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He jerked open the door, slamming it shut behind him, and stumbled directly to his easel.
Late afternoon sunshine trickled through the window, illuminated the canvas that was propped there.
Noelle.
Her exquisite features stared back at him, breathtaking in their vivid beauty.
Her portrait was almost complete. All that was left were the earrings. He'd spent every minute since leaving the Franco Gallery yesterday painting, stayed up all last night, frenzied in his haste to bring her to life. Once he did, she would be his. Captured on canvas, she'd be immortalized. After which, no one could take her away. No one.
No, he'd berated himself with each and every stroke. He couldn't think that way. He already had her. It was just a matter of time before he claimed her. Baricci was wrong. He must be wrong. Noelle was his. She had to be his. She wouldn't betray him, not like the others. Not Noelle.
But Baricci hadn't been wrong.
Noelle had betrayed him—exactly like the others.
With a choked sound, André seized the portrait, stared in glazed disbelief at the beautiful woman with the cloud of sable hair, the flawless skin, and the enticing smile, whose sapphire blue eyes gazed back at him, mocking him in his adoration. Fool, they seemed to brand him. Witless, romantic fool. A lowly artist, a penniless nobody. Did you really think I'd choose your bed to shore, when I can have an earl?
Her scornful laughter emanated from the canvas, permeated the room with its contempt.
"No!" André shouted out a protest, released the canvas as if it burned. But it was no use. He clapped his hands over his ears, shook his head violently to block out the sound, but to no avail. That wrenching laughter continued, echoing through his soul. "No!" he bellowed. "No!"
With an animal sound, he seized his palette knife, slashing at the canvas—once, twice, then again and again until the motion of his arm became a blur, lost to the pounding roar in his head.
Sweat was pouring off his body when he stopped, and he dragged air into his lungs, trying to breathe, staring at the tattered canvas to ensure she was gone. But no, he could still see her. Even slashed to ribbons, the portrait was distinctly Noelle.
Damn her.
André squeezed his eyes shut, trying desperately to wipe away her image, to silence her voice. Both proved futile. Churning with emotion, he snatched the mangled canvas, hurled it across the room where it struck the wall and lay still.
He could do no more, not to her portrait.
But the rage persisted, clawing at his gut, and he struggled across the studio, snatching up every sketch of her he'd drawn, ripping them into dozens of tattered fragments, flinging them at his feet only to pick them up and shred them yet again.
The demons refused to be silenced.
He crawled onto his bed, throbbing with his need to have her there beside him, even as he yearned to destroy her memory along with her portrait. He caressed the pillow, wondering how many times he'd envisioned her lying upon it, her eyes burning with a sapphire flame as she reached for him.
With a strangled groan, he reached over to snatch the handkerchief that lay atop the chest. Slowly, he unfolded it, revealing the glistening blue objects nestled within. The earrings. The exquisite sapphire earrings. They matched the color of her eyes so perfectly, hers more so than any of the others. He'd kept these by his bed, saving them, intending to give them to her when he made her his.
She'd never be his.
His fingers closed around the stones, squeezing until he felt the facets pierce his palm. Pain shot through his arm, and he opened his fist, watching rivulets of blood trickle to his wrist, stain the sleeve of his shirt.
Blood.
Oh no, Noelle, not mine. Yours. It's the only way to silence the demons. The only way to make the pain subside.
She had to die.
Only then could he re-create the portrait, this time making it complete by adding the shimmering sapphire gems.
After which, she'd truly be his. Not only now. But forever.
* * *
Eight o'clock crept in, settling London under the blanket of night.
The Franco Gallery, like all its surrounding shops, was shut tight, its lights extinguished for the evening.
