Page 72 of Ravishing Camille
She walked about, happy to go alone to absorb the wealth of emotion in the works. She’d always admired and been enchanted by the scope and depth of Remy’s creations. She’d seen so many. His Samson, blind and tormented by his failure to see the duplicity of the woman he loved. An Artemis, lovelier than any painting of her, rendered faceless but nonetheless seduction incarnate with her aggressive stance and a mark of a huntress. An agonized Job, sitting upon his pile of ashes, face raised to the heavens to ask God why he was punished so brutally when he’d been good, very good.
The complement of Monet’s work, the gardens, the women, the people enjoying themselves, lifted up her spirits. She watched the man as he stood across the room, accepting the accolades of those in attendance.
She would never be this talented. This insightful. But she didn’t mind. She didn’t yearn for talent like this. She had her own and she was happy with it. She had her forte and her purpose. She had a greater landscape of her own to claim.
“You look pensive.” Pierce came to her side and placed a flute of champagne in her hand. In his glistening gaze, she detected the edge of fear. “Are you reconsidering coming away with me?”
“Oh, no.”
“Yet you seem far from me.”
“I’m not. Not at all. Oh, don’t you see? This acting is making me miserable. And I’m bad at it too.”
“I thought you much too good!”
She laughed. “I will never agree to lie again.”
“Thank God.”
“Oh, Pierce.” She admired him, his sleek tamed hair, his large iridescent eyes, the shape of his nose and the lush curve of his bottom lip. “I have to stay far away from you. I cannot be close for long or I will do shameless things. Put my hands on you. My lips. I want to be in your arms, your bed. I want all of you around me, inside me. So never say I do not want you. I cry without you near.”
His expression was one she’d never seen. He turned toward the wall. “I’m afraid you have just undone me, my sweet. Stand here a bit, will you, and pretend we’re speaking of the weather?”
She threw back her head to laugh, then sobered. “Ahem. Of course! What was I thinking when you approached me?”
“That’s good. Yes.”
“I’m appreciative of their work. All of them. I’ve always liked what Remy created. Marianne too. They are true artists. LikeMonsieur.”
“Do I detect there is a comparison in that statement somewhere?”
She took a sip of the very fine sparkling wine. “Yes. There is. A good one.”
“Will you explain it to me?”
She tipped her head and hesitated.
“Now. Tell me now. Each second I have with you brings a new discovery. I fear I have not enough minutes left in my lifetime to learn every aspect of you.”
She widened her eyes. His sentiments ran through her like strong red wine and she gathered her impressions. “I looked at Eiffel’s creation today and thought how audacious of him to design such an unusual object to no purpose but its aspiration and its beauty. Though he says they will tear it down after the exhibition, I doubt it. So dramatic a structure will draw admiration from those not yet born.”
She took a step toward Remy’s newest sculpture, the homage to his beloved wife Marianne and what he spoke of during the carriage ride. Unmistakably she, the bronze was a replica of her, her head thrown back, her thick hair blown about by some unseen breeze, the smile on her face one of love and her hand caressing her pregnant belly. “I look at what Remy creates and Marianne paints and I value the emotions they draw from the beholder. Love, pride, pity are all there for the absorption and edification. These works are art for the ages.”
He narrowed his gaze on her. “And your view of your own work?”
She demurred and considered the champagne in her glass. “An amusement. Enjoyable. But not durable. Not…” She swept a hand toward the Monet on the wall. “Not this.”
“I’ve read the novels I bought in the Lanes. I plan to read all you’ve written. But I think—”
She put up a hand. “Do not praise me out of hand.”
“I’ve no intention to,” he shot back. “I would not lie to you.”
She inhaled and fortified herself for his assessment. “Very well. Tell me then.”
“You write well. And your readers have proven that. Your income grows. And this French publisher? You’ve not told me about your meetings.”
“No.”
