The Art of Seduction Read Online Free Page A

the others, the figure at the center was herself. Her only experiment in self-portraiture.
    It showed a figure—Mason herself—kneeling in the foreground with her Prussian blue dress falling in soft folds about her hips, her naked back to the viewer. Her long hair, light brown with touches of gold, tumbled down her back, leading the eye to a heart-shaped birthmark on her upper right flank. She was glancing over her shoulder as if she had just become aware of the viewer’s presence, acknowledging it with the hint of an enigmatic smile. There was no source light or shadows, but the figure seemed to glow from within. On one side of the frame, a grove of leafless, misshapen trees stretched their branches to the sky as if in agony. On the other side, an overturned canon jutted into the air beside a path that snaked into a succession of distant hills, one of which was covered with tombstones. Falconier had labeled it Portrait of the Artist.
    The man was gazing at it with rapt attention. She watched him for a moment, thinking he would continue on to the next painting. But he didn’t. He just stood there, as if in a trance.
    Finally, she walked over and joined him. This close, she could feel the heat of him, as if he radiated some vital energy all his own. It made her feel keenly aware of the new dress caressing her skin.
    He must surely feel her presence, as she felt his, but he didn’t show it. After a moment, she asked gently, “What do you think of it?”
    Without looking away, he said, “I think it’s a revelation.”
    It was a marvelous voice, deep and rich, decidedly upper-crust British, but with the faintest trace of a Scottish burr. He pronounced the word revelation with an inflection all his own, drawing out the vowels as if savoring them on his tongue. A sensual voice, one that sent shivers up her spine.
    â€œYou heard what the critic Morrel said,” she reminded him tentatively.
    â€œMorrel’s an idiot.”
    She was slightly shocked to hear this contemptuous appraisal.
    â€œThey tell me he’s the last word on what’s acceptable in art.”
    He still hadn’t looked away from the painting. Now he gave a careless shrug. “Morrel’s had his day. But the world has passed him by. He wouldn’t know an innovative work of art if it bit him on the—” He turned then and gave her a roguish grin that deepened the creases in his cheeks. “But not to worry. He’ll come around.”
    He said it with a conspiratorial confidence that was absolutely thrilling. She looked at him more closely now. There was a glint in his dark eyes that seemed to invite her in. She couldn’t decide if that twinkle was truly wicked or just the contrivance of a charming man. He seemed so self-assured with such a sexual magnetism that her breath quickened. His face was an odd mixture of contrasts, elegantly handsome yet strangely rugged, with a touch of danger about the mouth—a compelling combination. Looking at that mouth—so full, so blatantly carnal—she found herself unconsciously licking her lips.
    â€œThe artist was my sister,” she said as much to anchor herself as anything.
    â€œI know. You were pointed out to me.”
    He fixed his eyes on her with flattering assessment before returning them to the painting.
    After an awkward silence, she ventured, “You said it was a revelation. What did you mean?”
    â€œI mean it’s one of the most extraordinary personal visions I’ve ever seen.”
    She strained not to show her excitement. “Why?” she asked as casually as she could.
    â€œFirst of all, no artist has ever portrayed the anxiety of modern life quite so imaginatively or vividly. The backgrounds of each of these works conveys menace—images of the ugly, the grotesque, the terrible. And yet, the sheer passion of her technique, and the expressive flourish of her color, transforms them into something