He was gray and wrinkled like her grandfather, but he had been good to the young model: respectful, not leering, patient as she learned how to maintain a pose for hours on end, and always kind to her, talking of art and music during their long afternoons together. But his outburst made her uncomfortable and eager to leave.
“Monsieur,” she said gently, “my friend will be most anxious.”
She felt his fingers working the clasp of the ornate emerald necklace. She’d worn it every day for twenty-nine days while her parents believed she was minding Gilles’ twin nieces on the other side of town.
The heavy jewels slipped into the crevice of her breasts as Monsieur Montferrat lifted the two sides from around her neck, then raised them over her head. Camille breathed a sigh of relief as he stepped away, and she reached down to tug on her shoes, quickly buckling them.
“You needn’t come back, Mademoiselle Trigére,” said the artist, crossing the room and placing the priceless necklace back in a black velvet box, which he locked in the bottom drawer of a desk.
“Pourquoi?” she whispered, fearing that she had displeased him in some way.
Turning to face her, his smile was rueful. “Because the portrait is finished.”
He beckoned her to stand beside him, and she stepped around the easel to look at the canvas she’d never been permitted to peek at before now.
Her painted body, pale and pink, was stark on the dark-green velvet divan on which she had posed, but she quickly realized that she was merely a palette for the necklace around her throat. The gems caught the afternoon light, facets gleaming, white-gold settings shiny and bright. The centerpiece of the painting was the necklace, and Camille had a sense of disappointment as she realized that her immortality would be forever overshadowed by the jewels she’d worn around her neck. Yet still…
“It’s beautiful,” she said softly.
He collected an envelope full of francs from the shelf at the bottom of his easel, holding it between them, searching her eyes with his. When he finally spoke, his voice was urgent. “Don’t go to Paris, petite. Go to London. Or better, New York. Oui, belle Camille, go to America. Maintenant. Now. Promise me.”
“America?”
“Oui. As soon as possible.”
Troubled by the wild look in his eyes and ever more eager to leave, she took the envelope from his fingers. “You have been kind to me. Merci.”
“I beg you. Leave France behind. Never look back.”
“Leave France?”
“Promise me,” he begged her in an urgent whisper. “Promise me that you will have a good life.”
She stepped forward to press her lips against his papery cheek. “Adieu, Monsieur.”
Her footsteps echoed down the metal stairs of the tiny apartment building, and she flung herself into Gilles’ arms, heady with freedom, as soon as she reached the sidewalk.
“C’est fini!” she told him with a beaming smile, offering him the envelope of money that would secure the next step of their shared future.
“Paris, here we come!” he cried, covering her mouth with a lusty kiss.
From the lonely terrace of his apartment, Monsieur Montferrat watched them link hands and scurry joyfully away, wondering just for a moment what would become of the young Jewish girl in the painting…the beautiful young woman in his final portrait, Les Bijoux Jolis.
Chapter 1
If the best man and maid of honor are both single, thought J.C. Rousseau, taking another peek at Kate English’s best friend, Libitz Feingold, it’s practically an unwritten rule that they should pork.
And if anyone on earth looked to be in dire need of a good, hard, thorough fucking, it was Mademoiselle Feingold.
As the priest droned on about the blessing and sanctity of marriage, J.C.’s younger brother, étienne, elbowed him subtly in the side and J.C. straightened, clearing his throat and shifting his glance away from Kate’s skinny, tiny, perpetually annoyed-looking friend.
She was definitely, positively not his type—she wasn’t even breathing the same air as his type—so why had he kept stealing glances at her over étienne’s wedding weekend? Fuck if he knew. There was something intriguing about her, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
While he generally preferred blondes or redheads with long, luxurious hair, Libitz had short, jet-black hair she wore in a close-cropped pixie cut that could have looked masculine on a larger woman or twee on someone as small as Libitz. But he had to admit, she somehow pulled it off, looking both feminine and chic.
J.C. was partial to women with big tits and hips he could hold on to while he fucked them from behind. Libitz? Well, her “bits” were small and her hips were nonexistent, much like her ass, which didn’t have the usual curve and swell that made his mouth water.