Burnt Sienna

1

Startled by the sudden approach of the helicopter, Sienna’s Arabian stallion faltered at the jump, nearly throwing her into the stream. Momentarily off balance, she tightened her thighs against the horse’s flanks. As the stallion threatened to lurch down the stream’s bank, she eased the pressure from her right thigh, applied more pressure to the left, and simultaneously did the same with her hands on the reins. Turning the horse away from the stream, she pressed down on her heels while expertly easing back on the reins, then came to a stop just as the helicopter thundered past overhead. An opening in the trees allowed her to glimpse it while only someone peering directly down would have been able to spot her. Then the helicopter was gone, approaching the hills.

Patting the Arabian’s neck, whispering assurances, Sienna waited for the roar to recede completely. The time was a little before eight. The estate had two helicopters, and at dawn, as she had reached the stable, the first one had taken off. She couldn’t help wondering if Derek was aboard either of them. In fact, she hoped he was. She dreaded going back to the château, finding him there, and straining to adjust to whatever mood he was in this morning. He’d been gone for six days, and it had taken her three of those days to recover from his icy attitude before he left. During the past few months, no matter how she had tried to relate to him, she hadn’t been successful. Interpreting his thoughts had become impossible.

Sometimes she wondered what would happen if she just kept riding, taking a cross-country route, avoiding roads and lanes, heading up into the hills. How far could she get? And what would she be able to do once she was far from the estate? She had no food or water. Certainly she’d arouse suspicion if she packed saddlebags with provisions before she set out for her daily ride. She had never been able to prove it, but she suspected that Derek had men watching her from a distance as she rode through the outreaches of the estate. If she did manage to prove she was being watched, Derek would no doubt shrug and say he wanted to make certain she was protected. She had no money, had no access to it. Derek kept strict control of that. She could have pocketed some of her jewels, but where was she going to find anyone in the countryside who could pay her what they were worth? Without money, she couldn’t feed herself, get a hotel room, or even buy a bus ticket if she tried to get away from Derek. However she looked at it, she was trapped. Perhaps that was why the helicopter had thundered in this direction – to remind her that she was never really alone, that she had no hope of leaving.

Riding back toward the compound, she barely noticed the sunbathed scenery around her. She was too preoccupied, knowing that in less than an hour she would have to deal with the new complication that Derek had introduced: the artist he had hired to paint her. Artist? She didn’t understand. Derek never did anything on a whim. What was he thinking? Rubbing her left arm where he had twisted it sharply before he left the previous week, she told herself that, regrettably, she would soon find out.

2

When the stables came into view, she dismounted, took off her helmet, and shook her head, letting her lush hair fall loose. As she led the Arabian along a lane bordered by cypresses, she knew she could have asked one of the stable men to walk the horse and cool it down, but she enjoyed the intimacy of taking care of her horse as much as she did the exertion of riding it. She turned to pat the horse’s neck and murmur endearments, looked ahead, and faltered at the sight of the artist coming out of the stables and leaning against a rail.

The formal dress of last night’s dinner had made it difficult for her to assess his bearing. A tuxedo always gave a man more presence than he normally had. Now the artist’s casual clothes – sneakers, jeans, and a blue chambray shirt, the cuffs of which were folded up – made it easier to assess him. He was tall – six feet or so – trim yet muscular, obviously accustomed to exercise. His tan face was attractive in a rugged fashion, his sand-colored hair slightly long, curling at the back of his neck. The way he crossed his arms made him seem comfortable with himself.

“Good morning.” His smile was engaging. “Did you have a good ride?”

“Very,” she lied. “But I must have lost track of the time. I was supposed to meet you in the sunroom at nine. Am I late?”

“No, I’m early. Getting to know you where we’ll be working seemed limited. I thought it would be helpful if I met you at a place where you feel at ease.”

“I feel at ease everywhere, Mr. Malone.”

“Please call me Chase.”

“My husband didn’t mention it last night, but I used to be a model. I’ll feel at ease wherever you pose me.”

“But posing isn’t what I want from you.”

Sienna shook her head in confusion. “Then how are you going to do the portrait?”

“We’ll figure that out together.”

Her puzzlement was interrupted when a sudden nudge from behind nearly pushed her off balance. It came from her horse. “Excuse me,” she said. “He feels ignored.”

“Sure. Finish cooling him down.”

“You know about horses?” At once she remembered. “That’s right. Last night, you said you rode when you were a boy.”

“At my grandfather’s farm. Do you want me to get a halter?”

“Why not? You’ll find one in -”

“The tack room in the stable. First door on the right. I saw it when I was looking around.”

When he came back with the halter, Sienna switched it for the bit and bridle on the stallion, then led the horse to a rail. She raised the left stirrup and unbuckled the saddle. “What did you mean, we’ll figure out together how to do the portrait?”

“I’m not a portrait artist. My specialty is landscapes.”

“What?” Sienna straightened. “Then why did my husband hire you?”

“Actually, it’s called ‘offer a commission.’ I’m sensitive about the word hire. Basically, your husband likes my work, and he’s awfully hard to turn down.”

“That’s my husband all right.”

“But I do know how to paint, Mrs. Bellasar.”

“I don’t doubt it. Call me Sienna.”

“Have you eaten yet?”

“Just a couple of apples I shared with my friend here.”

“Then maybe we could have breakfast.”

3

While a guard watched from a side of the terrace, they sat at a wrought-iron table, an umbrella sheltering them from the sun, which was warm for February.

“Chase?” She sipped her coffee. “That’s an unusual first name.”

“Actually, it’s a nickname. My first name is Charles, but at one of the grade schools I went to -”

“One of them?”

“I went to a lot. It’s a long story. The teacher put a list of our names on a bulletin board to make it easier for us to get to know one another. To save time, she used abbreviations. Richard was Rich. Daniel was Dan. Charles was Chas. She put a period after it, but the period had a little curlicue that made it look like an e, so the kids started making fun of me, calling me Chase. It didn’t bother me, though. In fact, I thought it sounded kind of cool, so I kept it.”

“Nothing metaphysical about being chased or chasing your destiny?” Sienna picked up a croissant.

“There were plenty of instances, especially in the military, when chasing was going on. As far as being an artist goes, I think I did find my destiny. But you’re not doing a portrait of me. I need to learn about you.”

“I thought you’d be working by now,” a voice interrupted.

When Sienna turned and saw her husband standing at an open door that led to the terrace, her stomach contracted. No longer hungry, she set down her croissant.

But Chase took a bite from his own, responding calmly, “We’ve already started.”

“You have a strange way of painting.”

“Painting’s the easy part. It’s the thought that goes into it that’s hard. I’m being efficient, eating breakfast while I study my subject.”

Chase made it sound like a joke, but when he glanced at her, his gaze assuring, Sienna suddenly realized how attentive his blue eyes were. Despite the casual way he’d been looking at her, she had the sense that she’d never been looked at so totally, not even when she’d been a model.

A burst of machine-gun fire broke the stillness. From the range beyond the Cloister. On edge, Sienna jerked her head in that direction. Managing to calm herself, she returned her attention to her husband, noticing that neither he nor Chase had been distracted.

“Sounds like a.50-caliber,” Chase said.

“You have a good ear.”

“Well, I’ve been shot at by them often enough.”

“One of my engineers is working on a modification, a faster feeding mechanism.”

“How are they compensating for the increase in heat?”

“That’s the problem.”

The subject infuriated her. No. Inwardly shaking her head, she corrected herself. What infuriated her was that the man with whom she had been talking, an artist who had seemed to display sensitivity during the conversation, was as comfortable talking about guns as was her husband. The two were no different.

She stood. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go shower, fix my hair, and get ready for the session.” She made herself look indifferently down at Chase. “What would you like me to wear?”

“Those boots, jodhpurs, and leather jacket you’ve got on are fine. And if you wouldn’t usually shower right now, I wish you wouldn’t. I want to get an idea of what you are, not what you’d like me to think you are. Don’t fix your hair or freshen your makeup. Don’t do anything special. Just let me look at you.”

His gaze was once again total. It made her shiver.

Whump-whump-whump. With an increasing roar, one of the helicopters returned, a distant speck that enlarged into a grotesque dragonfly and set down on the compound’s landing pad, halfway between the château and the Cloister.

“I look forward to seeing the progress you make,” her husband said, a vague warning in his voice. But it was obvious that his attention was elsewhere as he stepped from the terrace and walked with anticipation along a stone path near a rose garden and a fountain, approaching a man stepping down from the helicopter.

4

The man was too far away for Malone to get more than a general look at him. The hearty way he and Bellasar shook hands, then gripped each other’s arms, it was clear the two knew each other well and hadn’t seen each other for a while. Wider at the hips and waist than at his chest, the newcomer had rounded, forward-leaning shoulders, which suggested he spent a lot of time hunched over a desk. He wore a suit and tie, was Caucasian, and had hair only at the sides of his head. At a distance, his age was hard to tell, maybe mid-forties. He turned with concern toward several large wooden crates being unloaded from the helicopter. Each crate was heavy enough to require two men to lift it, and as one of the men stumbled, almost losing his grip on his end of the crate, the newcomer stepped frantically backward, gesturing in alarm, his barked command to be careful echoing the hundred yards to the terrace.

“Ah, the artist’s life,” a caustic voice said.

Reluctantly, Malone switched his attention from the helicopter toward Potter, who stepped from the château.

“A pleasant chat over a late breakfast. No schedule to worry about.”

“I’ve already had this conversation with your boss,” Malone said.

“Then there’s no point in being repetitive.” Potter took off his glasses and polished them. “I never question methods of working as long as they get results. Good morning, Sienna.”

“Good morning, Alex.”

“Did you enjoy your ride?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Are you getting along with Mr. Malone? He has a tendency to be abrasive.”

“I haven’t noticed.”

“Then perhaps it’s only to me.” Potter put his glasses back on and stepped from the terrace. His squat figure got smaller, as he followed the same route past the rose garden and fountain that Bellasar had, joining the group as they entered the Cloister.

“He obviously doesn’t like me,” Malone said, “but am I wrong, or did he seem a little distant to you?”

“There’s only one person he gets along with, and that’s my husband.”

“A first-class guard dog.”

5

The sunroom smelled musty. It was a single-story extension of the château, built onto the terrace, the floor made of the same flagstones that led into it. With a southern exposure, it had a wall of windows and several skylights.

“It must be ten degrees warmer than outside,” Malone said. “I imagine you eat breakfast in here on chilly days.”

“No, the room hasn’t been used since I’ve lived here.”

“With a view like this…”

“Derek isn’t fond of the place.”

It was spacious, with a high ceiling. Except for several wooden tables along the left side, it was so empty, their footsteps echoed.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to change my clothes?” Sienna asked.

“I don’t want anything except for you to do what you’d normally do.” Malone sat on one of the tables, his legs dangling. “See, my problem is how to do this portrait so it captures you, so someone who knows you will say, ‘Yes, that’s Sienna there all right. That’s not only how she looks but what she is.’”

“Whatever that is.”

Malone chuckled. “There’s nothing like a heavy conversation to put you at ease.”

“You don’t need to entertain me.”

“After all the weeks I spent learning to play the banjo.”

Sienna half-smiled.

The next few seconds stretched on and on as Malone studied the curve of her slightly parted lips, the unique combination of brightness and vulnerability in that half smile.

“What are you doing?”

“Doing?”

“The way you’re… Even when I was a model, no one ever stared that hard at me.”

“Sorry.” Malone felt his cheeks turn warm with self-consciousness. “I don’t mean to seem rude. I have to look at you that way. By the time this project is finished, I’ll know your face better than I’ve known anyone else’s in my life. Can I ask you a question?”

She looked unsure.

“I told you how I got mine. How did you get yours?”

“I don’t -”

“Your first name.”

“Oh.” She seemed relieved. “There’s not much to tell. My parents were Italian-Americans. From a little town in Illinois. But their parents had come from Italy, from Siena, and all the old folks ever talked about was how wonderful that part of Italy was, so when my parents went on their honeymoon, that’s the place they chose. They couldn’t think of a more loving first name to give me.”

“Your parents were Italian-Americans?”

“They died when I was twelve.”

“… I’m sorry,” Malone said.

“My mother was killed in a car accident. My father had a heart attack two months later, but I always thought it was literally a broken heart.”

“You loved them.”

“Very much. The way you said that, did you really think I might say no?”

“Everybody’s situation is different.”

“You didn’t get along with your parents?”

Malone was surprised that he’d opened the subject. “I never had any arguments with my father.” He surprised himself further. “It’s hard to fight with somebody you’ve never met.”

A burst of machine-gun fire broke the moment. Malone turned toward the sunroom’s open door. The stuttering blast echoed from behind the Cloister. “Doesn’t that get on your nerves?”

“Actually, the pauses are what bother me,” she said. “It’s like when I lived in Manhattan. I got so used to the noise of traffic, even in the middle of the night, that I felt something was wrong if I was somewhere quiet.”

“Well, this sunroom’s about as quiet as it’s going to get.”

6

Malone brought a chair from a corner and set it in the light. It was wooden, with a slotted back. “This doesn’t look very comfortable. We should bring a cushion from -”

“It’s not a problem.” But when Sienna lowered herself onto the chair, she did look uncomfortable. “What do you want me to do?”

“Do? Nothing. Just sit there.”

“But how do you want me? Head tilted to the right or left? Eyes up or down?”

“Whatever way you feel natural.” Malone picked up a large sketch pad and a box of charcoal crayons. “This is very preliminary.”

“Do you mind if I stand?”

“So long as you keep your face in my direction.”

The charcoal scratched on the pad.

She looked more uneasy. “Photographers hated it if I stood still. I had to keep moving. Often, there was rock music. When the film in one camera was exposed, they’d quickly hand it to an assistant, then switch to another camera and never miss a shot. They’d have a fan pointed at my hair so when I spun, my hair twirled. They’d tell me to keep fluffing it with my hands.”

Malone’s charcoal crayon stopped scratching.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“You’re going to have to keep still for me. Don’t exaggerate. But I do need you a little less animated if I’m going to make a good likeness.”

“Can I talk at least? Photographers also hated it when I talked.”

“Be my guest.” Malone made a few more scratches with the charcoal, then tore the sheet from the pad and set it on a table.

“That one didn’t turn out? Did I move too much?”

“No, it’s fine for what it is.” Malone resumed scratching on the pad. “It’s just a study. I’ll do hundreds before I try anything permanent.”

“Hundreds?”

“To get a feel for your face.”

“The photographers I worked with sometimes took hundreds of exposures in a session.”

“Well, this is going to take longer.”

Sienna raised her eyebrows.

The expression was marvelous. “Good.”

7

“Madame, will you be wanting lunch?”

Confused, Malone turned toward an aproned servant standing in the doorway. “So early?”

“It’s almost two, monsieur.”

Malone’s confusion changed to amazement when he looked at the table behind him. A chaos of sketches littered it. “My God,” he told Sienna, “you must be exhausted.”

She was sitting on the chair by now. “A little. But you were so engrossed, I didn’t want to say anything. Besides, it’s been interesting.” She thanked the servant.

“Interesting?” Malone followed Sienna onto the terrace. His eyes adjusted to the increased brightness. “Watching me draw?”

“No, talking with you.”

Malone tried to remember their conversation. He’d been so absorbed in working while glancing surreptitiously outside toward the helicopter area and the Cloister that the things they’d talked about were a blur.

“I haven’t had a long conversation with anybody in quite a while.” Sienna sat at a table and told the servant, “Just a salad and iced tea, please.”

Malone ordered the same. “Yes, your husband’s so busy, you must be alone a lot.”

Sienna didn’t respond, but something in her eyes made Malone suspect that even when she and Bellasar were together, they didn’t talk.

“You never met your father?”

The question caught him by surprise. It took him a moment to recall their unfinished topic from when they’d entered the sunroom.

Sienna looked apologetic. “Don’t answer if I’m being too personal.”

“No, that’s all right. I don’t mind talking about it. My mother was a drunk.” Malone tried to sound matter-of-fact, but he couldn’t stop bitterness from creeping into his voice. “She had a string of boyfriends I was supposed to call Dad, but I never did.”

“At the stables, you mentioned something about a grandfather.”

“My mother’s father. He took care of me on his farm when my mother wasn’t dragging me from state to state with whatever boyfriend she had at the time. I spent a lot of time by myself. That’s when I started to draw.”

“It just goes to show – sometimes good can come out of bad.” She sounded as if she wanted to believe it.

“Excellent,” Bellasar said, approaching from the sunroom. “You’ve begun.”

Sienna stiffened.

“You saw the sketches?” Malone asked.

“They’re very promising. Any of them could be the basis for a splendid portrait,” Bellasar said.

“They probably won’t be. I’ve got a long way to go.”

“But sometimes first instincts are best. It’s possible to overthink something.”

“True.”

“I’m glad we agree. Not every task has to be difficult and take forever. My wife is an uncommonly beautiful woman. All you have to do is portray her beauty.”

“But she’s beautiful in a hundred different ways,” Malone said. “Since I’m not going to do a hundred portraits, I need to figure out which way most reflects her nature.”

Sienna glanced down at her hands.

“Forgive us, my dear,” Bellasar said.

“For what?”

“Speaking about you as if you’re not here. Going back to work wasn’t too tedious?”

“Not at all. I found it interesting.”

“Well then,” Bellasar said, “let’s hope it continues that way.”

8

It certainly continued that way for Malone. He couldn’t help thinking about the proverb that equated hell with interesting times. The days assumed a pattern. Each morning before work, he did calisthenics by the pool. He would have preferred to jog but needed to be stationary at a location that allowed him to keep watch on the helicopter pad and the Cloister. After Sienna returned from horseback riding, he joined her for breakfast, then went to work with her, trying to conceal his interest in what was going on outside. As the afternoon progressed, he offered to quit early in case she was tired. Always, she told him she wanted to continue. When they separated at five, he knew that he would see her again for cocktails at seven.

That was Bellasar’s evening routine – cocktails (although Bellasar kept to his vegetable juice) and dinner (the dress always formal). Malone hoped someone else would be invited: the man who had arrived on the chopper that first morning and who had been so nervous about the rough way the crates he had brought were being unloaded. Malone wanted a closer look at him. Perhaps the man would reveal something about his relationship with Bellasar. But as far as Malone could tell, the man remained in the Cloister.

Sometimes, Malone found another centuries-old first edition on his bedside table, to be analyzed by Bellasar during dinner. Hobbes’s Leviathan was one, a 1651 treatise maintaining that warfare was the natural state of humans and that the only way to achieve peace was by the force of a dictator. Bellasar’s implication was that supplying arms to repressive regimes wasn’t the evil it was made out to be. By preventing the masses from following their natural instincts and lunging for one another’s throats, dictatorships saved lives – so did arms dealers.

After conversations of this sort, during which Sienna remained silent, Malone climbed the curving staircase to his second-story room, more on guard than he’d been since he’d left the military. No matter his tense sleep, he awoke the next morning with greater concentration, more committed to the dangerous balance he had to maintain. If he focused his attention too much on Sienna, he risked failing to notice something important at the Cloister. But if he didn’t focus on her, he wouldn’t accomplish the quality of work that he wanted, and that could be equally dangerous, for Bellasar might think that he wasn’t making an effort.

9

“You won’t be working today.”

Sienna looked disappointed. “Why?”

“We’re ready to begin the next stage. I have to get the surface ready.” Malone showed her a large piece of plywood on a table.

“I thought painters use canvas.”

“The kind of paint I’m going to use is called tempera. It needs a more rigid surface than canvas. This piece of plywood is old enough that it won’t warp anymore. The chemicals in it have evaporated, so they won’t affect the paint. But just in case, I’m going to seal it with this glue.” He pointed toward a pot of white viscous liquid on a hot plate.

“It smells chalky.”

“That’s what’s in it.” Malone dipped a brush into the pot and applied the mixture to the board.

As soon as the board was covered, he set down the brush and rubbed his fingers over the warm glue.

“Why are you doing that?”

“To get rid of the air bubbles.”

Sienna looked intrigued.

“Care to try?” he asked.

“You’re serious?”

“If you don’t mind getting your hands sticky.”

She hesitated. Her cinnamon eyes brightened when she ran her fingers through the glue. “It reminds me of when I was in kindergarten, doing finger painting.”

“Except that in this case, we don’t want to leave a pattern.” Malone brushed the layer smooth.

“It never occurred to me that painting involved more than drawing shapes and using color.”

“If you want it to last, it involves a lot of other things.” Malone handed her the brush. “Why don’t you put on the next coat?”

“But what if I make a mistake?”

“I’ll fix it.”

She dipped the brush into the pot. “Not very much, right?”

“That’s the idea.”

“Is there any special way to do this?”

“Pick a corner.”

She chose the upper right.

“Now brush to the left. You can use short back-and-forth strokes, but when it comes to the finishing strokes, brush only to the left. Go down a little, and move to the left again. Excellent. Make sure everything’s smooth. Are you feeling any drag on the brush?”

“A little resistance.”

“Good. Stop a minute. We want it to start drying but not get hard.”

“Since you’re moving to the next stage, you must have decided how you want to pose me.”

Malone nodded.

“What pose is it? How am I going to look?”

“See for yourself.” He pointed toward a sketch on another table.

She approached it uncertainly, peering down. For long seconds, she didn’t say anything. “I’m smiling, but I look sad.”

“And vulnerable, but determined not to get hurt anymore.”

Sienna’s voice was almost a whisper. “That’s how I seem to you?”

“One of the ways. Do you object?”

She kept staring at the sketch. “No. I don’t object.”

“You have all kinds of expressions, but most of them don’t show what’s going on behind your eyes. At first, I assumed it was a habit from when you were a model. After all, the company that hired you to pose in whatever dress they were selling couldn’t have cared less if you happened to be feeling glum when you did the sitting. They just wanted you to make the damned dress look good. So I imagine you did your job, turned on your smile, put a glint in your eyes, and lowered a shield behind those eyes.”

“A lot of days, it was like that.”

“But every once in a while, when I was studying you -”

“Which I don’t mind any longer, by the way. I’m amazed that I’ve gotten used to it. When I was a model, the looks I got were usually predatory. But yours don’t threaten me. They make me feel good about myself.”

“You don’t normally feel good about yourself?”

“The man who drew that sketch knows the answer.”

“Every once in a while, when I was studying you, the shield behind your eyes would disappear, and this is how you seemed to me. Your sadness and vulnerability are what make you beautiful. Or maybe it’s the reverse.”

“The reverse?”

“I wonder if it’s your beauty that makes you sad and vulnerable.”

Sienna’s throat sounded dry. “In the sketch, I’m looking to my right. At what?”

“Whatever’s important to you.”

“A breeze from that direction is blowing my hair. Somehow you’ve created the illusion that whatever I’m looking at is passing me.”

“The important things are passing all of us.”

10

Sienna hurried up the steps to the sunbathed terrace and tried not to falter when she didn’t see Chase at the wrought-iron table, where they usually met before going to work. I’m a little early, she told herself. He’ll be here shortly. But before she could sit down, she saw a servant carry a large bowl of something into the sunroom.

Puzzled, she followed. The servant came out as Sienna entered. She saw Chase peering down at what was now visible to her in the bowl. Eggs.

“Good morning.” He smiled.

“Good morning. You’re going to have breakfast in here?”

“I might not have breakfast at all. I’m too eager to get started.” Chase picked up an egg, cracked it, divided its shell, and poured the yolk from one half to the other, making the white drop into a bowl.

Still thinking he intended to eat the eggs for breakfast, Sienna asked, “How are you going to cook them?”

“I’m not. I’m going to make paint with them.”

“What?”

Chase eased the yolk from the half shell and placed it on a paper towel, where he rolled it gently, blotting off the remainder of the white.

“You’re gentle,” Sienna said. “I’d have broken the yolk by now.”

“Believe me, years ago, I broke plenty when I was learning.” With a thumb and forefinger, Chase picked up the yolk by the edge of its sack and dangled it over a clean jar. “Feel like helping?”

“I’d break it.”

“At this point, we want to. Use that knife to puncture the bottom of the yolk. Carefully. Good.” Chase let the yolk drip from its sack, then delicately squeezed the remainder out.

“Here.” He handed her an egg.

“What?”

“Help me prepare more yolks.”

“But…”

“You saw how it’s done. The worst that can happen is we have to get more eggs.”

She chuckled. “Yesterday I was finger painting. Today you’ve got me playing with food.” But after she cracked the egg and separated the white from the yolk, she wasn’t prepared for how sensual it felt to roll the intact yolk in a paper towel and blot off the remainder of the white. The soft pouch felt extremely vulnerable through the paper towel, needing to be handled with the utmost care. When she transferred it to the palm of her hand, the yolk felt surprisingly dry, delicately quivering, the tactile sensation intensifying.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Why?”

“I can’t remember the last time I had a pleasurable new experience.”

“If separating eggs is your idea of a good time…” Now it was Chase’s turn to chuckle.

She enjoyed the sound of it. “How many do you need?”

“Eight.” He lanced the yolk he held.

“What do you want with them?”

“After dinner last night, I came back here and ground the pigments you see in those other jars.”

Sienna studied them. White, black, red, blue, green, yellow, violet, and brown. Except for one, they were common colors, and yet she didn’t think she’d ever seen any so pure and lustrous. “That shade of brown is unusual.”

“Burnt sienna.”

She felt a shock of recognition.

“The shade of your skin,” Chase said. “Your parents named you well. It happens to be my favorite color.”

She looked in amazement from the jar to her arm.

“It’s distinguished by a brilliant, transparent, fiery undertone that’s especially suited for a medium as brilliant and luminous as tempera,” Chase said.

After adding one pigment to each of the yolks, he blended the mixtures with distilled water until they were fluid enough to be applied to a surface. “And now we’re ready to rock and roll.”

11

The plywood was on an easel, its chalk surface covered with a version of the sketch that Chase had selected.

“So now you color the sketch?” Sienna asked.

“No, it’s more complicated than that.” He guided her toward her chair, which he had placed in front of the easel. “The sketch is only a blueprint.”

Until that moment, she had thought that he’d stared at her as intensely as anyone possibly could, but now she realized that he hadn’t really stared at her at all. The power of the concentration he now directed toward her was eerie. From five feet away, his gaze seemed to touch her. Along her neck, her lips, her eyelids, her brow. She felt invisible fingers caress her skin, making it tingle. She felt something from him sink beneath her, warming her, becoming one with her.

“Are you all right?”

“What?” She straightened in the chair.

“You look like you’re falling asleep. If you want to get some rest, we can try again later.”

“No,” she said quickly. “I’m fine. Keep going.”

Chase managed to keep his intense gaze focused on her all the while he dipped his brush into a jar of paint, used his left thumb and forefinger to squeeze some of the paint from the brush, and applied the paint to the rigid surface. Sometimes, his hand went to the surface automatically, as if he knew how the image he was creating appeared without needing to look at it except for quick glances while he concentrated on her.

Overwhelmed, needing to talk but not knowing what about, she said the first thing that came into her mind. “I can feel you painting me.”

“If this makes you uncomfortable…”

“No. I don’t mind it at all. How long will the portrait take?”

“As long as it needs. That’s one of the advantages of tempera. I can add layer after layer for weeks before the yolk finally becomes so inert it refuses to accept another level. Don’t worry, though. This isn’t going to take weeks.”

Sienna surprised herself by thinking that she wouldn’t mind if it did.

A muffled explosion rattled the windows.

“What are they doing over there?” Chase asked.

“I have no idea. I’ve never seen that part of the estate.”

Chase looked surprised.

“When Derek and I were married, he told me I wasn’t allowed over there. I didn’t know how serious he was until curiosity got the better of me and I tried to get a look. A guard stopped me before I was halfway there. That night, the discussion at dinner wasn’t pleasant. I never tried again.”

“You didn’t know how he earned his money when you married him?”

Sienna rubbed her forehead.

“Sorry. That’s a question I have no business asking.”

“No, it’s all right.” She exhaled wearily. “I should have asked more questions of my own. I had a vague idea of what he did, but I didn’t make certain connections. What is it they say? The devil’s in the details. Once I began to understand the specifics, I wished I were still naïve.”

The next thing, Chase was standing over her. “Are you okay?”

Her shoulder tingled from the touch of his hand. “It’s nothing. A headache.”

“Maybe we should stop until after lunch.”

“No, we had a rhythm going.”

12

“It’s exquisite.” Bellasar’s smile was as bright as Malone had ever seen it, emphasizing the tan of his broad, handsome face. “Better than I dared hope. More imaginative than I dreamed a portrait could be. Isn’t it, Alex?”

“Yes,” Potter said without enthusiasm.

It was eight days later. They were in the library, where Bellasar had insisted on a special unveiling, champagne for everyone, except, of course, Bellasar.

“There’s something dark and unsettling about it. At the same time, it’s bright with celebration,” Bellasar said. “A study in contrasts. The paradox of beauty.”

“That was the idea,” Malone said.

“Then I understand it.” Bellasar was pleased. “You see, whatever your opinion of me, I do have an appreciation of art. There was a moment, I confess, when your attitude made me wonder if I’d chosen the right artist.”

Potter nodded, his spectacled eyes fixed not on the portrait but on Malone.

“What do you think, my dear?” Bellasar turned toward where Sienna stood uncomfortably in the background. “How does it feel to have your beauty immortalized? The glory of beauty – the sadness that it doesn’t last. But here in this painting, it’s preserved forever.” Bellasar looked at Malone for reassurance. “You did say the materials were chosen to last an unusually long time.”

“Oil on canvas tends to crack after several hundred years,” Malone said. “But tempera on wood… with six layers of foundation beneath the paint and the glaze I put over it…”

“Yes?” Bellasar’s eyes were intense.

“I don’t see why, in a thousand years, it’ll look any different.”

“A thousand years. Imagine.” Bellasar was spellbound. “Impermanent beauty made permanent. Dante’s Beatrice.”

Although Malone understood the reference, Bellasar felt the need to explain. “When Dante was nine, he saw a girl a few months younger than himself. Her beauty so struck him that he worshiped her from afar until her death sixteen years later. Her name was Beatrice, and she so inspired Dante to meditate about ideal beauty that the Divine Comedy was the consequence. Sienna’s beauty inspired you in a similar way. And of course the inspiration will become greater as you work on the second portrait.”

“Second portrait?” Sienna sounded puzzled. “But this one turned out so well, why would you want -”

“Because the second will emphasize your body as much as this does your face.”

“My body?”

“Nude.”

“Nude?” Sienna turned toward Malone. “Did you know about this?”

Reluctantly, awkwardly, he said, “Yes.”

She spun toward Bellasar. “I won’t have anything to do with this.”

“Of course you will. We’ll talk about it upstairs.” Bellasar gripped her arm, the force of his hand whitening her dark skin as he led her across the library. At the door, he glanced back at Malone. “If you’re curious about Dante and Beatrice, Rossetti translated Dante’s autobiography.” He gestured proprietarially toward the far wall. “You’ll find an 1861 edition of Dante and His Circle over there, although naturally, my own preference is to read the original Italian.”

Then Bellasar and Sienna were gone, leaving Malone with Potter and the servant who had poured the champagne.

Potter stopped scowling at Malone and addressed his attention to the portrait. His slight nod might have been in approval, but the sarcasm in his voice was unmistakable. “A career-defining work. It’s too bad no outsider will ever see it.” He gestured to the servant, who set down the Dom Pérignon and draped a dust cloth over the portrait.

“Coming?” Potter asked Malone. “You’ll want to get ready for dinner.”

“I think I’ll stay here a moment and find that book.”

With a gaze that made clear nothing Malone did would ever be good enough, Potter left the room.

Malone turned toward the bookshelves, making a pretense of searching for the book. Behind him, he heard the servant lift the portrait off the easel and take it from the library.

Malone waited ten seconds, then followed. He reached the vestibule in time to see the servant carrying the portrait up the curving staircase. Keeping a careful distance, Malone started up as the servant passed the next level and proceeded toward the top.

A carpet on the stairs muffled Malone’s footsteps. The servant couldn’t hear him climb higher. Peering beyond the final steps, Malone watched the servant carry the portrait to a door halfway along the middle corridor.

As the servant knocked on the door, Malone eased back down the stairs.