Succumb to Me Read online

  SUCCUMB TO ME

  By

  Julia Keaton

  Copyright by Julia Keaton March 2013

  Smashwords Edition

  ISBN: 9781301102631

  Cover art by Eliza Black, March 2013

  www.juliakeatonbooks.com

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

  Other Titles by Julia Keaton:

  His Forbidden Touch

  Ravished

  Stranger in my Bed

  Their Wicked Ways (Coming Soon)

  CHAPTER ONE

  Winter Stevens gasped as Vincent Giovanni unveiled his creation to her at long last, whipping the cover cloth to the side with a flourish that threw a fine mist of dust into the air. The air born particles drifted through the beam of sunlight that poured through the open window, shining on the painting with strange illumination.

  Looking upon his creation, Winter felt a bolt of shock akin to lightening pass through her body. As if she’d suddenly been transformed into petrified wood, Winter found she could not move, could not blink, could not even breathe.

  It was a monstrosity.

  “I call it The Ice Princess,” Mr. Giovanni said proudly, apparently pleased with Winter’s reaction. He seemed to be laboring under the assumption that she was stunned speechless with admiration.

  Thaw set in. For a moment, Winter felt herself hovering between a faint and violent illness. Her stomach clenched in a painful knot as she continued to gape wide-eyed at the painting, backing slowly away in disbelief until she bumped into a chair and collapsed into it with weakened knees that had turned to jelly. She wanted to cover her eyes, but she was powerless to look away.

  Blissfully unaware of her initial, and subsequent, reaction, Giovanni remained engrossed for some moments in studying his latest masterpiece.

  Winter took a deep breath, attempting calm, fighting down the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. She would not be ruled by her emotions, least of all by stark terror.

  She swallowed, trying to unstick her tongue from the roof of her mouth. She realized after a moment that her tongue felt swollen and uncooperative for the simple reason that her mouth had gone dry as dust. She swallowed convulsively, several times, and managed to gather a little moisture into her mouth.

  “Mr. Giovanni, why have you ... what happened to my ... why has my portrait been composed as a nude?” she managed faintly.

  His accent was heavy, but his English was flawless. She knew she couldn’t have misunderstood his intentions when he’d sought her out as a model. She’d been so thrilled, so defiant of her mother’s stern admonition that she could not, under any circumstances, pose for the brilliant artist. He had never mentioned anything of this sort, nor could she reconcile the genteel old man with any deviousness of character. Why then, had he done this?

  She had not—definitely NOT posed for him without her clothes! And yet, the painting depicted a woman completely without shame, lounging in a pile of dark, supple furs, clothed only in her hair. Crystalline walls protected her from the harsh, beautiful winter raging outside. There was such exquisite detail in her face and form—no one would believe that she’d been wearing her best walking dress as she’d posed for him. No one would believe that this ... this monstrosity was the result of nothing more than the man’s vivid imagination ... no one would doubt that she had posed nude for him.

  He nodded, so engrossed in his admiration of his handiwork it was obvious he had not heard one word out of three. “Nude, yes! Is it not perfection? Is it not exquisite? At first I was doubtful, but I do not regret that I allowed myself to be persuaded ... I believe you are one of my best subjects. In truth, your unusual coloring intrigued me from the beginning. I may like to paint you again someday.” He thought about it a moment. “Though in a different setting, of course.”

  Winter nearly strangled on her incredulity. Was the man mad? She would never do something like this again if she managed to recover. Why would he think she would ever sit for him again?

  Scandal. The foul word clung to her thoughts like a stench. It was the only thing her mind could wholly grasp. She deeply regretted going against her mother’s wishes now, for deceiving her mother into believing these past weeks that she’d been going to the park with her friend, Sarah. In truth, she had no friend named Sarah.

  When she thought back on the lengths she had gone to, only to find ruination!

  Her mother must never find out. She’d had far too much heartache in her lifetime to weather her daughter’s deceit and ruination. It wouldn’t matter that she was an innocent still. Never mind that Vincent Giovanni was at least thirty years her senior, no one would believe they hadn’t been lovers after viewing his painting of her. It reeked of intimacy.

  Her stomach heaved. She clamped a hand to her lips, placing her other hand protectively over her stomach, soothing the ulcer she could already imagine forming.

  Her thoughts were chaotic in her desperation to find a way out of the mess she’d gotten herself in to. Abruptly, a solution presented itself, uplifting her spirits. All was not lost! It wasn’t too late. She could destroy the portrait before anyone else saw it. Once she pried it away from him, she would burn it in private with none the wiser.

  “Thank you, Mr. Giovanni. It is beautiful. Now, for payment—”

  “It has already been taken care of, Miss Stevens.” He faced her, smiling.

  Hope soared, but she tamped it down to reality. He’d worked long on this project. She couldn’t allow him to simply give it to her, even if it was what she wanted. “No, I cannot allow you to give me such a gift.”

  Years of pride dictated she not accept charity, nor could she allow him to go unpaid even if she’d been inclined to accept charity. It was unfortunate she had not had the foresight to stow away more of her meager allowance. If she hadn’t had to pay for conveyance to his studio.... That was over and done now and could not be helped. She had saved what she could. It would have to be enough.

  He chuckled then and covered the painting once more.

  She was grateful. It was unnerving to see herself so depicted. His amusement, however, confused her. Questions burned her tongue for want of asking, but, from his attitude, she felt he was building to some revelation. She could feel trouble brewing like a storm about to erupt.

  Finally, he settled himself down behind his desk, devoting his full attention to her.

  “The Ice Princess was a commissioned piece of work. You were requested specifically as the model. I had no choice but to seek you out and invite you to sit for me. It was fortunate for us both that you agreed without requiring too much persuasion.”

  Dear god! Winter shook her head, trying to make sense of his speech. Someone had paid the man to destroy her? Someone had specifically requested her, had plotted to ruin her by commissioning a nude of her? She’d never suspected something so vile ... not even in her nightmares.

  An ache began pounding behind her eyes. She was ruined. She had ruined her family—her mother’s good name. It was all they’d had left and now they would not even have that much because of her willful disregard for her mother’s warnings. How could she have been such a vain fool?

  With a strength of will she didn’t know she possessed, she managed to calm the chaos of her mind and form the question burning her senses away. “Who commissioned this ... this...?” Atrocity. If someone had deliberately set out to ruin them, she had to know who it was.

  And why. She could think of no reason for hatching such a plot. What could they possibly hope to gain by defiling her family name and destroying her reputation?

  Blackmail?

  She
shook the thought off. That was absurd. It was common knowledge that they had no money to pay.

  “I am afraid I can’t divulge that information.” He steepled his hands, his face gone serious as he studied her, eyes strangely saddened.

  Winter felt that he wanted to tell her the truth, but something, or someone, prevented it. What person could have such a hold? Only one with power and riches—enough to crush anyone in their path. Enough to crush her. She prayed that she was wrong in her fears.

  “Mr. Giovanni....” She paused, working up the courage to beg. “Whoever it is, you must not allow him to take it, Mr. Giovanni. I’ll be ruined, my family shamed,” she pleaded, knowing it was useless.

  Mr. Giovanni could not have failed to realize what the portrait meant ... ultimate disgrace. For whatever reason, he was under the conspirator’s power and could not help her now even if he had wanted to. His next words confirmed her worst fears.

  “I have no choice. But, you need not worry. He assured me it was for a private collection. He gave me his word of honor, or I would not have agreed under any circumstances. Unfortunately in this day and time, I must accept work when it is offered me.”

  “His word?” Winter echoed faintly, wondering a little wildly if Mr. Giovanni was feeble minded.

  What good was the word of honor of a blackmailer? A defiler of a young woman’s reputation? The urge to laugh was almost insurmountable, and she knew hysteria threatened.

  She was not such a beauty as to make someone desire a portrait of her, in innocence. This person meant to plot her ruin. And had paid handsomely for it. Winter and her mother had only a modest income. She knew without being told Giovanni had been well compensated, and she couldn’t blame him for succumbing to the needs of his purse. Would that she could earn some sort of income for her own family.... She would have never been placed in this predicament, never been so powerless.

  Still, she could not simply allow this collector to have the painting. She would find out the man’s name, somehow, and appeal to his sense of honor and propriety ... if it was even possible—beg—threaten—whatever it took.

  Winter shook herself. She could not let doubt creep into her now. She had to believe she would succeed. Tomorrow, she would return with a clear head and try to wheedle the information she needed from Giovanni.

  With that thought bolstering her, Winter rose from her seat and shook his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Giovanni. It has been an ... enlightening experience.” If she never saw him again, it would be too soon. Vile deceiver.

  It made her ill even to think what lengths she would have to go to to pry the information from the man.

  She collected her cloak from the rack as a servant was summoned to see her out. Silently, he escorted her through the halls to the front entrance, though she needed no assistance, familiar as she’d become with Giovanni’s studio. She moved woodenly, her thoughts chaotic with plans as she exited the house and followed the walkway to the street.

  Frigid wind howled and gusted, tearing her hair loose from her chignon to blow in the wind, tangling over her face as she walked. She clutched her worn cloak tight to her chest, watching the ground as she moved, avoiding the sheen of ice that treacherously coated the worn brickwork. She blew away the thick tendrils of hair obscuring her vision, but it wasn’t until she had run into him that she noticed the man headed for Giovanni’s studio.

  He caught her as she stumbled into him, his strong hands gripping her wool encased arms, steadying her, his long, tapered fingers trapping locks of her pale hair that twined about his digits as if with a life of their own. Something about him struck her as familiar, his pleasant scent teasing her nostrils with their intimate proximity as she leaned into the broad shield of his body and recovered her balance on the slick cobblestone.

  “Excuse me,” she mumbled, curiosity prompting her to peer up into his down turned face as he towered above her.

  She found herself gazing into a familiar pair of dark eyes, filled with mocking amusement. Shocked recognition made the breath freeze in her lungs. Her mind screamed the warning to run, but she found her legs had turned to jelly and could not obey.

  Winter jerked from his grasp as though scorched by a heated iron.

  He smiled darkly, his black cape and thick, midnight hair fluttering around him as a gust of wind swept between them. Surrounded by movement and immediacy, he seemed to retain a sense of stillness as he watched her, almost anticipatory of what she would do next. As though he wished she would run so that he could pursue her.

  It was him. The man who’d haunted her conscience and her dreams with guilt for a year after she’d first known him. A man she had completely forgotten in the ensuing tragedy she’d suffered with her father’s death. Or at least, she’d told herself she’d forgotten him.

  His name whispered in her mind like a curse and a caress.

  Logan Cordell.

  This man ... she’d wished never to see him again. His very name filled her with a deep shame at what she’d allowed to happen. It had been years since she’d seen him, not since she’d been a green girl on her first season. She’d been no more than eighteen at the time, and it seemed a lifetime ago. Despite the passage of time, however, she saw that every sensuous nuance of his face and form were the same.

  She blinked away the memories, studying him now and realized that she had been wrong. He had changed over the years. His eyes no longer laughed, they mocked. The laugh lines around his mouth that she had once found so intriguing crinkled now in derisive amusement. The charming rogue had vanished. In his place was a man who had hardened, and she wondered with horror if she’d been the cause.

  But he wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to be in England, settling his estranged father’s affairs ... and living out his life there to the end of his days.

  His presence here confirmed just how dire her situation was. She knew immediately who had commissioned the nude portrait—understood the irony of the painting’s theme. It could be the only reason why he would come to Giovanni’s residence.

  A sickening certainty engulfed her, bringing with it raging emotions she could scarcely recognize as belonging to herself. With an effort, she controlled the urge to yield to them just as she’d always done—and always would.

  “We meet again, Miss Stevens.” His voice rolled over her like black velvet, vibrating with intensity, seductive and warm as it had ever been in her memories. He took her hand where it hung limply by her side and pressed his lips to the back of it, the heat of his breath warming her hand through the silken lace glove. She could almost feel the soft texture of his mouth and the rough shadow of whiskers through her thin gloves, little barrier to the sensual assault he bore against her mind.

  Every impulse urged her to snatch her hand away, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a response. He’d merely unsettled her, no more. She felt nothing for him now but an intense need to see him strung up by his thumbs. She had not been dubbed an ice princess by him without good cause. “Good day to you, Mr. Cordell,” she said with practiced calm as she withdrew her hand from his.

  “What brings you to our mutual friend, Mr. Giovanni?” he asked, all innocence.

  As if he didn’t know. Her temple pounded again, the headache coming back in full force with the struggle to maintain her facade.

  He watched her with dark eyes, a half smile teasing the corner of his lips, as though he knew she’d discovered his mischief and thought to gain a rise out of her on the spot.

  What she wanted to do was slap his smug face clean off. Her palm itched with pure need, but she remembered another time and place when she’d given in to her impulses. Had she retained better control then, she would not be in this situation now. Far better to rage inside than give in to her dangerous urges. “I was merely settling some private affairs,” she said through a forced smile, her face feeling as though it would crack under the strain.

  “I’m sure.” His voice held the allure of intimate knowledge—a secret shared be
tween them.

  If she were not a lady ... she would slap him. She was already beginning to feel sorry she hadn’t. Instead, she said, “I had not heard you patronized Mr. Giovanni, nor that you had returned to town.”