Page 62 of Art of Sin

“A rocky start to my career, to be sure. But as I was packing up that night, a woman approached me. She was… very French. Beautiful and mature. Wealthy. Very forward. I’d been warned this could happen by some of the others, but I still wasn’t prepared.”

Propping myself on an elbow, I stare at him, rapt as I imagine that meeting. A younger, less confident Gideon, uncertain in his height and sexuality, faced with a mature, sensual Frenchwoman. I want to hear more as much as I don’t, my displaced jealousy searing my skin.

Gideon’s eyes find mine. Penetrating and aware. “She wanted to see what I’d been working on—an idle painting of the crowd that I shouldn’t have been doing. Long story short, she bought the painting and became my patron. Gave me money to replace the supplies I’d wasted. Moved me into a flat in the heart of the city. Sent me to study with several famous artists at the time.”

“And?” I prompt, near breathless.

“Yes, Deirdre,” he says dryly, “we were lovers, almost from the beginning.”

“You were happy then, too?” I manage to not sound like I’m choking.

He hesitates. “There are different types of happiness, I’ve found. Ignorance can be bliss, but does that ignorance make it any less blissful? Only in retrospect. We were together three and a half years. Probably the most transformative years of my life. It ended when I found out she was married.”

I expel a heavy breath. “And what about your need to save women? How did she fit into that? Or was she perfect?”

Gideon half-laughs, half-sighs. “No, she wasn’t perfect. Francesca was a deeply emotional, impulsive woman. She was also prone to jealousy, fits of violence, and excessive drug use. I don’t think we loved each other so much as we were obsessed with what the other could do for us. We made each other feel wanted. Validated. Needed.”

My heart kicks, reminding me of its own needs. I close my eyes. Take the plunge.

“And how do I make you feel, Gideon?”

Fingertips brush across my forehead, trace one eyebrow, and sink into the hair past my temple. I open my eyes to his face above mine. My breath falters.

“Like myself,” he says, gaze dragging across my mouth. “That’s how you make me feel. I don’t think I’ve ever been myself. Do you understand?”

I almost laugh, but feel the hot press of tears instead. “Yes.”

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