SAMPLE CHAPTER ONE OF PORTRAIT OF LOVE (WITH AUDIO)

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CHAPTER ONE

She was setting out her paintings along the iron railing of Saint Louis Cathedral when she saw the man come to a stop, staring at her. He was on the opposite side of St. Peter Street, he was well dressed, he looked very much like a successful businessman. He stood there, motionless, and just stared at her.

Cherie Marsan sniffed and shrugged a shoulder. She was used to being stared at, her mirror in the little atelier-apartment she rented in Pirate’s Alley told her she was beautiful. Ha! Right now, however, in this stained smock she was wearing, with her long golden hair hanging free under a cap, with all her oldest clothes on, she was far from being attractive.

So let him stare. Little good it would do him.

Cherie busied herself with the paintings she had carried here this day, to offer them for sale. Her business card was tacked to a board of drawings, showing her address to prospective buyers. The sun was warm, the air was pleasant, the visitors to New Orleans ought to be out in strength, wandering through the Vieux Carré. If she were lucky, she might even sell a painting or two.

A shadow touched the still life she had just hung. She turned, found herself staring up into a pair of intense black eyes. Cherie swallowed. This was the same man who had stopped to stare at her. She had not realized how handsome he was, with that deep bronze tan and that thick black hair. He had very white teeth, too, she realized, as he gave her a big smile.

“Five hundred dollars,” he said softly.

Cherie blinked. “Wha-what?”

“I’ll give you five hundred dollars.”

An ugly suspicion slid into her mind. Cherie straightened abruptly. “What for?” she asked coldly.

“For a painting, naturally. What else?”

She wished he didn’t have such a nice smile. It did things to her resolution to be standoffish. It was hard to be remote and unconcerned when he was beaming down at her in what appeared to be quite radiant happiness.

After a moment, she shook herself, realizing that she had been staring up at him just as intensely as he had been staring down at her—and grinning like a Cheshire cat. She touched her tongue to her lips and found they had become very dry.

Her hand lifted in a gesture. “Take any one of them,” she murmured. “Take any two, for that matter.”

He shook his head. “No, no. You don’t understand. I want a painting of you. A self-portrait. I’ll pay you five hundred dollars for it. Is it a deal?”

“You’re crazy,” she whispered.

He laughed full-throatedly, and despite her suspicions, Cherie could not help but like that laugh of his. When he sobered, he beamed down on her—like an adult humoring a small child, she thought angrily—and shook his head.

“No. I’m not crazy. I know very well what I’m doing. So how about it? You do a self-portrait of yourself for me, and I’ll give you five hundred dollars. Fair enough?”

“Forget it,” she snapped, and turned away.

“It doesn’t have to be in oils. Even a simple pencil sketch would do. If I had a camera with me, I’d ask you to pose for a snapshot and still pay you the five hundred dollars.”

He was smiling down at her as though he had offered her the Koh-i-noor diamond, free of charge. Cherie scowled. She had listened to propositions before from strange men. Always, naturally enough, she had turned them all down. At least, this one had an approach that was rather unique.

“No dice,” she said flatly.

Out of the corners of her eyes, she watched him step back and run his eyes over her, then mutter under his breath. The guy was a nut! An absolute nut! He put both hands deep in his pockets and rocked back and forth on his feet, frowning slightly.

“Would you do me a favor?” he asked.

She glowered at him. “What favor?”

“Take off that godawful hat.”

Cherie opened her lips to yell at him, then closed them. She knew what she looked like in that old thing she wore on her head. It was frayed and had a hole in it, but it was still the warmest hat she owned, and sometimes these spring days along the Mississippi River could get quite cold.

“For five dollars? For ten?” he asked plaintively. “Please?”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake! There!”

She snatched off the hat, shook back her thick golden hair, and stared up at him. She was looking right in his eyes, she saw them study her very carefully, almost as though he were memorizing her face. To her surprise, he was not leering at her, as other men had done. He was considering her as an artist might do, before putting down her likeness on paper.

He nodded slowly, thoughtfully. Then he reached into his hip pocket and brought out a wallet. From the wallet he extracted a ten-dollar bill and handed it to her. Cherie looked at the bill suspiciously, asking, “What’s that for?”

“We made a deal. The money’s yours.”

He smiled at her, and that smile was radiant. It did something to Cherie, it made her think that maybe she had misjudged this guy. Ha! She’d bet this was all part of his approach. The idea stiffened her spine.

“Keep your money. I don’t want it.”

His dark eyebrows lifted. “You’re that rich?”

Cherie licked her lips. That ten dollars meant that she might eat well for a few days, if she were careful. After all, she hadn’t sold a painting in over two weeks. Canvases and oils cost money, and if she were to make her living as an artist, she needed the tools of her trade.

He pushed the money toward her, extending his arm. “Go on, please. Take it. A bargain’s a bargain.”

“Look,” she said angrily, “I don’t quite get what it is you’re trying to do. No amount of money is going to buy me, so if that’s what’s in your mind, keep your money and get lost.”

She would swear that the look of surprise on his tanned face was genuine, and so was the distress that took its place. He shook his head at her and ran his hand through his thick black hair. She told herself that she would like to run her own fingers through his hair, and then grew angry at herself.

“The money is for what you did,” he said slowly. “Just taking off your hat. I’m very grateful. Maybe someday you may be grateful, too.”

Cherie opened her eyes wide. He was a nut! Harmless, perhaps, but still a whacko. Hmmm. He didn’t seem crazy, his eyes were very intelligent. And he was handsome.

“Okay, okay,” she said, taking the ten spot in her fingers and folding it, then stuffing it into a pocket of her smock. “Thank you very much.”

She just couldn’t turn away, it wouldn’t seem polite. “Anything else?” she wanted to know.

“I know you must think I’m crazy,” he went on, “but I really will pay you five hundred dollars for a self-portrait. Just a head-and-shoulders job. That’s all. Now how about it?”

Cherie frowned. “Why do you want it?”

There he went with that grin of his again. It was so friendly, so open, so—so honest, that she felt like a twerp getting angry at him. She shifted her position slightly, telling herself that five hundred dollars was more money than she could make in a month. Or even two or three months.

“It’s a secret.” He smiled. “I may be wrong, but—It could be very important. Important for you, that is. Now, don’t ask me any more, I won’t tell you anything other than that.”

He certainly had a line. She wondered how many girl artists he had tempted—yes, and seduced!—with that spiel of his. It was a good one, she had to admit. Do a self-portrait for him, get five hundred bucks, and then one thing would lead to another and he would get her in bed with him. At least, that was the way it was supposed to work. But she was too smart for him.

“No painting,” she said flatly. “At least, not of me. Any of these others I’ll be more than happy to sell you.”

He shook his head. “They’re very good, all of them. Probably worth their weight in gold, even with gold the price it is. But no, thanks. I don’t have any use for them. It’s your picture I want.”

Some of her artist friends had drawn a little nearer, she noted, wondering, no doubt, if she were having trouble. Cherie shook her head at them, silently assuring them that she needed no help.

“Sorry,” she said softly, not wanting to hurt the guy. “I can’t do that.”

He sighed and reached for his wallet again. This time he drew out a card and handed it to her. Cherie stared up at him a moment, then dropped her eyes to the pasteboard.

Brian Cutler

Attorney-at-law

A lawyer. Now why in the world would a lawyer want her self-portrait? Or maybe he wasn’t a lawyer at all, but just posing as one to add to the mystery. Cherie began to feel a little out of her depth.

“If you change your mind, please get in touch with me.” He smiled down at her. “The offer still goes, you know. It’s possible I may even go as high as a thousand dollars for that picture.”

Her mouth went dry. A thousand dollars, just for a self-portrait! Ha! Maybe she was the nut, not him. That much money would make her almost independent. But she was still very suspicious of him.

“I’ll think it over,” she muttered.

He nodded at her, still smiling, his eyes going over her face, business card and her too, as though he were memorizing them. Cherie told herself she ought to feel flattered. She was pretty enough, almost beautiful, she supposed, when she put her mind to looking attractive.

“I’m going to keep pestering you until you agree.” He chuckled. “Remember that. Oh, yes. If you change your mind, just give me a ring at my office and I’ll get over to see you fast.”

He waved a hand, turned on a heel, and walked away. Cherie stared after him, wondering who in the world he really was and what he really wanted with her. Well, she knew what he wanted with her, of course. Just what any other red-blooded man would want.

“Fat chance,” she grumbled as she turned back to her paintings.

A man with a thick beard came to her side. He was one of the artists who shared the cathedral railings with her. “What was that all about?”

Cherie said, “I think I was just propositioned, but I’m not sure. He offered me a thousand dollars to do a self-portrait for him.”

“And you turned him down?”

Cherie grinned. “I’m crazy, hey?”

“Honey, you are. You positively are!”

Cherie stared up the street along which Brian Cutler had just moved. Inside herself, she felt suddenly empty. “Maybe I am, Chuck. Maybe I am.”

Chuck Peters walked away, shaking his head. Cherie turned back to her paintings, began to arrange them more carefully on the iron railings. Was she crazy? A thousand dollars was more money than she had ever had in her life. What if he were trying to seduce her, get her into bed with him. She could always say no, couldn’t she? He did not seem the sort of person who would fight with her, try to overcome her physically.

She sighed and settled herself to spend the day trying to sell one of her oils. Despite her intent, her thoughts kept wandering away from the people who came to stare at the paintings. She kept seeing Brian Cutler’s tanned face and that pleasant grin. Nobody that nice could be as bad as she was suspecting him of being.

Maybe she was the nut. A thousand dollars, and she had said no.

“Phooey,” she muttered.

The day dragged by slowly, and Cherie rested on her little camp-stool in the sun. Men and women came and stared, they admired her paintings, some of them even enthused, but nobody bought any of them. After a time Cherie just sat there and let them look. She did not even offer to reduce her prices.

She ate her sandwich, which she had made in her atelier-apartment, and drank chilled milk from a thermos bottle. She watched the shadows lengthen along the street. Soon it would be time to pack up her paintings and go home.

It was while she was gathering her oils that she noticed the heavyset man who had been ambling almost lazily down the street. She was lifting one of the larger of her paintings, about to put it in the case with the others, when she looked up and saw the man come to a complete stop and stare hard at her. His face had been friendly enough while he had been walking; now it seemed to harden even as she stared. Then he gave her a look of almost malignant dislike.

Cherie swallowed. What was the matter with her? Why should that man stare at her in such obvious hate? Her fingers loosened, she almost dropped the painting she was holding. As she bent to retrieve it, the man swung about on a heel and went back up St. Peter Street almost at a trot.

She stared after him, nonplussed. What was wrong with the guy? Sure, she was wearing old clothes, but she wasn’t as horrible-looking as all that, was she? The guy acted as though he’d seen a ghost. Cherie stuffed her painting in with the others almost angrily.

This had been some day, all right. First that kook who wanted to give her a fortune for her portrait, then this idiot who acted as though she’d killed his best friend. Oh, well. There were days like that, she supposed.

Carrying her paintings, she trudged toward Royal Street. As she walked, she thought about what she might have for dinner. There was some stew left, but she had eaten stew for five or six days running now. Eggs, of course—she always had those, she could whip up a mixture of eggs with tomatoes and onions. A little wine might go nice with eggs.

Cherie made a face. She really didn’t feel like eggs, she wanted something more substantial—say, a nice steak. The only trouble with that was, steaks cost a lot of money. But wait! She had ten whole dollars, didn’t she? Sure. That lawyer (if he was a lawyer) had given it to her for taking off her hat.

She laughed out loud. “That was the smartest thing I ever did, letting him look at my hair. It will feed me for a couple of nights.”

Her steps grew lighter, she almost danced as she walked. She knew just where she could get the kind of steak she wanted. As she moved along, she began to sing very softly, almost under her breath.

With a thick steak and a bottle of red wine under an armpit, she walked toward Bourbon Street. Soon now, she would be indulging in a quick shower, she would let the wine breathe while she was doing that, and then she would cook the steak. Her mouth began to water.

Sometimes at night when she had come home from the cathedral railings, she painted. But not tonight. She didn’t want to paint, not now. She just wanted to indulge herself, eat a good meal, and maybe even finish half the wine bottle. The Chianti would make her drowsy and she would get a good sleep. Maybe she would even dream of spending that thousand dollars.

Cherie giggled. First she had to paint herself down on canvas before she could get all that money. But why not? So the guy wanted a portrait of her. So she might even paint it.

As she turned to enter the hallway of her apartment, she threw a glance back down the street. Cherie paused. Was she mistaken, or was that the same heavyset man she had seen earlier, standing there at the corner and staring at her? A feeling of uneasiness touched her, and she paused to regard him more closely. But even as she did, the man swung about and trotted off.

She shrugged. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. It made no difference to her. She unlocked the street door and stepped into the inner courtyard of the house she shared with other artists, with other young people who worked in the Vieux Carré. Moving across the courtyard with its huge stoneware basins that held plants and flowers, she caught the smell of frying onions. Hmmm. Might be a good idea to fry some onions herself, they always went good with steak.

Once in her apartment, which consisted of a big room with a smaller room off to one side that formed a kitchen, she placed her paintings against a wall, then snatched off her hat and tossed it. She bent then and touched a match to the little gas heater. She undressed, walking toward the little bathroom, and when she was inside it, turned on the shower water. By the time she had showered, the room would be pleasantly warm. The water was hot, so she regulated it, then stepped under it, reaching for a bar of soap.

After a few minutes, she toweled herself off and wriggled into her pajamas, then into a woolen robe. Her feet she slid into thick slippers. Then she went to get the steak.

In moments, the smell of frying onions made her mouth water. She put in the steak and watched as it began to sizzle. From moment to moment she lifted the steak with a fork, turning it, making certain it was cooked all over. Then she transferred the steak to a platter and went to fetch the Chianti.

Cherie ate slowly, enjoying the taste of the meat, of the wine. It had been a long time since she had enjoyed such a meal. She lingered over the wine when the meat was gone, rolling the Chianti about on her tongue, reveling in the luxury. As she did, she thought some more about Brian Cutler.

She still had change left from the ten spot he had paid her. Two or three dollars, anyhow. She could buy another steak tomorrow, if she wanted. A smaller one, perhaps, but still, a steak. And she would have enough wine left to sip with it.

A thousand dollars will buy an awful lot of steak and wine, Cherie, she told herself. You really are a ninny not to call up the guy and promise to do that portrait for him. So what if the guy’s a kook? A thousand dollars in your handbag will fit just as neatly as it does in his wallet.

If she had a phone, she would call him right now. She would! She had been stupid to refuse him earlier. Tomorrow she would call him. If the guy wanted to waste his money, who was she to object?

She cleaned up, washing the dishes and the wineglass after she had put away the half-filled bottle of wine. She took her time, there was no hurry. Tonight she was going to get into bed and read a novel. She had half a dozen paperbacks on a shelf, unread.

It was warm and cozy under the bedclothes. Cherie snuggled herself against a couple of pillows propped to the headboard, and opened the book she had selected. In moments, she was into the book, enjoying the problems of the heroine.

She read for about an hour, then began to feel too warm. Slipping out from under the blankets, she ran to the gas heater, turned it off. In a little while, she knew from past experience, the room would grow cool and make for good sleeping. With a sigh, she got back into the bed and pulled the covers up about her.

Cherie read on until her eyelids began to feel heavy. It was pleasant here, with the room growing colder, with the blankets up about her. Just a couple more pages, then she would be so tired, she knew she would sleep well.

She tossed the book aside, with a marker in it, then reached for the light switch. The room darkened instantly, just a trace of moonlight filtered in through the window. Cherie snuggled down under the covers. She would get a good night’s sleep, tomorrow she would think some more about doing that self-portrait. After all, a thousand dollars was nothing to sneeze at. . . .

She dreamed vividly, as she always did. In her dream, she had painted a very lovely landscape with lush green meadows and rows of beautiful trees. The picture was so graphic that she stood and stared at it, entranced. And as she stared, she seemed to see a—something—that was in that painting, but that she could not recall having put into it.

She leaned closer, staring at the thing that was far off, back there where she had oiled in a little brook, in the background. As she stared, the thing grew larger, and she recognized it for a walking man.

It can’t be! she told herself. I didn’t paint in a man!

The walking man grew larger, larger. With a muffled cry of surprise, she recognized the man as Brian Cutler. Now, what in the world was Brian Cutler doing in one of her paintings? She definitely had not oiled him in! Eyes wide, she watched him come walking toward her. As he came nearer, she saw that his face was smiling at her, as though in welcome.

Larger and larger he grew, until it seemed he would step off the canvas and stand before her. Now he was reaching out a hand and the hand was emerging from the painting to clutch at her shoulder.

She was being shaken.

“Stop it, stop it,” she cried. “You aren’t real. You can’t be.”

The shaking went on and on. . . .

Her eyelids lifted. Brian Cutler was bending over her, calling her name, clinging to her shoulders with both hands, and his face was terribly frightened.

“Cherie! Cherie! Wake up, wake up!”

She could not move. There was something very wrong with her. Only her eyes seemed to be alive as they looked up into his face. She wanted to ask him what he was doing here in her room, in the middle of the night, and could not.

He muttered under his breath, then slid his arms under her body. Like that, he lifted her and her blankets from the bed. He began to carry her toward the door of her little atelier-apartment. Cherie could not resist him. Her muscles seemed turned to water. Her head hung back over his arm and her legs dangled.

What in the world was the matter with her?

Or—was she still dreaming?

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