Deadly Illusions. Brenda Joyce

course,” Sarah said with a grin. The door was open. The large room was filled with canvases, some finished, others in various stages of execution. Sarah favored portraits of women and children, although two landscapes were also present. She had clearly, at one time, been influenced by the romantics, and later by the impressionists. Her work now was bright and bold—she clearly adored color—but her strokes were far more realistic than one would expect. “I have finished your portrait,” Sarah said, pausing before an easel that was draped with cloth.

      Francesca’s heart leaped with excitement. Hart had commissioned her portrait some time ago, when she had thought her self in love with Bragg. He had only done so because he had wanted to annoy her, and he had done just that. Francesca had no time for any sittings at the beginning, but as their relation ship had changed, sitting for a portrait he wished to hang in his private rooms had become thoroughly exciting. A month ago he had asked Sarah to make the portrait a nude. Francesca had agreed, and every sitting had become exhilarating.

      Now, on pins and needles, she asked, “How is it?” Shamelessly, she could not wait for Hart to hang her nude likeness in his rooms.

      Sarah laughed with happiness. “Why don’t you decide for yourself?” And she swept the cloth from the canvas.

      Francesca started in surprise.

      The naked woman who sat with her back to the viewer, looking over her shoulder, was stunning. Francesca knew she was no beauty, yet the woman in that portrait most definitely had her face. Her features were classic, her lips full, her nose tiny. But there was nothing ordinary about her face. Somehow, Sarah had made her captivating. Francesca simply gaped.

      In the portrait, her gleaming, honey-colored hair was carefully coiffed, as if for a ball, and she wore a pearl choker about her throat. The fact that it was all she wore was infinitely seductive as well. Francesca realized her cheeks had grown warm. She finally found the courage to look at the rest of the portrait.

      Her body was as alluring as her face. Francesca was amazed. The line of her back was long and elegant, but her buttocks were sensually full. The intriguing profile of one breast escaped her arm, and not far from where she sat, a red ball gown lay in a puddle of opulent fabric, clearly abandoned in haste.

      The portrait was suggestive, terribly so. Francesca tugged at her shirt collar. The humming became a drumming in her ears. Was that really how she looked? Was this what Hart saw when he looked at her? Surely Sarah, being so fond of her, had exaggerated all of her features.

      “What do you think?” Sarah whispered.

      Francesca bit her lip. She still could not quite speak. The portrait was an amazing feat—to take a sensible, professional woman like herself and put her features together in the manner that Sarah had. It was her face, but the expression did not belong to an innocent woman, or a skilled sleuth—it belonged to a passionate lover, a creature of the bedroom and the night.

      “Don’t you like it?” Sarah asked tersely now.

      Francesca whirled. She thought she might be crimson. “I love it,” she cried. “But Sarah, how did you do it? That’s not me—yet it is! In that portrait, I am almost as alluring as Daisy.”

      Sarah smiled in relief. “For a moment, I thought you did not like it,” she exclaimed. “And painting your likeness was easy enough. It’s what I do,” she added. “Do you think Hart will be pleased? Have I gone too far? The theme is frankly sensual. It might be too risqué, considering you will one day be his wife.”