Gray laid the glass down. "I don't know what you're talking about."

De Massloff smiled. "Yes you do."

He slept badly that night, then woke at dawn to the sound of thunder and hard rain. He spent a long time cleaning brushes and priming a canvas, then settled into a chair by the window to wait. As the appointed hour of her arrival came and went, he began to eye what was left of the brandy. And yes, de Massloff had been right, it was getting serious.

But at some point just before the rain stopped he heard her climbing the staircase again. She entered with a black umbrella. The cold had brought out the color in her cheeks, but her eyes were about the same.

"I thought you weren't coming," he heard himself babble.

"Why? Because of a little rain? I love the rain."

He gave her coffee fortified with brandy, then used the last of the coal on a wood fire. When she finally emerged naked again, he pretended to study an earlier sketch while following her movements in a cracked oval mirror. He had always loved these nonchalant moments between undressing and the formal pose. He loved the way she walked on the balls of her feet, the way she ran her fingers through her hair.

He worked methodically with only the simplest lines. He worked with the shadows, because if you understood the shadows, the form would take care of itself. He used only what he knew best and ignored everything else. He just tried to paint the girl . . . until she began to come alive on the canvas—this mysteriously beautiful girl from nowhere.

It left him exhausted, resting in a chair with a glass of cheap wine. She had slipped into her dressing gown and lit a cigarette, but for the first time in days he ignored her.

"Is it finished?"

He nodded. "Nearly."

"May I look at it?"

He nodded again, then shut his eyes and heard her whisper, "But it's really me!"

He took a deep breath. "I'm glad you like it."

"No, Nicky, I love it. It's beautiful, truly beautiful."

She moved back to the wall, and although he still hadn't looked at her, he knew that she was watching. "You should have told me," she said quietly.

"Told you?"

"That you could paint like that."

She laid the cigarette aside, swept back her hair. It was raining again. "If you want to paint another I could come back tomorrow." He shook his head. "No, not tomorrow."

"Why not?"

But before he could answer she knelt down beside him and took his hand. "Because I really want you to paint me again, Nicky. I really do."

He could not quite avoid her eyes or the lingering scent of her hair. The first kiss was tentative. Then she moved to the bed without speaking, and there were no other sounds from the neighboring rooms . . . only the hiss of rain.