me in a weak moment and I agreed.”
“Perhaps I can catch you in another one and convince you to sell it to me. As I said, I was truly captivated by the piece. And I’d still like to add it to my collection. I can promise you my offer would be most generous.”
Even if Jacques hadn’t had an abhorrence for rich fools who thought everything and everyone had a price, he would have disliked Robert Carstairs simply for the covetous way he looked at Liza.
“Think about it.” He pulled a business card out of an engraved gold case and offered it to Jacques. “And let me know if you change your mind.”
“I won’t.” Ignoring the card, Jacques used the three-inch advantage his own six feet four inches gave him over Carstairs to look down at the other man. “You see, I was quite enamored with the model who posed for it.”
“I can certainly see how you might have been,” Carstairs told him, giving him another man-to-man look. “By the same token, it would be a shame to let sentiment get in the way of a good business deal.”
“True. But then, the lady who posed for La Femme had nothing to do with business. She was very special to me.” His gaze shifted to Liza, remembering that humid October afternoon in New Orleans when she had posed for him and he had recreated her body in clay. He allowed his gaze to slide over her, recalling how his hands, covered in damp clay, had moved over her soft curves molding the swell of her breasts, shaping the round curve of her hips, the tender apex at her thighs.
Suddenly the two of them were back in the tiny loft with the hot sun pouring through the window, bathing Liza in its glow, heating the room and their bodies while desire simmered in their blood. Liza stood naked before him, and he stripped off his own shirt in deference to the relentless heat.
“Jacques,” his name was a soft gasp on her lips as he stroked the tip of her breast. Her body quivered beneath his touch.
“Maybe I should create my own sculpture,” she whispered. Reaching down, she slid her hands into the mound of moist clay, warmed the mixture with her fingertips. Her lips parted in a slow smile of invitation and womanly seduction as she held her hands out in front of him. Passion, hot and sweet, gleamed in her eyes as she slowly smoothed her fingers down his throat, along his shoulder, his chest.
Jacques groaned. Desire shuddered through him as her nails scraped across his nipples, followed the trail of hair down his stomach to the snap of his jeans.
Jerking his thoughts from the past, Jacques tried to stem the fierce ache they triggered inside him. He met Liza’s gaze. Desire, pure and hot, blazed in their depths, turning her eyes the color of priceless emeralds. She remembered, too, he thought, rocked by the pleasure of that discovery.
“Like I said, Gaston...”
Liza