Diary of a Painted Lady by Maggi Andersen

At the after-party, Astrid introduced Philippe to her fellow actors, including Dylan who arrived with a pretty blonde actress on his arm.
    Astrid left Philippe who had found a French director he knew, and crossed the room to the hall that led to the powder room. A tall man in a black dinner suit stepped into her path. Dylan’s warm gaze brought that thrill rushing back, making her heart beat faster.
    “You look beautiful tonight.”
    “ Merci, ” she said smiling. “You look very handsome.”
    “Come and talk to me a while.”
    Astrid shook her head. “Philippe—”
    “Does he remind you of your dear Papa?”
    She frowned. “You are very badly behaved.”
    He shrugged. “Then I apologize.” If an apology it was a poor one. Astrid was about to chastise him further, but found she didn’t want to. She gazed over his shoulder at Philippe still in heated discussion.
    “You make me want to be bad.” Dylan’s hand caught hers. He subtly stroked the inside of her wrist with a thumb. He must have known how her pulse raced. “I want to throw you over my shoulder and run off with you.”
    “To your cave, no doubt?” She managed a flippant tone, despite the charge of excitement at his touch. She stepped back, cautioning herself. She’d had several glasses of wine and her head felt wooly. She didn’t handle alcohol well, it relaxed her body and her resolve. The thought of slipping away with Dylan had become too much of a temptation. She looked back to where Philippe had finished his conversation with the director. He’d begun to search for her, no doubt wishing to leave. It hit her in that moment, how much she allowed him to manipulate her. Despite her sense of outrage, she still struggled with indecision. Was she afraid to face life on her own terms? Dylan looked so reasonable standing there. And so gorgeous. “We don’t always get what we want, do we?” she asked, aware that a long heated pause had passed between them.
    “My father always told me, if I tried very hard, I would achieve great things,” he said reminding her of a sleek leopard judging his prey.
    “I’m sure your papa didn’t intend you to behave like a bore.” She pushed past him.
    He put his hand on her arm to stop her and leaned down, his face near hers. “I’m not such an oaf as to pursue a woman who doesn’t want me. But you want me, Astrid. I can see it in your eyes.”
    “Then you need glasses.”
    At his appreciative laugh, she bit her lip hard and moved away through the crowd, hearing his soft laugh behind her. She was slipping, slipping into a vortex of passion. It consumed her mind and body. She reached Philippe and he smiled and took her arm. Aware that she was being disloyal if only in her thoughts, made her stomach tighten. She really had to sort out what she was going to do. It was impossible to continue with this tug of war with her emotions.

Chapter Eleven
    London, 1890
     
    Gina came home from the funeral and sank onto the sofa, still wearing her black veil. She wept at the futility of such a death and Milo’s unfulfilled life. How was she to go on? Milo hadn’t kept a record of the art he’d sold in the beer house and had never received payment for. Any chance of recovering it now was gone.
    A few of Milo’s artist friends had thrown in to pay for the funeral. She was eternally grateful to them, and hated to have to ask them for modeling work when she knew many were struggling to live. Apparently she was too well known as Milo’s model. “Give it time,” one of the artists had said.
    Time was something she didn’t have.
    The sight of his latest work, perched unfinished on the easel, caused the tears to flow again. Sobbing, she looked around the room, a cold and empty space without his energy and enthusiasm to fill it with life. Filled with enthusiasm, he’d rushed to complete four more works before he’d succumbed to the drink, and she wondered if she could sell them. How perilous her situation had become. The