Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
“What do you think?” Tristan asked, leading her once more back to the hidden hall behind the mirrors.
“I think I wish I had a way to write it all down,” Ophelia replied, shaking her head. “I have never seen so many carnal pleasures at once. It was very…overwhelming.”
Tristan chuckled as they walked side by side.
“I am afraid I could not let you do that,” he told her, “With reporters trying to sneak in, such a sight would have scared my members. You will have to work from memory.”
He opened the door to his office and waved her in.
“My painting crate!” She exclaimed, hurrying inside.
“I had one of my people move it in here while we were on our tour,” Tristan explained, closing the door behind them, “This is where you will be conducting your work from now on.”
Ophelia looked up from her crate and glared at him.
“I take it you will be spending your time in here as well?” She asked with a dry tone
Tristan smirked as he removed his mask.
“Is that a problem?” He asked.
“Must you answer my question with a useless question?” She needled.
“If it draws such spite from you? Certainly,” he remarked.
When his smirk grew bigger, she rolled her eyes.
“You liked my last painting better than the first, yes?” Ophelia asked. She crossed her arms over her chest and gave him an insistent look when he nodded.
“Well part of why it was better was because you were not watching me,” she explained.
Tristan slowly slid his eyes down Ophelia’s body. The fitted suit he’d sent her hid her most of her femininity, yes. Especially from strangers. But him? He knew her body. Knew the supple curves that lied beneath the masculine clothing and it left him with the most curious of inclinations.
“I am afraid you will simply have to grow accustom to being watched,” he replied. “I want to keep an eye on your progress.”
“And if I do not agree to that?” Ophelia asked haughtily.
Tristan shrugged his shoulders, then reached forward and took off her mask.
“Then you are out of employment, dear Ophelia. In here, what I say goes. There is no room for negotiation,” he replied matter-of-factly.
Her eyes narrowed with irritation as her jaw worked back and forth. He could tell she was holding back some sarcastic retort and it thrilled him to no end to see her trying so hard to keep it inside.
Perhaps this little venture may be more amusing than I originally thought.
“Well, stop dawdling,” he sighed, purposely pushing her metaphorical buttons.
“Show me what your creative little mind has conjured. Sketches will do tonight. We will agree on at least one, and then I will send you home.”
He waved toward the far left wall of his office where several canvases of all shapes and sizes sat.
“Arrogant…precocious…nancy…” Ophelia muttered under her breath as she stalked to the canvases.
“What was that?” Tristan asked, raising an amused brow.
“Nothing!” She snapped, picking up a medium sized canvas.
“Nothing, I said nothing,” she muttered, putting the canvas on the easel. “Give me my mask back.”
“That will not be necessary,” Tristan replied, not moving an inch to retrieve it. “This room is safe and has a lock mechanism. No one dares to come back here and even if they did, they would have to knock to gain entry.”
“Pity,” she muttered, drawing her charcoal stick from her case, “I rather liked being able to hide from you.”
Tristan chuckled as he drew closer to her side and reached for her chin. He caressed his fingers over her buttery soft flesh and then grabbed and tilted until her eyes met his.
“Aw, now why would you want that beautiful face of yours from me?” He teased.
Pleasure surged through him as Ophelia’s milky complexion turned crimson in an instant, and she reared her head back from his grasp.
“Stop that,” she snapped at him, batting her hand at him, “I know you do not find me beautiful, Tristan.”
“Oh, I find you very beautiful,” he quickly replied, “It is your sarcasm and apparent hatred for men that I find so ugly.”
Ophelia’s mouth gaped open, looking at him as if she did not know what to say to that. He reached back out to her chin and pushed up, closing her mouth.
“Enough of your strange flirtations,” he said, unable to resist teasing her yet again. “Show me what you are thinking. Walk me through it.”
As he predicted his words earned him another glare and it filled him glee, but Ophelia did not break from his rules, and turned to the blank canvas and began to sketch.
“I have to admit that the woman in the ropes was quite fascinating,” Ophelia said, sketching out a rough form, “All those knots and twists in the rope. It was as if she was caught in a web. She is what caught my attention the most. You said I could not use anyone’s likeness or even their masks, so I thinking of doing a twist on the spider goddess, Arachne. ”
Tristan watched, fascinated, as Ophelia’s idea came to life on the canvas.
The spiderweb of robes stretched out to the edges, and in the center laid a beautiful woman, her wrists, ankles, and waist bound.
Her hands were outstretched though, in a beckoning motion, as her head tilted downward.
Near the bottom of the canvas were two muscular men, naked from waist up with shoulder-length hair.
One was on her left, the other on her right.
They were both climbing the web toward her, a look of lustful need sketched over their faces as their arms outstretched to her with desperation.
“Beautiful,” he whispered.
The sound of Ophelia’s charcoal suddenly ceased, and she looked back at him with wide eyes.
“Are you goading me?” She asked.
Tristan shook his head, his face set into a serious expression. He was starting understand her talent now, and it laid more inspiration than anything else.
“Not at all. This one, even as a sketch, far exceeds the first painting you did earlier. I want it.”
A look of pride took over Ophelia’s face, and she gave him a single nod.
“Now, for the next-”
Her words were cut off by the sound of knocking at the door. Ophelia stiffened, but Tristan flew into action. He picked up her mask and slid it over her face, then put on his own.
“Stay right there,” he ordered, going to the door. “Do not move.”
He slid the lock away from the door and opened it a crack. He and the guard talked in hushed whispers for a moment; his nerves tingling as he heard the news he’d just been delivered. Tristan gave his instructions to the guard, then shut the door.
“Your time is up for the evening,” he stated, walking past Ophelia and toward his desk.
“But you said we were to discuss the concepts,” she replied, her eyes following him.
He heard the annoyance in her voice but this time he did not goad her on it. Far more serious matters were at stake and he could not give in to toying with her now.
“This was an excellent start,” he stated, counting out two-thousand pounds.
He heard Ophelia gasp, and he looked up. Even with the mask on, he knew that her eyes had gone wide and her mouth had drawn agape. It annoyed him instantly. Had she thought he would welch on her?
“Here is for the first painting and the promise of the second,” he stated gruffly, putting the small fortune in a cloth bag. “You need to leave now. The guards will escort you out and take you home as we discussed. I will let you know when you are to come back.”
He walked back around his desk and offered her the bag. Ophelia hesitated for a moment, but eventually she reached out and curled her trembling fingers around it and drew it to her chest.
“One more thing,” he stated, watching her as she put the bag in the pocket inside of her jacket, “No more dressing like a man. It is not necessary. I will arrange another disguise for you to wear.”
“I need to protect my identity,” she insisted.
“I will do that for you,” he commanded, growing impatient. “Remember, Ophelia. You are not in control here.”
Her eyes glimmered with hatred behind her mask, but this time instead of feeling amused, a surprising slash a pain moved through his chest.
“If you do not like it then there is no need for you to come back,” he told her.
Ophelia’s expression was hidden by her mask, but even so he could imagine her rage twisting her beautiful features.
“Fine,” she bit out.
“Good,” he said with a nod, then took her arm with one hand and put the strap of her case on his shoulder with the other. “Now get out of here.”
He all but pulled her toward the door and thrust her into the guard’s arms. He handed the other the case.
Guilt twinged in his chest as he watched the ever-proud and independent Ophelia be taken down the hall.
She was no doubt fuming over being grabbed like that, but he could not think about that now.
“Bring him in in two minutes,” he told the third guard.
The man nodded, and Tristan shut the door again.
He carefully moved Ophelia’s sketch to the other blank canvasses, facing it toward the wall.
He then went to his chair behind his desk, adjusted his mask and his jacket, and waited.
A moment later two guards entered, dragging a masked, white-haired man in between them.
“What is the meaning of this?!” The man snarled, “I have broken no rules!”
“We will see about that,” Tristan stated flatly as the man was forced to take a seat. “Now, remove your mask.”