But his brow felt only slightly warm to the touch, and the shaking of his body had stopped almost entirely.
“Go to sleep,” she whispered. “I’m here. All is well.”
A few moments later she felt him relax, his breathing deepen.
At last he had fallen into a deep slumber.
THREE
You’ve painted long enough. Come here and play a hand of faro with me.”
Juliette didn’t look at Jean Marc as she added more yellow to the green of the trees in the painting on the easel before her. “What?”
“Play cards with me.”
She cast a glance over her shoulder at Jean Marc lying on the bed across the room. “I’m busy.”
“You’ve been busy for four hours,” Jean Marc said dryly. “And will probably be at that easel for another four if I don’t assert my rights.”
“What rights?”
“The rights of a bored, irritable patient who is being neglected in favor of your precious paints and canvas.”
“In a moment.”
She was aware of his gaze on the middle of her back as she resumed painting.
“Tell me what it’s like,” he said suddenly.
“What?”
“Painting. I watched your face as you worked. Your expression was extraordinary.”
Juliette was jarred out of her absorption into uneasiness. He had been lying in that bed watching her for hours every day and never before made comment. Her art was a private, intensely personal passion, and realizing he had been studying her emotions as she worked made her feel oddly naked. “Painting is…pleasant.”
He laughed softly. “I hardly think that’s the correct term. You looked as exultant as a saint ascending the steps to heaven.”
She didn’t look at him. “That’s blasphemy. I’m sure you know nothing of how a saint would feel.”
“But you do?” He coaxed, “Tell me.”
She was silent a moment. She had never tried to put her feelings about her work into words, but suddenly she realized she wanted him to know. “It’s as if I were swathed in moonlight and sunlight…drinking a rainbow and becoming intoxicated on all the hues in the world. Sometimes it goes well and the feeling’s so exquisite it hurts.” She kept her gaze on the painting so she wouldn’t know if he was laughing at her. “And sometimes I can do nothing right and that hurts too.”
“It sounds like an exceedingly painful pastime. But it’s worth it to you?”
She nodded jerkily. “Oh, yes, it’s worth it.”
“Something beautiful?” he asked softly.
She finally glanced at him and found no sign of amusement in his intent regard. She nodded again. “A struggle to achieve something beautiful.”
A brilliant smile lit his lean, dark face, and she gazed at him in fascination. Jean Marc’s thick black hair was rumpled, his white linen shirt open nearly to the waist to reveal the bandage and a glimpse of the triangle of dark hair thatching his chest. Yet, in spite of hisdisarray, he still managed to exude an air of elegance. Dear heaven, how she wanted to paint the man. She had persistently asked him to permit her to sketch him ever since he had started to mend and he had just as persistently refused her.
“Well, I feel it my duty to rescue you from this painful pleasure,” he said. “Come and play faro with me.”
“Shortly, I wish to finish this lit—”
“Now.”
