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Unable to bear the pain in her father's voice, Noelle went to him at once, seized his hands. "Papa, I want no part of Mr. Baricci, or his extravagant gifts. If he thinks he can buy my affection, he's sadly mistaken. I'll send Mr. Sardo away at once."
Tenderness softened Eric's expression. "I'm proud of you, Noelle," he said softly.
"Did you doubt my reaction?"
"Actually, no. It's my reaction that surprises me."
Another puzzled look. "I don't understand."
"I told Monsieur Sardo he could go ahead and paint the portrait."
Noelle started. "Why?"
"Because it's Baricci I detest, not Sardo. He knows nothing of the reasons behind this farce of a gift. All he knows is that a very wealthy man has offered him a great deal of money to paint the portrait of a lovely young woman. Sardo is poor, Noelle. He's a relatively unknown artist. According to him, Baricci gave him his first break, allowing him to display his paintings in the Franco Gallery. Four or five of them have already sold. But that's hardly enough to live on. Sardo is struggling to make his way. He's too proud to say so, but it's obvious this commission means food and clothing to him. How can I turn him away just because I detest the scoundrel who's paying him?"
Noelle raised up, kissed her father's cheek. "You're such a wonderful man, Papa. And, of course, you're right. We can't turn him away."
"But we can't run the risk of sending Baricci the wrong message, either. Therefore, I've taken the liberty of providing Monsieur Sardo with several stipulations."
"Which are?"
"The sittings will be conducted right here at Farrington," Eric elaborated. "Further, no one—and that includes Sardo's employer—will accompany him here on his visits. He will come and go alone. Then, once the portrait has been completed, he will take his leave. Period."
"What was Monsieur Sardo's response to your conditions?"
Eric shrugged. "He accepted them right away, saying they were precisely what he'd intended. His plan was to conduct your sittings wherever you felt most comfortable, which he'd assumed would be in your home. As for an overseer or assistant, he assured me that he always works alone and had no intentions of bringing anyone with him when he visited Farrington."
"So you're satisfied."
A nod. "Yes. Given Sardo's assurances, I see no reason for Baricci to be involved, other than in compensating the man, the details of which are their concern, not ours. Sardo will simply paint the portrait for however long it takes. After that, he has only to say good-bye. And if Baricci thinks his gesture will have softened my heart, earned him the right to see you, he'll soon find he's sadly mistaken."
"You'll get no argument from me on that score." Noelle glanced curiously beyond her father into the empty hallway. "May I meet Monsieur Sardo?"
Eric's eyes narrowed a bit. "I'm sure Chloe has informed you that he is a most compelling gentleman—as charming as he is pleasing to the eye. I trust you won't be too taken with him."
A smile played about Noelle's lips. "I'll answer that question once he's left."
"Noelle."
"Stop worrying, Papa." Noelle squeezed her father's hands, trying not to laugh at the solemnness of his tone. "I know I'm impulsive, but I'm not a dolt. Nor am I an impressionable child. I promise not to run off with the man. Besides, I do believe meeting him is a prerequisite to having my portrait painted. He can't very well sketch my likeness without ever having set eyes on me."
"Very well." A twinge of amusement flickered in Eric's eyes—enough to lessen his uneasiness, but not eliminate it. "I'll bring him to you." He turned stiffly and left.
"I'd be happy to chaperon you during your sittings," Chloe offered cheerfully.
"I'm sure you would." Noelle's mind was already racing off in a new direction. How much did André Sardo know about his employer? Could she possibly learn something revealing, even incriminating, about Baricci from his promising young artist? Surely Monsieur Sardo spent a great deal of time at the Franco Gallery if his paintings were displayed there. Maybe he'd unknowingly seen something, heard something that could prove useful to Ashford's investigation. And maybe, just maybe, Sardo would inadvertently let that something slip during their portrait sittings.
It was certainly worth a try.
"Noelle? Are you considering my suggestion that I act as your chaperon?" Chloe demanded.
Noelle ruffled her sister's hair affectionately. "No, love. I suspect Monsieur Sardo will want as few distractions as possible when he paints. And having you swoon at his feet would definitely be a distraction."
"Wait until you see him," Chloe advised. "I might not be the only one who swoons."
* * *
Noelle didn't swoon, but she had to admit that André Sardo was every bit as sinfully handsome as Chloe had described. With a high forehead, thick, curling dark hair, and a fringe of black lashes that accentuated deep-set eyes the color of warm chocolate, Monsieur Sardo—or André as he insisted Noelle call him—had a way of looking at a woman that made her feel she was the only female on earth. He was tall and lean, his fingers the long, tapered tools of an artist, and his smile—which spread upward from his lips to his eyes—was pure seduction.
