HE ALL but begged her to spend the night with him-at a cheap motel, at an incredibly expensive hotel, on the Great Lawn at Central Park- anywhere. Okay, hehad begged. Cajoled. Pleaded. Teased. He had ended up on his knees in the middle of the sidewalk on Fifth Avenue clutching her legs, threatening to handcuff himself to her until she agreed. For a moment Amanda wondered if the pleading private eye at her feet really might have a pair of cuffs on him.
They had both collapsed in a hugging, laughing heap outside of Trump Tower drawing an appalled, disapproving frown from the haughty, white-haired, spit and polish uniformed American doorman and an understanding, nonchalant shrug from the European one.
Marc left, grumbling, threatening to embarrass them both at the nude posing session tomorrow. And then had tenderly kissed her goodbye with such a gentle and passionate longing Amanda had immediately regretted her decision and had to clamp her jaw shut to keep from calling out after him as he vanished into the evening crowd.
The next twenty-four hours were torture.
And as busy as hell, fortunately. They talked to each other every few hours. He had met his brother’s “young woman”, he told her, and wonder of wonders, she was smart, secure, and put up with no guff when David began to rise to his full, overbearing height. She seemed totally devoted to him.
“I felt like I had stumbled into a loony bin where the people you think you’ve known all your life morph into completely different beings right before your eyes. Weird, Ace. I didn’t know the guy had that kind of…” He searched for the word. “Communication… in him. I sure as hell wouldn’t have minded him throwing a little of it my way when we were kids.”
Amanda’s heart went out to Marc. But he was a big boy now. A very big boy capable of manly acts and manly coping. An extremely impressive, complicated man who tangled her mind and her body and who forced himself into every cranny of her consciousness even as she tried to concentrate on the immediate goal at hand.
A few calls later. Amanda had information to share.
“Marc, I think the professor’s going to be all right. He’s still enormously excited, but he sound’s so much more focused. It’s the session. The anticipation seems to be doing the most amazing thing to people. Wilde can’t stop chuckling. He’s got Zabar’s whipping up Florentine goodies. Christine keeps talking about her push-up Renaissance outfit and Nathan is going to wear tights as part of the costume Mr. Wilde has rented. She convinced him. He says he’s got great legs- even better than Brando’s inJulius Caesar – ‘bout time we all saw them. Nathan, not Wilde, ding bat.” She laughed at his joke and wished he were there. But he was off to the gym.
Later, Marc had information to share. “I look terrific, Ace! Muscles even I didn’t know I had. It was a great workout. Young trainer, Chad, when he could stop chewing his cud, kept trying to talk to me about entering a competition. Can you believe that?”
He laughed, as excited as everyone else, Amanda thought.
“I had some great ideas. What do you think of the Lacoön? You know, the daddy in the middle. Too tortured? Or what about the Heracles, the one with the big bow? It’s at the Met and LA County. Too blatant? Pure classicism, but do you think it’s too modern? I want to really get through this time, Ace. Inspire you all.”
“Do the Dying Slave again; that is so powerful, so painfully beautiful.”
“I want to really shake everybody up. Get Christine’s mind off my crotch. Speaking of my crotch…”
“Do the David. That statue represents everything Michelangelo ever accomplished, spent his life accomplishing: strength, beauty, power, determination, hope.”
“I can’t do David, I’m the wrong shape, you know that. He’s a kid.”
“He’s a man, Marc. A man on the verge of becoming a greater man. Do David.”
A sob suddenly erupted from somewhere deep inside Amanda, startling them both. She gasped, choking it back, then filled her lungs with quick, deep drafts of air. A couple of sniffs and she pulled herself together. He silently waited.
“Marc? I’m sorry, I don’t… I guess I’m so on edge, too. So looking forward…”
“For you, I’ll do David.”
HER HEART racing, she climbed the narrow stairs of the 72nd Street subway stop and walked out into the early evening crowd. Up Broadway on the West Side of the street, she could see the impressive pile of ancient sandstone known as the Ansonia, ever in constant repair, determined to drag its elegant late 19th century French self into the 21st century.
She had taken the subway because she wanted time to clear her mind. Because she wanted to be a bit late. Because the subway reminded her of the first time…
Amanda crossed from the square granite subway kiosk planted in the middle of the intersection of Amsterdam Avenue with Broadway to the west side of the street and turned north across 72nd street toward the famous old building noted for its artists-in-residence.
Inside the lobby, she gave her name to the guard at the entrance of the elevator bank alcove which took guests to the upstairs condominiums.
He smiled. “Mr. Wilde seems to have quite an evening planned. He’s been bustling in and out all day. We are to be particularly welcoming to his guests.” He gave Amanda a smart little bow. “Welcome. And have a very pleasant evening.”
She returned his smile, thanked him and started to enter the elevator.
“And don’t throw anything away,” the guard called out. “Bring it down here for the guys. Mr. Wilde’s pretty good about passing out his rejects. Good artist; he does good stuff.”
The elevator door closed leaving Amanda to digest the information that Wilde freely gave his work away. She found the apartment and rang the bell.
“Oh, my dear, what a joy to see you. We were beginning to worry. We’ve already begun. You must go dress. Christine will assist you.” Mr. Wilde looked wonderfully impressive in a long, cut-velvet, Renaissance robe. A squashed velvet hat rested on his fluffed white hair.
She had seen a similar costume on Juliet’s father in a production ofRomeo and Juliet somewhere. Or was it Romeo’s father? Whichever, he was one of the ones that didn’t end up dead at the end of the play.
Mr. Wilde had indicated a doorway off the hall. Christine bustled in, looking fabulous. More velvet, floor-length. Deep wine, heavily brocaded with glints of gold thread. With her coloring and dark hair, she looked lush. The gown had a high, fitted waistline and the bodice was pushed up indeed.
Her ample bosom was outlined with flourishes of antique lace peeking from the embroidered banding. Her dark, gleaming hair was piled high and crowned with a flat hat from which a drape of pale silk framed her face.
“Pretty jazzy, huh? The guys can hardly keep their eyes in their heads. You missed the big play. Antonio was all over me. Buck naked. Whew, those hot Italians. Nathan was between us like an attack dog. Made it very plain I was not available and was ready to scar pretty boy to make his point. Wilde smoothed it all over. We’re all great buddies now. Nathan suggested to our horny model he take after you, would you believe? God, I feel wonderful. I’m doing some great stuff.”
She zipped Amanda into a light, layered silk, pale blue underdress with a high waist and a snug, embroidered, multicolored bodice. The long, puffed sleeves were caught up with delicate gold cords. Over the dress, Christine slid a sleeveless, pale lavender open robe with narrow banding encrusted with colored jewels.
Amanda’s hair was to be down, she instructed, brushing it quickly and vigorously until it shone. Then she pinned a small Juliet cap onto the crown of auburn waves that framed Amanda’s face. She stepped back, admired her handiwork and gave Amanda the okay sign.
“Young stud is in tights. Don’t laugh, for God’s sake. He looks hunkier than hell. He’s in a short tunic that just grazes those cute buns.” She fanned herself exaggeratedly. “Damn, I wish Cissy were here. She’d get such a kick out of this.”
They started out the door. “Angeli whispered that Wilde’s gonna bring out his good stuff later. Like five-hundred year old paper. I don’t know if I’ve got the guts to touch it. And he keeps dropping hints about other stuff, too. He’s like a kid.”
She pulled Amanda after her through a small, bachelor living room into a large high-ceilinged studio, for which Amanda felt an immediate pang of envy.
At an easel facing the naked model, Professor Angeli sat, dressed similar to their host but in a more subdued robe and wearing a much more restrained hat. He gave Amanda a perfunctory but pleasant nod and immediately returned his full attention to the drawing he was making.
Nathan looked smashing. A jaunty cap with a plume sat atop his murky hair- Christine must have cajoled him into combing it for the first time in months- topping off the tights and tunic. Amanda had to admit, the guy did have a great set of buns with which he greeted her with a smart-ass wiggle. He pointed to velvet slippers on his feet.
Looking her up and down with a lascivious leer, he gave an appreciative nod, two thumbs up, and went back to work. Amanda could imagine the talk around the water cooler at work next week.
The breath went out of her when she finally dared focus on Marc.
His naked body deeply golden-toned, the dark crop of curls adorning his head, his eyes a rich, deep chocolate. “Antonio” bore almost no resemblance to the man with whom she…
He was standing on a small posing platform, his weight solidly planted on one leg, the other leg relaxed, lightly lifted, the knee bent, resting on tiptoe. His beautiful, muscled body spiraled upward in an ecstatic twist. One arm was poised, half-raised, in horizontal open-palmed anticipation, while his opposite arm arched skyward.
His sculpted face, alive with joy, peered upward. It was a perfect reproduction of the Muse of the Dance from one of the famous sculpture groups on the facade of the old Paris Opera house.
“Antonio” momentarily cut his eyes to Amanda and gave her a wink.
Amanda was instantly hot and flushed with the memory of the magnificent animal before her lusciously ravishing her more than willing body and her, equally lustily, ravishing his.
Ace, that man could be yours! Underneath the wig and behind the contacts is the best thing that ever happened to you. Who the hell cares what you have to give up to get it.
“Isn’t that glorious?” Wilde whispered at her elbow. “The boy is absolutely astonishing. See what I’ve done.” He thrust a group of sketches at her. “He is a fount of inspiration. And soon,” his voice dropped teasingly, “I shall astonish you all with materials worthy of that inspiration.” He patted her arm benevolently and returned to his easel.
Amanda glanced through the sketches. They were extraordinary. With their quick sure strokes of the pen, highlighted with watercolor washes of sienna or cerulean, they could easily have passed for antique studies.
“Mr. Wilde, these are amazing.” Amanda held the sketches reverently as the self-satisfied older artist retrieved them.
He dropped his eyes in an aborted attempt at a show of modesty. His shoulders gave a small shrug. “You are too kind, my dear. They are good, aren’t they?”
With a sigh, he dismissed the drawings and patted her hand. “I have held off sharing my special treasures until your arrival, which I shall do after we’ve taken a pause in the evening’s proceedings. In the meantime you must see what the others are accomplishing. Angeli is absolutely under the spell of this superb young man. Let’s peek.”
He guided Amanda over to join him behind the professor where they had a clear view of his work.
A thrilling shiver coursed through her at the sight of the brilliantly executed charcoal sketch Professor Angeli was finishing.
With a smudge of a fiber stump to blur a line and a touch of a kneaded eraser to set a highlight, the professor stepped back and surveyed the drawing and its inspiration. “Ah.” His hand darted in to thicken and darken a contour.
After a final squint, he opened his eyes and, with a satisfied smile, turned to ask, “Well, what do you think?”
Amanda was speechless. Wilde began to rave. Christine and Nathan came over to see. Angeli turned to the still-frozen model. “Thank you, my boy, you have been more than noble.” Antonio relaxed and began to stretch and shake his muscles loose.
“This incredible young man held that unbelievable pose rock-steady for at least a quarter-hour while I leisurely attempted my little drawing. There would not be a drop of blood left in my poor drained torso if I dared to attempt such a feat.”
He murmured with modest delight as the group praised the work. Antonio tied a robe around himself and came to join in the admiration. Nathan moved to keep himself between the model and Christine, which she acknowledged with a sly smile and wink to Amanda
They all admired Christine’s carefully crafted pencil rendering, so different than her usual powerful Roualt-type slashings. Her horizons had, indeed, expanded beyond the naked model’s midsection and she had produced an exquisite sketch of a full-length nude that caught Amanda’s breath in her throat.
It was so startlingly similar to the Ingres-like sketch Amanda had chosen in her wealthy European persona at Pinks gallery that she could have sworn both drawings had been done by the same person. But Christine had said the creepy Pink Dracula had never taken any work of hers.
Amanda’s mind began to race. Nathan’s drawing was crisp, clean and very well-executed and evidenced his underlying background as a superb graphic artist. How could it not, Amanda thought. Her employee drew dramatic, contemporary cartoons daily at his job with great relish and obvious love of his work. His art was contemporary and very much of today.
She couldn’t put all the bits and pieces together and longed for a chance to discuss what was going through her head with Marc. He could help her sort it out. He would add his own insight and the pieces would begin to fall into place.
And the case would be solved. One of her dear friends would be indicted as an international forger, Marc would be gone and she would never again feel his touch.
Impulsively, she grabbed “Antonio’s” hand for support, for strength, for belief that what they had had would have to last her for the rest of her empty life and because she couldn’t stand being in his presence one more moment without feeling the touch of his flesh.
Just as impulsively, Marc leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. The two older artists smiled in delighted surprise. Christine raised her eyebrows and Nathan smirked.
Amanda’s cheeks flamed and she looked around in confusion. Even Marc, behind his dark contacts, seemed startled. But she did not let go of his hand. Nor he of hers.
“I… I… we…”
“How delightful,” Professor Angeli ducked his head coyly, patting both Amanda and Antonio on their reddening cheeks. “It appears our young people have become… friends.”
He looked around at a beaming Mr. Wilde. “Perhaps now would be a perfect time for a bit of a respite. Amanda, my dear, your timing is superb. Our more than gracious host has provided us with a lavish, authentic 15th century Zabar’s nosh to keep our energies up. And I have offered to assist in spreading the fare.”
He reached over and squeezed Antonio and Amanda’s hands, still holding tightly to each other.
“Thank goodness something good came of my awful madness with poor Parkerson the other evening at the League.” The professor moved toward the kitchen, speaking to no one in particular. “I spoke to him this morning- I call every day, you know- and he’s coming along nicely. I still can’t imagine what got into my befuddled brain.” His voice came from the depths of the refrigerator. “The madness of the crowd, I assume.”
Amanda pulled “Antonio” into the kitchen with her. “Professor Angeli, did you see Mr. Wilde’s sketches,” Amanda asked excitedly. “They look like… they look like,” she gave a quick glance to the apprehensive Marc, “like classical work I’ve seen in the Metropolitan or at the Morgan. Isn’t that amazing?” she added, with what she hoped sounded like girlish naiveté.
“Yes, Wilde has been making an effort to emulate the old masters for years,” the professor explained lightly. “He’s even made a study of the formulation of inks of the various periods. He doesn’t usually feel confident enough to show off that aspect of his talent in the presence of others.
“Wilde,” he directed to their host, who had entered the kitchen to retrieve the plastic-protected bowls and platters prepared by the world-famous, local delicatessen which Angeli pulled from the refrigerator. “You’re becoming extraordinarily accomplished. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you dash off such excellent work of the period quite so proficiently.
“We’re settling in the salon,” the professor informed them as an aside. “Good heavens, Wilde, there’s enough food here for a dozen starving artists.” He handed Amanda and Antonio bottles of wine and wine glasses and led the way through the studio.
“Amanda is quite impressed with your work tonight,” Angeli said to Wilde as they passed a chatting Christine and Nathan and motioned for them to follow.
“Do have one, my dear,” Wilde offered magnanimously, setting the various containers on a large art deco coffee table. “Take any sketch you like. I want you to have one and I certainly want our gifted young model to have one.” He began to spoon various salads onto intricately-decorated hand-made crockery plates. “You may choose whatever you wish.”
Christine popped an olive into her mouth and gave Amanda a satisfied look that indicated how impressed she was with Amanda’s good fortune: a new boyfriend to take the place of the one leaving soon and a damn fine drawing by old Wilde.
Amanda was as nonplused at Christine’s look as she was flabbergasted at Wilde’s suggestion. “Mr. Wilde,” she sputtered, “those drawings are magnificent. I can’t imagine you giving them away. Why…why you could sell them if you don’t want to keep them. I’m sure there are galleries that…”
“Pagh,” Wilde erupted in fury, spraying food over his comfortable masculine living room. “Galleries! Vile, wretched, blood-sucking dens created solely to drive poor, naive artists to utter distraction!” He gestured wildly with an antique silver fork sending bits of salad flying. “We tried, didn’t we, Angeli? Didn’t we, Nathan? Didn’t we, Christine? God knows, we tried to do business with those money grubbing pariahs. You met one of them, my dear.” He turned to Amanda and let out a huge, appreciative guffaw.
“She called him Dracula… Pink Dracula. Perfect! Blood-sucking, namby-pamby pariah. I should have known better. But we did try, didn’t we, Angeli?”
“Yes, Wilde, we did.” Angeli scooted about the room wiping up the bits of scattered food. “Several of us in the class went to a Village gallery recommended by Parkerson and I’m afraid were treated rather perfunctorily.”
Recommended by Parkerson?Amanda sat upright.
The professor leaned between Amanda and Antonio and said quietly, “An attitude that reacts rather badly with Wilde’s personality.”
Recommended by Parkerson?Marc felt his pulse quicken.
“Purveyors of wretched modern crap! Not a decent reproduction in the whole shop! Worse than shyster, bottom-feeding lawyers,” Wilde grumbled into his food. “Forgive me, my dear fellow artists, my lack of restraint.”
Amanda wasn’t sure any of this was computing. Wilde hadn’t seemed that upset about the gallery when she ran into him in SoHo. Maybe he was just being overly dramatic now in front of appreciative friends. But the idea that David had sent them to the gallery?
“I didn’t mean to upset you, Mr. Wilde, but I’m sure there must be places that handle your quality of work.”
He patted her hand. “You are a dear to be concerned and I appreciate your thoughts, but I much rather enjoy giving my work to those who truly appreciate it for its quality rather than for what it might have cost them.”
“Unless the entire economy of the western world collapses, Wilde is fortunate not to have to choose between art and commerce, “Professor Angeli said, as he smiled somewhat tightly at the group.
Amanda looked at the sketches. Tears of joy bubbled in her eyes. She hugged the startled Wilde fervently.
“Oh, Mr. Wilde, thank you, thank you. This gift is the most wonderful thing to happen… since… since,” She grabbed Antonio’s hand and pressed it to her bosom. “Since Antonio.” She dropped her eyes, feeling delighted and silly, knowing she was blushing and that her emotions had carried her over the top. What would Marc think?
Wilde beamed. “I’m so pleased you would consider my paltry efforts on a par with such an obviously special attachment.”
“Don’t be so modest, Wilde,” the professor’s voice was chilly. “Your work is good and you know it. Fortunately you don’t have to give a fig about what any stupid so-called artist’s representative might think.”
There was an awkward silence. Christine looked from one to the other. Nathan continued to shovel food into his mouth, unconcerned.
Oh dear, I’ve offended Professor Angeli, Amanda thought. Obviously, he had also at one time had a bad personal experience with a gallery. He really was the better artist and must surely know it, but she had never seen him try to emulate an old master. To compare his work with Wilde’s would be like comparing oranges and apples.
“Professor Angeli,” she said, squeezing his hand, “you must help us decide about Mr. Wilde’s wonderful gift. And I can’t wait to be able to afford an example of your work, too.”
The professor looked at her slyly. “You have great tact, Miss Emerson, and great charm. All you have to do is check my wastebasket at work.” Amanda wasn’t sure whether he was joking or repressing his annoyance.
His look brightened. “I’ll be delighted to assist in your selection and I will think seriously about adding a modest effort to your collection. Perhaps,” he added pointedly as he and Wilde began to clear away the dishes, “our esteemed host might grant me a modest discard also.”
“Oh, Angeli, you are far the better artist.” Wilde left the room and continued talking. “And you know it,” he called out. “I can’t imagine you honestly caring a fig about having my work.” Re-entering, he continued, noting the professor’s shocked look. “Now let’s not rankle among friends. It’s time to share my modest treasures with my dear companions.”
He put a protective arm around the smaller, more wizened, trembling older artist and shooed him from the room indicating that he relieve himself of the gathered dishes and silverware.
“Not that I could ever outshine you, my dear young man,” he gave a quick bow to Antonio, “but tonight we… you and all the rest of us… will make history at least amongst our little group.” He led them into the studio.
“Wilde, what the hell are you babbling about?” Nathan muttered as Professor Angeli rejoined them, looking pale.
Amanda glanced quickly at Marc to check his reaction to the recent exchange but he seemed intent on maintaining his Antonio disguise.
“Behold.” Wilde carefully pulled a flat wrapped package from between leather dividers and held it reverently before him. “The Italian Renaissance.”
He paused dramatically, looking from one to the other and then, with the greatest care, began to unwrap the package.