Runaway Fiancee. Sally WentworthЧитать онлайн книгу.

      CHAPTER ONE

      JEAN-LOUIS had taken over the Eiffel Tower for the party. It was because he had become so famous—almost overnight, it seemed—that so many people had come to celebrate his engagement. Of course the painting was on display, and many of them had come just to see it. It was his finest work; critics all over France had raved about it. Suddenly he was fashionable and everyone wanted to meet him, to be painted by him, especially the women.

      Basking in the adulation, and taking full advantage of it, Jean-Louis had invited the cream of Parisian society as well as his more artistic friends, all of whom were happily mingling here in the restaurant. And of course they were all intrigued that he was to marry his model; artists didn’t usually bother to many the women who posed for them, they merely kept them as their mistresses for a while before they moved on to the next face and body that fired their imagination.

      The painting was hung in a prominent position, attracting a clamour of people round it, champagne glasses in their hands, their voices raised in knowledgeable praise. Many of them turned their heads and looked towards Angélique, comparing the living woman with the painted image. It had felt strange at first when people did this, when she’d heard them discussing her as if she were just an object, but she had got used to it now, was immune to their open stares and comments.

      She overheard one woman, elegant, theatrical, say in a compelling voice, ‘Of course, he was passionately in love with her when he painted it. Anyone can see that. The sexual awareness just screams at you.’

      Eyes turned towards her again, some speculative, most knowing. This was Paris. Of course an artist would have an affair with his model. The only surprise would be if he didn’t. Or, as now, if he offered marriage. With a flick of her long, corn-gold hair, Angelique turned her back on them and walked over to where Jean-Louis was the centre of a noisy, laughing group. People made way for her, and he immediately reached out and took her hand, carried it to his lips and kissed it in a flamboyant gesture. He was loving this, she could see. For too long he had hovered on the brink of being regarded as a great painter, but now he had arrived, now he could pick and choose his subjects, his pictures would command huge prices and he would, at last, achieve his ambition to be one of the haute bohème. All he had to do was consolidate his brilliant achievement. Already he had agreed to paint several commissions.

      He put a possessive arm round her slim waist and drew her to his side. ‘You are happy, chérie?’

      ‘Of course. It’s a wonderful party.’ She spoke in fluent French, in which there was just the trace of an indefinable accent.

      ‘Are you working on another painting of Mademoiselle Castet?’ someone asked him.

      The ‘Mademoiselle’ amused her; the guests were treating her with some respect because she was his fiancée, otherwise she would just have been ‘the model’.

      ‘But of course.’ Jean-Louis opened his arms in an expansive gesture. ‘How can I not paint her? She is so sensational. Her eyes—so beautiful. My palette cannot possibly do justice to them.’

      People immediately began to reassure him, and it was true that he had painted her eyes with consummate skill, giving them their true brilliance, a vital glow, so strong that it seemed as if a light burned within her. It was Angélique’s eyes that he had first noticed about her, their fire and their deep amber flecks against the intensely green pupils, and he had pursued her with single-minded determination until she had finally agreed to let him paint her. She had resisted for a long time, though, foreseeing this publicity and wanting no part of it. She had held out, too, against his sexual propositions, until Jean-Louis had become almost as frustrated about that as not being able to paint her. Almost, but not quite. With Jean-Louis his work would always come first. He had never said so, of course, but Angélique had no illusions about it.

      A reporter with his camera came up, wanted to take her picture standing by the painting. It was far from being the first time it had happened but Jean-Louis was all enthusiasm. He went down the steps with her to where the picture was placed in the reception area of the restaurant, instructed the reporter on where to place her for the maximum effect, to get the light right. The man took a whole film of shots but by that time