Flirting With Forever Gwyn Cready (best book series to read txt) đ
- Author: Gwyn Cready
Book online «Flirting With Forever Gwyn Cready (best book series to read txt) đ». Author Gwyn Cready
For a moment, neither woman said anything, then Jeanne pul ed her eyes away from the book and regarded Cam closely. âSo whatâs it like posing for a portrait?â
Cam flushed. âHow the heck would I know?â
âOh, I donât know. Maybe because you lived with a guy who paints portraits for four years? I mean, even with your boobs laid out like oranges in Lucite cages, itâs got to be kinda flattering.â
Cam felt the pins of embarrassment prickle her face.
Jacketâs pieces had always been done without a model. He claimed they were amalgams of many women heâd known, and he did them from memory. Thus, she had ended four rol er-coaster years of happiness, hot sex and knock-down, drag-out fights with not so much as a sketch on a napkin to show that she had inspired anything in his work.
âNo,â she said. âJacket doesnât use models. His work isnât about people in particular. Itâs about both the objectification of subjects in art and the rising of the human spirit against it.â Sheâd repeated this phrase so often in her life, she felt like she had it tattooed on her forehead.
âReal y?â
âYes.â
Cam returned with the book to her desk. She flipped by two more pages, but the self-portrait that dominated the third made her stop. Where Rembrandtâs self-portraits projected impishness and Van Dyckâs a quiet self-confidence, Lely had chosen to portray himself as both knowing and seeking, as if his lifeâs experiences had left him slightly adrift. His hair, luxurious and auburn, framed his face in loose curls that reached to his shoulders. A strong nose led to a pliant mouth with ful lips that looked capable of both an easy smile and something more complicated.
The gentlest curve of cheek hung by the corners of his mouth, a signal of middle age in an artist unafraid of such trivialities. The shadow of a late-day beard burnished his cheeks and chin, but it was his eyes that struck her most.
Cam eased her glasses out of her purse and slipped them on. She didnât like to wear them and only needed a little magnification, but for this she would endure the potential embarrassment.
Lelyâs eyes were dark and liquidâSierra Nevada Porter on a warm summerâs night. And the single dot of cream in the irisesâa painterâs trick, she knew, but in Lelyâs capable hand a trick for which she wil ingly suspended disbeliefâ
signaled such a potent mix of pain and joy it made her heart cramp.
She exhaled, unaware sheâd been holding her breath.
âWow.â
âWow again?â
âItâs Lely.â Camâs gaze returned involuntarily to the self-portrait. âHe was, uh ⊠uh ⊠uh âŠâ Those eyes seemed to be looking right at her.
âSuch a wel -nuanced argument. I donât understand why youâre not on the lecture circuit.â
Cam ran her finger across the portraitâs glossy surface, recal ing her grad school reading. âHe was German, I think.
No. No. Born in Germany to Dutch parents. Thatâs it.â
âWho? Van Dyck?â
âNo, Lely. And he moved to England young, I think. Like twenty-one or twenty-two. After being admitted to the Guild of Saint Luke, the trade association for painters in Hol and.â
âHave we changed the subject of the book? Because Iâd sure hate to lose that first sentence. Itâs a kil er.â Jeanne picked up the Lely exhibition catalog and returned to her desk with it.
With an effort, Cam returned her gaze to the screen. Sex and Van Dyck, she reminded herself. Youâre here for sex and rivalry, and ran the mouse past the picture on the screen, to where the large âLOOK INSIDE!â was perched, and when she did, a menu popped up. ââFront Cover,â
âBack Cover,â âTable of Contentsâ or âSurprise Me!â?â
The choice was obvious. She let the cursor hover over the words and pursed her lips, saying a quiet prayer that the click she was about to make would deliver her directly into Van Dyckâs bedchamber, with a tale of sex, lies and oil paint that could be knitted directly into her biography. Oh God, please surprise me.
As she brought her finger down, Camâs gaze slipped to the cover of the Lely catalog in Jeanneâs hand, wondering once again what sort of man it took to earn such a bemused, smoky look
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