Page 158 of Eternal Craving

She stood her ground.

“Look, I just showed him Jacob, that’s all. Marcus is out there searching for him so that I can be with you tonight.” I walked over and wrapped my arms around her.

She stiffened. “Why do you close your mind to me? I should be able to probe the secret out of you, but no, you’re keeping all sorts of things from me.”

“One of the benefits of sucking aStatus Regaldry is that you learn new tricks. Now get changed.”

“Not until you tell me the surprise.”

I sighed. “That’s why it’s called a bloody surprise,woman.”

Sunaria stormed out.

“You have ten minutes!” I yelled after her.

Sunaria reappeared wearing her blue empire line gown, with elegant, long sweeping sleeves. Her seamstress had designed the dress to complement her small waist and emphasize her breasts. A European twist on the English fashion, enhanced by the silk-lined cape, bestowing a classic style.

I’d donned my dark trousers and luxurious velvet jacket. Black on a man provides an air of mystery but also ensures ease in mingling with the crowd and disappearing into it if needed. London’s streets were at times so choked with shadows that if I stepped back into a doorway, I’d become invisible.

At night, Fleet Street teemed with well-dressed pedestrians, and along the newly constructed roads rumbled fine-looking carriages, taking their wealthy passengers home after a day of wheeling and dealing, or for the lucky few, after an afternoon of frivolous entertainment.

Sunaria and I strolled hand-in-hand, taking in the fresher air found in this part of town. We experienced many lingering stares from passersby, though we proceeded on with our heads down, ignoring them all.

I resisted pulling Sunaria down a dark alley, wanting nothing more than to pleasure her. Aware of my long strides, I slowed my pace. She enjoyed me taking the lead, as only a strong woman can. Our less frequent arguments were a sign she’d stopped vying for dominance.

We turned down Bouverie Street, heading in the direction of Temple Avenue, and the breeze from the Thames reached us. We stopped before an English townhouse. The exterior brickwork was interlaced with wooden beams, and upon the roof rested a tall chimney. Judging by the dark windows, the residents were not at home. Just a little way back from the house on the estate stood a white-washed, shed-like structure that overlooked the Thames.

I guided Sunaria around to the side entrance and shoved her up against it. “Don’t move,” I whispered.

I withdrew a small strip of black velvet material from my inner coat pocket and used it as a blindfold on her. I spun her round to face me, savoring the excitement I’d stirred in her, delighted by her quickening. Sunaria was breathing fast, her bosom rising and falling with arousal.

“Stay here,” I ordered.

She nodded, and I entered the small structure.

The single room was pitch black, the back wall offering the only window. I walked over and drew back the curtain to let inthe moonlight. I found a box of matches and lit the first of twelve candles, trying not to be drawn in by the striking display.

Sunaria was where I’d left her, and she’d obediently kept the velvet strip over her eyes. Taking her hand, I led her inside and over to the center of the room and then waited, feeling her excitement building.

I nuzzled close, and then loosened the blindfold, letting it fall.

Sunaria let out a sigh.

We were surrounded by thirty or so paintings of sunsets and sunrises. Sunaria stepped forward, awestruck, admiring the large canvas before us, a rendering of daybreak over the Thames, with its lush yellows, oranges, and deepest golds, an exuberant mixture of colors and textures, a glorious array, a magnificent depiction.

She suppressed a sob.

The painting shimmered, reflecting light from the many candles.

“I don’t know anything about art,” I spoke quietly. “But this is like seeing it for real.”

Sunaria’s fingertips hovered near the canvas, respectfully not touching it, but lingering close. We marveled at the way the artist had duplicated the minutest details, and we both sighed in wonder.

“Let’s commission him,” I said. “His name’s Alberto Ceravassio.”

“He’s Venetian?”

“I believe so.”