Chasing Terpsichore (Muses Across Time) (13 page)

“Oh really? Just how wild are you?”

He rolled her onto her back, landing on top as she laughed in his ear.

“I’m very wild,” he said as he grinned at her. “Let me show you just how much.”

Also available from Total-E-Bound Publishing:

Masterpiece

Genella DeGrey

Excerpt

Chapter One

Rome, Italy

1605

“But Signora Fontana—five thousand florins?” Gia Vessa asked, still unable to comprehend the substantial amount of money being offered for one of her paintings.

“I am getting the better part of the deal, signorina. The piece will have a place of prominence amongst the others in my collection.” At fifty-three years of age, Lavina Fontana was a master artist. She patted her young protégée on the hand as they sat on Lavina’s terrace, just outside the Vatican.

“But you already have three of my works.”

“Hush now,
mia dolce
. You have great potential as an artist. I wish to help you as I had help when I was first starting out. Now, no more talk of filthy money.” She leaned closer to Gia. “What of your mysterious new benefactor? Is he as handsome and sinister-looking as they say?”

Heat crept up Gia’s neck to enflame her face. She couldn’t have dreamt up a more darkly alluring man. She nibbled briefly on her lower lip and contemplated her answer. “He is terribly handsome, Signora Fontana,” she said in hushed tones. “Sometimes I think he is the devil himself come to tempt me!”

The two women giggled with girlish delight.

“My sources tell me he is quite wealthy.” Lavina looked at Gia from the corner of her eye. “Has he kissed you yet?” she inquired, a devious grin playing about her lips.

After this conversation, Gia was certain her cheeks would be forever stained crimson. “No, no, Signora Fontana—he doesn’t even know I exist! As an artist, perhaps, but certainly not as woman.”

“Ha! I do not believe he is that ignorant! Signorina, are you not aware of your beauty? Your violet eyes, your shimmering, burnt umber hair… No, I think that you deny what everyone else knows to be a fact.”

Gia focused her gaze on the toes of the soft, leather walking shoes that were peeking out from under her russet skirts as she re-adjusted the knot of the cream coloured kerchief behind her neck. There was nothing special about her. She was plain. Naught about her stood out—not like the other girls she’d grown up with in the little hill town of San Leo, with their wheat-gold hair and light coloured eyes in varying hues of ocean-greens and sky-blues. “Signora Fontana, you are too kind.”

Lavina stood and took Gia by the chin. “You mustn’t be so shy, mia dolce. You must taste the bread before you make an agreement with the baker.”

Gia looked at Signora Fontana, awaiting an explanation of the metaphor.

Lavina smiled. “Would you buy a cow without knowing how sweet the milk tasted?”

Gia leaned towards her mentor. Perhaps she wasn’t hearing her correctly.
“Let him taste your lips, mia dolce—there is no harm in that,” the older woman whispered.

Gia’s sharp intake of breath as understanding dawned made Lavina chuckle.

“There is nothing wrong with a little teasing now and again. Who invented kissing, do you suppose?”

Gia felt as if she were twelve years old again, sitting on her father’s knee, listening to him fumble through the answer to her question about boys and kissing. The girls in the village had told her about how a man takes the maidenhead of a woman with his prick, but their stories had lacked the precious details of what else happened between the sexes. Her father was all she’d had growing up, her mother having died when Gia was very young. Father had loved his wine. He’d evaded her question, answering her using words she did not understand—could not understand at that age. She had vowed never again to approach him with feminine, whimsical matters, and had kept her promise until he’d passed on two months ago. Now she gazed at her wonderful patroness, looking like a simpleton. She shrugged a shoulder in answer to Signora Fontana’s question.

“Why, God did, of course.” Lavina smiled.

Gia glanced down and attempted to relax the fists in her lap. “Signora, is it proper to think of such things?” she asked quietly.

Lavina laughed and returned to her seat across from Gia. “You have been sheltered for far too long by your father in that tiny village. You are twenty-five years old now and, by Venus, you should be thinking of such things, as you say! We are artists. Of all God’s creatures, we are the most passionate. And we draw our inspiration from many things, mia dolce.

“He does have the most beautiful hands I have ever seen.” Gia grinned as she revealed the dark secret to her best friend.

Lavina leaned towards Gia. “Let him kiss you. Let him touch you with those beautiful hands of his. You will know when to stop, but I warn you, he may not want to. You must be firm with him. Tell him…tell him you need some time. This is a good way to make a man come back for more, eh?”

Gia swallowed. “I see him again tomorrow, Signora Fontana.”

“Buono. See how the mood takes you. Let him set the pace.” She winked.

While Lavina called to her servants to set out an early supper on the terrace, Gia’s thoughts drifted to tomorrow. Now she anticipated the meeting with Signore Scarabassi even more than before. Her dreams were already so vivid she sometimes couldn’t tell them from reality. The union of Gia’s fertile imagination and Lavina’s encouragement had imprinted visions of detailed illumination in the young woman’s mind that were sure to haunt her mind during waking as well as sleeping hours.

* * * *

“I heard of you a few years ago after your painting of Ciri went up for sale, so I brought you this slab of rock because I think you can bring it to life.” Her newest patron, Pietro Scarabassi, smiled. His straight white teeth, a contrast with his dark olive skin, drew Gia’s artistic attention to the facial detail. She loved how colours played together, in life and on canvas.

He ran his hand down the side of the huge stone as Gia watched him with his gift, both intimidating and immovable. “Signore, I—I’ve not worked in stone before. Perhaps I should start with something softer, like wood or even clay.”

He smiled again, his black, stormy eyes boring into her in an odd way—demanding yet knowing. “I am so convinced that you will do this hunk of stone justice that I’ve already purchased your tools.”

Gia began to protest when, from behind the stone, he presented her with a leather roll tied with a thin, black velvet bow. With two nimble fingers, he whipped the black strap from the gift and handed it to her.

“Signore, please—” Her gaze landed on the gleaming tools of dark metal and wood as the roll unfurled in her hands. If there was one thing that could tempt Gia over every tangible vice, it was the tools of an artist. In vain she tried to slow her breathing.

“Ah, I knew you would see it my way.”

“But Signore,” she pleaded once more, her fingers curling around the open roll in contradiction of her words.

He took her firmly by the shoulders. “Dolce, how many times do I have to ask you to call me Pietro before you finally do?”

“P—Pietro, I—I do not even know where to begin.” She focused her gaze on the huge stone.

“Now, do not rush into this. You must spend a couple of days before beginning what will be your finest work. Allow the idea to swim around in your head.” He slipped a hand under her kerchief, at the nape of her neck. “Think of it, dream of it,” he whispered as he began to knead the stiff muscles there. “The answer will come to you in a vision, I am most certain. Use that wonderful imagination the gods have given you.” He continued when she closed her eyes. “You have within you a great talent, my Gia. A talent that must be released, like doves from a cage at a celebration,” he murmured, very close to her ear.

Gia felt her steady heartbeat continue to quicken the longer he stood next to her, touching her, speaking to her in low tones. Suddenly, she felt his body pressing gently to hers.

“There is no one else who can do this for me. I have just recently acquired this piece, and when I finally met you two weeks ago at your art showing, I knew.” He slowly glided his hands down her back and brought them around to rest on her hips. He gave her a squeeze. “You are the one,” he whispered.

Gia’s head tipped back of its own volition. She had been thinking of kissing Pietro since her wicked conversation with Signora Fontana yesterday evening. Her lips trembled as they waited for him to take possession. After numerous moments of empty suspense, her eyelids fluttered open.

Pietro’s hot gaze roamed over her face, her throat and the cleavage that swelled above her tightly-laced bodice. “Yours is a rare beauty, my Gia. You are as enticing as your paintings. But I am waiting for you to be well along your way with our pet project before you and I…explore each other’s delights.”

His wine-laced whisper brushed across her cheek and Gia felt a tantalising weakness in her legs. How exciting to know he wanted her—and how difficult it would be to wait. Her gaze slid once again to the stone that was slightly taller than Pietro and at least ten times his width.

Without warning, Pietro placed a fatherly kiss on her forehead. “I am happy to see that you have settled into your new studio so comfortably. We should see about finding you a bigger place.” He grinned, then changed the subject. “I will be gone for a few days. There are some small matters of business to attend to. Upon my return I will come to see how much you have accomplished.”

Pietro slid his arms from her body and took a few steps in the direction of the stone. He petted the rock again and spoke as if it could hear him. “Yes, I greatly anticipate our reunion.” Then he quit the studio, never looking back.

Gia drew in a cleansing breath. Pietro was, indeed, as dark and mysterious as everyone said—not to mention alluring. She supposed it was a good thing that one of them possessed self-control.

* * * *

All day long and into the evening, Gia tried to disregard the intimidating stone in the centre of her studio. She had done everything else she could think of rather than go within arm’s reach of the nerve-racking thing. She’d laundered her smocks and set them out to dry, then reorganised her brushes and pigments. She’d gathered old paint rags and tossed them into a pile where she could easily reach them. She had taken heavy fabric and sewn curtains to separate her bed from her work area, a job she had been loath to do since she had moved into her new studio a week ago. She’d even gone to the market and made herself some zucchini with tomato and basil for supper. At the market she’d spent more than she should have on a good bottle of wine, and refused to feel guilty about it. She had a monstrous job to do that would require fermented fortification.

By the light of a few strategically placed candles, Gia now stood with another cup of red wine in her hand, her head tilted to the side, contemplating what she was going to do with this daunting slab of rock. She drained the drink and set it down with a trembling hand.

Gia circled the stone, unable to touch it yet. She observed the few inconsistencies of colour on the surface, wondering if the variations continued all the way through. As she imagined the centre, a face flashed before her eyes. Large, grey eyes fringed with long, dark lashes. The vision was so quick that the rest of his face seemed to have been a blur. However, his eyes—despite them being the colour of storm clouds—had been warm and inviting.

Where had she seen the young man before—at the market? Was he a friend of Signora Fontana? Had she met him at church?

No, it couldn’t have been church—her attendance was too infrequent. One might have thought that guilt would drive her to go, but Gia had accepted the fact that she was a bad Catholic even before her father had died. She was always happy to visit the cathedrals, though, to study the art and architecture, lighting a candle for her soul now and again when no one was looking.

Still. Where had she seen those eyes?

Putting the thought out of her mind for now, she fetched her new tools and took them to a work table near her newest medium. Using various combinations of tools and strokes, she gently tapped at a corner of the stone, observing the effect each had on the surface. Becoming bolder, she struck a bit harder, knocking off a chunk about the size of her palm. As she heard the piece of rock hit the ground next to her, the man’s face once again floated before her. He was smiling at her and, by Venus, he was handsome.

Gia set the tools on the table and went for a third cup of wine, if only to refresh herself.

Later, the wine was gone. Never in her life had she finished an entire bottle of wine. She sat in an over-stuffed red chair Signora Fontana had given her, across from what was to be her latest work. With her head tilted back and resting on a pillow to help take the edge off the spinning, she sat entirely still. The big velvet chair was her favourite—it was the chair in which she often sat to call forth her muse.

Pietro had said that the vision would come to her. So was this to be a huge face of a man? Somehow, she doubted it.

It was late. She could not even think after consuming so much wine, so her masterpiece would have to wait until morning. Teetering back and forth across the room, she blew out the candles that had burnt low during the evening, then stepped out of her shoes.