“Who else, Novalee?”

“Sebastian,” I choke out.

“Hmm.” Removing his touch, he returns to his full height and wanders to my closet. “Am I wrong in assuming this attraction to our resident artist bothers you?”

“No, Mr. Bordeaux. You’re not wrong.”

“That’s interesting,” he says, hangers sliding on the rod as he rummages through my meager wardrobe. “And unfortunate for you.”

I wait for him to continue, hoping he’ll elaborate, but too many moments pass without a hint of what he meant by that comment. I peek at him from under my lashes as he pulls out a blush pink dress that flows to the ankles. It’s one of my favorites, the fabric light and soft with thin spaghetti straps that leave my shoulders bare. From the corner of my eye, I watch him drape the garment across my bed.

“Take a shower. Wax and shave and do whatever else you ladies do to make yourselves irresistible.” He strides to the door but halts on the threshold. “And don’t wear any undergarments. I’ll see you in the great room in an hour.”

10

The likeness of Evangeline Castle seems to follow me down the hall on the first floor as I walk behind Mr. Bordeaux, my hands clasped at the small of my back. Her portrait is reminiscent of a living entity, the shape of her full lips conveying a secret, the tilt of her stubborn chin urging me to stand my ground, the slits of her knowing eyes taunting me with her own downfall.

Don’t fall for the lion, a phantom voice whispers through my mind.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, because Mr. Bordeaux leads me down another hallway, and I suspect he’s headed toward Sebastian’s studio. Another turn, and we enter through a door, confirming my suspicion.

I’m in the lion’s den, and not even the warning from Evangeline’s ghost can keep me away.

Mr. Bordeaux comes to a stop, and I sink to my knees as he shoots a glance over his shoulder. Tentatively, I raise my hand.

“Yes, my queen?”

“May I have permission to speak, Mr. Bordeaux?”

“You may.”

“Why are we in Sebastian’s studio?”

“You’ve been here before?”

“Yes. Once.”

“I have him on retainer. He’s going to paint your portrait.”

Muffling a gasp, I swallow the burning questions threatening to sprout from my mouth.

Is Sebastian going to paint one of his infamous portraits?

The kind that involve jewels and little else?

Will he be allowed to touch me?

My teeth clamp down on my tongue, slaying the temptation. But God, this rule of not speaking is killing me.

We’re alone in Sebastian’s studio until the door opens several minutes later, hinges almost silent except for the hyper-tuned state of my ears, and a thrill ignites in my veins. There’s no denying I’m excited to see him.