Widow - Anne Stuart [32]
She had no idea what he’d been painting in the last five years. Probably dour portraits of Gia.
She’d done her best to avoid news of the art world, but there’d been no new records set for a work by a living artist. Not since Charlie in Her Dressing Gown.
It should have embarrassed her, but then, Pompasse had painted her in every state of dress and undress. She remembered sitting for the damned thing, out on the terrace with the sunlight caressing her damp skin. He’d seen her coming from the shower and insisted she pose for him when she hadn’t posed in months. He wanted her skin and hair wet, the robe falling off her shoulders, exposing her tanned skin. And she’d complied, even to the point of letting him spray her with water when the sun dried her hair and face.
It had been a masterpiece, they said. The skin tones were worthy of a Renaissance master. If it hadn’t been for that painting she might never have left him.
But she had been young, and still capable of being childishly flattered by all the attention it got. She’d read the newspapers, the magazines, the fawning praise and learned critique, and she’d preened like a teenager—until she’d read the description in the Art News of Italy.
“Much has been made of the glorious use of texture in the model’s skin tones, but what truly makes Charlie in Her Dressing Gown a masterpiece and Pompasse the foremost living painter is the expression in the model’s eyes. Pompasse has captured her doubts, her sexual ambiguity, her desperate attempts at serenity. It has always been said that the eyes are the window to the soul, and the soul Pompasse has captured is empty, helpless, completely dependent on whoever views the painting.”
She’d left the next morning.
They all assumed it was because he’d left her bed for Gia’s a year earlier. Her mother thought her pride was damaged, Pompasse was certain he’d broken her heart and pleasure warred with panic inside him. He’d been trying to make her jealous for years, and now he thought he had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams.
But Pompasse’s infidelities had nothing to do with it. She hadn’t cared when he left her bed, she’d been desperately relieved. She hadn’t cared when he brought Gia into the household.
His betrayal had been far worse. She kept remembering the old story about primitive people who were afraid of cameras. They thought the photographer stole their souls.
That’s what Pompasse had done. Not stolen it, exactly—she’d handed it to him on a silver platter and he paraded his trophy for the world to see. Anyone who looked at that painting would see what a lost, empty shell of a human being she’d become. But far worse was accepting the knowledge herself. That she’d given herself away, till there was nothing but a pretty shell remaining.
So she’d run. It was past time to reclaim her life, her soul, and she’d found them in New York. Nothing on earth could lure her back, not threats, not her mother’s constant phone calls, not Pompasse’s pathetic suicide attempts. Gia would take good care of him. So would the other women who still surrounded him. She was the one who escaped and she would never go back, even if a part of her soul still remained in Tuscany. The part that Pompasse had stolen from her.
She shook herself, as if to rid herself of the power of memories. That was one painting she never wanted to find. Fortunately, or unfortunately, Pompasse had sold it to a private collector, and she had no idea where it was now. At least it wasn’t on view for the world to stare at and judge, though photos of it still cropped up in articles about Pompasse. Some twisted soul could gloat over it in private, and she could forget that lost little girl ever existed.
Even if she knew that she was still hiding, somewhere deep inside her cool defenses.
She liked her coffee strong, black and sweet, and she poured herself a mug, shoving her still damp hair back from her face. One of her favorite things to do at La Colombala was drink coffee on the