Undoubtedly the focal point of the portrait was supposed to be the emerald necklace, which sparkled against the girl’s skin like an unlikely trophy. But, J.C. barely noted it. All he saw was the model as though blinded by her.
He had become intimately familiar with model’s body—the graceful way her feet crossed each other, the olive-ivory color of her shapely legs and soft belly against the dark velvet of the setee. Following the very slight flare of her trim hips and tight waist, he wondered what the artist, whom J.C. had figured out was his great-uncle, had felt as he painted the pinkish-brown areolas of her breasts and the distended pink nipples that glistened with the summer heat. Her neck was delicate, her shoulders angular, and her hands, like her feet, crossed, one over the other on the seat of the divan. But it was her elfin face that most arrested him—the berry pink bow of her lips, the flushed peaches of her cheeks, the jet black of her eyebrows and lashes, and the enormous brown eyes which seemed to see the entire world with an innocence he feared and coveted.
To anyone looking in from the outside, J.C. was a man quietly obsessed, or he would be, if anyone knew about the painting and his intense feelings for it.
An announcement from the train platform alerted him that the local train from Philadelphia would be arriving in three minutes, and J.C. cut the engine of his car, swinging his body from the low seat of his convertible and pushing the door shut behind him. Stepping up to the platform, he leaned against a metal bar by the stairs, peeking down the tracks. Per usual, he felt eyes on him—women waiting for the train, wives waiting for their husbands, college girls heading into the city for the weekend. But instead of making eye contact with any of them, he let their hungry eyes roam over his body and tried to quiet the fierce thumping of his heart.
Rationally he knew that there was no connection between the Libitz Feingold from present-day and the model with whom J.C. had become infatuated over the past several weeks, yet his anticipation grew as the tracks began to vibrate and shudder. Suddenly the train whooshed past him with a fiery blast of wind, the brakes shrieking as it slowed down, the silver bullet coming to stop in the station. His body tensed, straightening away from the bar behind him as he scanned the doors that suddenly jerked open and the waves of people that emptied onto the platform.
Wives embraced their husbands, mothers opened their arms to returning children, and businessmen walked hurriedly to their cars, eager to begin the last long weekend of the summer. And for a moment, J.C. despaired that she wasn’t on the train platform as the swell of humanity thinned to a conductor talking to a station agent. Still scanning the open doors of the train, he was pulling his phone from his back pocket to call Kate when the pointy toe of an ultrasexy black sling-back heel stepped out onto the platform.
His eyes widened as they trailed up denim-clad legs, artfully frayed at the knees and near the pussy, and sailed past a tiny waist to a loose black scoop-neck tank top embellished with a collection of gold chains around her neck. Her lips were a fierce fire-engine red, and oversized Jackie O. sunglasses completed her ensemble. From one bent elbow, she carried a large black leather purse, and several gold bangles on her wrist clanked together as she pulled her black rolling suitcase behind her.
Fuck.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I am in so much fucking trouble, thought J.C., stepping forward as she scanned the platform, and he raised his hand in greeting.
***
Fuck.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Thanks, Kate. Thanks a lot.
Though she’d firmly instructed herself on the train ride not to react to him, the second she saw Jean-Christian Rousseau standing alone on the Haverford train platform, her entire body surged with electricity like she’d touched a live wire. Her mouth watered, goose bumps rose up on her skin, her nipples tightened into hard points, and her clit throbbed for the first time in months, starting a chain reaction in her pelvis. Liquid and hot, she felt her body ready for him like he was about to drop trou in the middle of a public train station and she was going to mount him like a stud for hire.
She hissed a held breath through her lips, furious with herself.
It was a chemical fucking reaction over which she had zero control, yes, but it pissed her off mightily nonetheless. Narrowing her eyes and setting her jaw to irritated, she stood completely still as the conductor yelled an old-fashioned “All aboard!” before the double doors closed behind her. The train lumbered away from the station, and she and J.C. Rousseau were left staring at each other from a distance of about fifty feet away.
Taking a deep breath, Libitz walked toward him.