Drawing Lessons Page 18

  “Lovely show ... no, I have no idea who the model is ... oh a senator’s wife? Really? ... Well, beautiful paintings anyway ... I would buy one if I had the money ...”

  The report cut away to Richard standing behind a lectern, flashbulbs popping in front of him. “At a press conference earlier today, Senator Macintyre reported that his wife has been under a great deal of stress lately but was now home resting. ‘It has been a difficult year for us but we are trying to put that behind us now. We ask that you respect our privacy while she recuperates.’“

  CNN cut to a commercial and Marie reached for the remote. She clicked off the television.

  Luc looked back and forth between Marie and the dark television, confusion clouding his features. He pushed his hand roughly through his hair and closed his eyes for a moment. “I’m missing something here.”

  “Richard has called off the divorce.”

  “I see.”

  “He wants us to reconcile.” She used air quotes around that last word. “The divorce is causing problems for his re-election campaign, so he has withdrawn the filing.”

  The look of panic on Luc’s face nearly broke her heart. She tugged his hand from where it was tangled in his hair and held it tight in her own.

  “You’re going back to him?”

  He tried to pull his hand from hers but she held tight. “No. Of course not.”

  “But he said you are—” A look of confusion crossed his face again. “—that you’re at home ...”

  “But I’m not, right? I’m here with you.” She pulled his hand in against her collarbone and held it tight. “I am not reconciling with him. And it’s not something he really wants, either, but his campaign manager has told him he needs to do it. Apparently his opponent is making a big deal out of Maya, out of his having an affair and leaving his wife.”

  “But if he’s telling people you are ...”

  She glanced over at the dark television. “I need your show to get a lot of press. I was hoping for it, in fact.”

  “Wait ... you knew before Wednesday? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t want to upset you. Sam knew, too.”

  He took a deep breath, struggling to stay calm. “I’ll call Sam. Tell her to take down the show.”

  “No. I need this to happen, Luc.” She squeezed his hand tighter for emphasis. “I need this to be all over the news. I can’t afford to divorce him myself. He has threatened to bankrupt me if I do. So I need him to change his mind. If I am too much of an embarrassment to him—and to his campaign—he might do that. Not that I’m embarrassed by the paintings, personally,” she added hastily.

  “But I hate to watch him lie about you. You’re not at home with him. And for them to be discussing you like ...”

  “Nishi says the news cycle for this sort of thing is short. A few days, tops. His opponent will probably be able to stretch it out a little further, especially if he uses it in TV spots.” She pulled his fist up to her lips and kissed his knuckles tenderly, one by one. “It will be ugly for a few days, then Richard will decide I’m more trouble than I’m worth, and he’ll refile.”

  “Well, I guess if everyone thinks you’re at home with him, they won’t look for us here.” Luc reheated their plates in the microwave, then turned on the television again. “We might as well know what they’re saying.”

  Every news channel had a story about it. It had been a slow news day, as Fridays often were. Even Maya had scored an appearance as a “society reporter” on Fox News. “The Senator’s wife is turning into more of a liability than an asset for his campaign. She may no longer be ready for prime time.”

  Luc watched the screen worriedly.

  “This is terrible, Marie. They make it sound like you posed for Playboy.” He toyed with the calzone on his plate, pushing the tines of his fork into the crust, watching the tomato sauce ooze out.

  “That can be my plan B if this doesn’t work. And Plan C, making a sex tape. Are you up for that?”

  He shot her a pained look. “Please don’t joke about this.”

  She slid down from her stool and stood between Luc’s knees. She cupped his face in her hands, tenderly. “Don’t worry about it, Luc. This will all be over a week from now. Then they’ll be on to Black Friday and holiday shopping. The two of us, we’re nowhere near as important as forty percent of the year’s retail sales,” she joked again, trying to get him to smile. No go.

  Her hands slipped from his face as he stood up and clicked off the television. She let him lead her out onto the deck. The November air nipped at her face and insinuated itself beneath her loosely-knit sweater. Beyond the railing of the deck, the dunes and ocean dissolved into black nothingness. A bank of dark clouds hovered overhead, hiding the moon and stars, and the large houses on either side of Sam’s stood unlit and empty. In the off season, the beach towns were mostly deserted, entire neighborhoods essentially abandoned for the winter.

  Luc stretched out onto an oversized chaise longue and pulled her into it with him. She sat stiffly on his lap.

  “Relax, love,” he said, tugging her shoulders back to his chest.

  “What are we doing?”

  “Listening to the ocean.”

  She was quiet, listening to the rhythmic push and pull of the waves.

  “The water sounds like it’s right beneath us,” she observed.

  “It’s not.”

  “Does it ever come all the way up to the house?”

  “I don’t think so. Maybe in a hurricane it might. None of those forecast for this weekend, though.”

  She felt his hands begin to massage her shoulders.

  “I wish you had told me earlier about your husband.”

  “I didn’t want it to spoil your show. Sam didn’t want that, either.”

  “You could have told me yesterday. Or this morning.”

  She sighed. “I’m sorry, Luc. But you were so happy, I wanted you to just enjoy that. And it’s not like it’s actually happening.”

  “So you don’t want to go back to him?” His words were laced with uncertainty.

  She turned around on his lap and straddled his thighs. “I can’t believe you would even need to ask that.” She buried her face in his neck and hair. He smelled like oregano and wine, salty ocean air. She inhaled, filling her lungs with him. “I wouldn’t be here if that were the case.”

  She felt a rush of cool air as her sweater’s hem lifted, then the warmth of Luc’s hands on her bare skin as he slid them up her back. It was utterly unnecessary in the dark but she closed her eyes anyway, so she could focus on just the feel of his hands against her skin and nothing else. She swayed drunkenly in his arms even though she hadn’t had nearly enough wine for that yet.

  He added his mouth to the cocktail of sensations she was swimming in, ravishing kisses along her neck and jaw, until he found her lips.

  “I can’t let you go, Marie. Not anymore.” He kissed the words into her breath, then gently eased her back down onto the lounge. He peeled off her sweater, then bowed his head to her breasts.

  “We’re going to catch pneumonia out here,” she pointed out. Her arms prickled with gooseflesh.

  Luc swirled his tongue around her nipple. “I would nurse you back to health, Marie.”

  She pushed her hands between them and unzipped her jeans. Luc made short work of the rest of it. She pulled him back down to her and wrapped her legs around his hips. When he pushed inside her, she let her eyes close again. She wanted to feel him simply with her skin.

  “Marie, look at me.”

  She opened her eyes and shook her head, amused. “You need to make up your mind. See. Not see. How can a girl keep it all straight?” she teased.

  He made no reply to her teasing banter. Instead he thrust into her slowly and deliberately, letting her watch the play of emotions across his face. Restraint as he patiently pushed her body along. Isolated moments where he was drawn irresistibly to the edge of desire, before regaining control. The shining desire in h
is eyes as she fell, spiraling, into her orgasm—and, Marie’s favorite, the peaceful smile that curved across his lips as he came down from his own.

  Chapter 20

  When Marie returned to the bedroom the next morning, freshly showered and wrapped in nothing but a robe, Luc was awake and looked aggrieved.

  “You didn’t wake me?”

  She leaned over the bed and kissed him. “I let you sleep.”

  “Sure you don’t want another shower?” He threw back the covers and made a show of stretching for her.

  She watched him rise from the bed, all feline grace stalking toward her. His tactics were working, she had to give him that. Her secret places were tingling, no longer relaxed from the hot shower. His eyes were saying that she had no secret places, not from him.

  “A cold shower, maybe. Otherwise we’ll spend all day in bed.”

  He chuckled as he slid his hands inside her robe and pulled her to him. “And how is that so terrible?” He gave her a long, deep kiss. “Ah well, I will settle for some hot coffee, then. The least you can do if you won’t shower with me.”

  She pulled on jeans and a clean sweater, then headed out to the kitchen. It was easy to find the coffee supplies. Sam’s kitchen was large but impeccably organized. No drawers of random utensils and tools in here. Marie plugged in the large combination coffee-espresso maker and ground some beans, Quartermaine with a roast date of only two weeks ago. She made a mental note to buy Sam another bag when she got back home.

  While the pot brewed, she turned on the television to see whether she was still in the news cycle. Finding nothing at the moment, she settled on CNN, only half paying attention as she retrieved two coffee mugs from a cupboard. An older couple were holding a framed photo of a young woman. The couple’s eyes were red-rimmed, but there was as much anger behind them as sadness. Marie poured milk in one mug for herself; Luc took his coffee black. She stared out the window at the ocean she hadn’t been able to see last night. Weak morning sunshine glinted off the dark water.

  “George and Marian McKinley say that the artist at the center of a controversial new art show in the nation’s capital was responsible for their daughter’s death ten years ago.”

  Marie’s attention snapped back to the television. How many controversial art shows could there be in DC at one time?

  “Grace McKinley was a graduate student at the University of Virginia when she began an affair with a professor, Dr. Luc Marchand.”

  Marie froze. Doctor Luc Marchand. University of Virginia? He’d been a professor? She ran through her memory, trying to recall if he had ever told her that.

  “The relationship ended badly and Grace McKinley committed suicide just before Christmas.”

  Marie was barely breathing now. So this was what it felt like when time stood still.

  “Senator Macintyre needs to keep his wife away from that man. He uses young women and then tosses them away like they’re trash when he’s through.” Mrs. McKinley wiped her eye with a lone finger.

  “Marie.”

  She looked away from the television to see Luc standing in the doorway of the kitchen. The stricken look on his face mirrored her own.

  Suicide. Uses young women. Keep his wife away from that man. Trash.

  Marie felt as though she was about to be sick. She made a mad dash for the deck— barefoot, no jacket—and took the steps down to the scrubby dune two at a time, leaping onto the sand at the bottom. She began to run toward the beach, faintly aware of pounding footsteps on the steps behind her, Luc calling her name.

  “Marie! Wait! Stop!”

  She ran across the cool sand until her lungs burned and she stumbled, doubling over to catch her breath. Luc was still shouting her name. She ran into the surf, the cold water sloshing around her toes and ankles. This wasn’t supposed to happen. The press, it was all supposed to be about her. Salacious paintings of a senator’s wife. Luc was just supposed to be the artist ... sans secrets of his own.

  Why hadn’t he told her? Was that who Samantha Smith was referring to the other night? Grace McKinley?

  Dr. Luc Marchand. He had never told her that, she was certain of it. Come to think of it, he hadn’t told her much about his past. And she hadn’t asked. Idiot. She had strapped on those sex goggles like she was the Red Baron. Everything looked like love when you were getting great sex all the time.

  She needed to clear her head. She waded in further, letting the water numb her knees and then her waist. The cold cut right through her jeans and sweater but she welcomed it, welcomed the pain. She heard Luc swear sharply as he sloshed through the waves behind her. She refused to look at him and headed out further. She was in up to her breasts and neck. The waves slapped against her face, her eyes stinging from the salt.

  She saw the wave rising on the horizon, swelling and filling with water. It rolled closer and closer. She just wanted to be alone for a moment. Why couldn’t he leave her alone? She needed to think. Why couldn’t he just let her think?

  “Damn it, Marie, stop!” Luc shouted at her.

  “I believed you,” she whispered into the salt spray, knowing he couldn’t hear her. Art requires honesty. Isn’t that what he said? You have to let yourself be seen. Apparently, that was a one-way mirror in Luc’s world. She hadn’t been seeing him at all. He hadn’t let her, hadn’t wanted her to see him. Hadn’t trusted her to see him the way he really was.

  A hand gripped her arm and yanked hard just as the wave reared up and crashed over them both. She tumbled into the roiling froth of the surf, Luc’s hand ripped away from her. The water was loud in her ears. She held her breath and another wave broke overhead, setting off another frenzy of bubbles around her face.

  Something grabbed her shoulder, then wrapped itself around her chest. She was being dragged through the water, sand and shells scraping her arms and feet. Suddenly the water fell away from her and cold air hit her face, threaded its fingers through her dripping hair. Luc dropped her onto the wet sand, collapsing next to her. He spit after the surf, then began muttering angrily in French.

  He wasn’t wearing a shirt, she noticed, and now his skin was red and raw looking. His jeans were as soaked as her own, his hair tangled and plastered to his scalp.

  “You could have gotten us killed,” he said finally, switching to English.

  “I can swim.”

  “I can too, but the ocean is about fifty degrees this time of year.” His voice was as sharp as the waves had been. “What the fuck, Marie. You didn’t even wait for me to explain. Just ran out here—”

  “You could have told me!”

  “You didn’t tell me your husband wants to reconcile.”

  “A girl killed herself, Luc! Hardly the same thing!” Marie knew she was practically shrieking. She stood up and began trudging back toward the house.

  “Maybe you should have waited to hear my side of the story,” Luc said, right behind her, scrambling to catch up.

  She whirled around so quickly, he nearly collided with her. “Well, I’m waiting now.”

  The next thing she knew Luc had picked her up like she was weightless and tossed her over his shoulder. They were moving toward the house.

  “You sleep with all of your students!” she yelled.

  “I do not!” Luc yelled back.

  “According to CNN you do!” It felt good to yell at him. She was mad and he deserved to be yelled at.

  “According to CNN, you’re at home with your husband, recuperating from—something! Like I’m some disease!” Luc could give as good as he got, when it came to yelling. He launched into another outburst of French she couldn’t understand.

  “How many then?” she yelled.

  He was quiet, gulping in air as he struggled to move them both across the soft sand.

  “How many!” she repeated.

  “Two.” His voice was quiet. “Just two, okay?”

  Marie began to cry as she watched the sand bounce below her.

  “Marie.”

  She poun
ded her fist on his ass. “I’m not special, am I?” she choked out. “I’m just one more.”

  He stopped walking and set her down.

  “You are not just one more.” He brushed his hands against his wet jeans to get the sand off, then cupped her face. “Why are we yelling at each other?”

  “Because you lied to me. You never told me any of that stuff.”

  “It wasn’t a good chapter in my life. Not really the sort of thing you tell someone when you’re trying to woo them.”

  “Exactly the thing you tell someone,” she countered.

  “You could have googled me. I’m sure that’s how CNN found out.”

  “You should have told me.”

  “You should have told me that you’re no longer about to be divorced. Putain, now I really am having an affair with the wife of an American politician. I can’t delude myself about that anymore.”

  “Do you have a green card?” It had never occurred to her before to ask and she wondered now why not.

  “I’m a U.S. citizen now. They can’t deport me over this.”

  Marie wasn’t so sure. Maybe not officially, but lots of things got done unofficially in Washington. Richard could probably make life miserable enough that Luc would self-deport.

  “So tell me about her.”

  Luc cocked his head toward the house. “Let’s go back first.”

  She looked at him warily. “You’re trying to avoid answering me.”

  He sighed and took her hand in his. “I will tell you everything, Marie. But back at the house. You need to get into dry clothes and I need to get you away from the water.” He glanced at the ocean. “You are not to do that again.”

  “I’ll do it again if I feel like it.”