Portrait of a Love Read Free Page A

tea?”
    “I haven’t had lunch,” said Isabel, “but I’m not hungry, Mrs. Sinclair, really.”
    “Well, I am, Mama,” said the senator.
    “Didn’t they give you lunch on the plane?” his mother asked with a little frown.
    He grinned, a slow smile that brought a look of lazy sunshine to his face. It was a marvelous smile, thought Isabel, her eyes once again on Leo Sinclair. “Yes,” he said.
    Mrs. Sinclair laughed. “Sit down, Isabel, and I’ll order tea.”
    Isabel complied, taking a wing chair by the beautiful carved chimneypiece, and Leo sat down on the sofa next to his mother. Isabel’s observant eyes noted that he moved with extraordinary grace for so big a man.
    “You drove all the way down from New York, Miss MacCarthy?” He pronounced it “New Yawk.”
    “Yes, Senator. I thought I’d see a little bit of the country while I had the chance.”
    He smiled at her. I can’t wait to paint this man, Isabel thought and smiled back. “I don’t blame you,” he said.
    Simon came in with the tea try, and as she poured, Mrs. Sinclair told her son that Isabel had decided to work in the library.
    “Fine.” The deep soft voice took on a note of affectionate teasing. “Do you want me to dress up in eighteenth-century garb, Mama?”
    “Of course not. You will wear ...” Mrs. Sinclair broke off and looked at Isabel. “Whatever shall he wear, Isabel? A business suit is much too dull.” She looked at her son doubtfully. “Your dinner jacket, perhaps?”
    He gave her a reproachful look. “Mama. Please.”
    His mother shrugged helplessly and two pairs of blue eyes turned to look at Isabel. Isabel didn’t think it mattered very much what he wore, really, but obligingly she put her mind to the problem.
    “Something blue,” she said after a minute. “A sweater, I think. I’ll do you standing in front of the mantelpiece.”
    “Standing,” said Leo resignedly. “Oh, well.”
    “You can wear your blue V-neck sweater,” his mother said. “Isabel is right. It will be a good foil for your eyes.”
    Leo looked amused and ate one of the sandwiches Simon had brought with the tea.
    “Delicious,” he said, and held the plate out to Isabel. “Have one, Miss MacCarthy.”
    Isabel accepted. The sandwich was crabmeat and it was delicious. Isabel took a hungry bite.
    “I can stay until Thursday,” Leo said, and Isabel put her sandwich down abruptly and stared at him.
    “Thursday? But today is Saturday.”
    “Won’t that be enough time, dear?” asked Mrs. Sinclair worriedly.
    Isabel was really upset. “Of course it won’t be enough time. I need at least two weeks of sittings if I’m to do a portrait.”
    “Well, I cannot give you two weeks.” The senator’s voice was quiet but firm. “Congress is in session and I must be in Washington.” He turned to his mother. “I’m sorry, Mama.”
    Hell, Isabel thought explosively. Bloody bloody hell. Her face, however, showed none of her agitation; when it came to concealing feelings, Isabel was an expert.
    “I was not aware, when I accepted this commission, that your time would be so limited, Senator,” she said now in a cool, clipped voice. She looked directly into the astonishing blue eyes of the man seated opposite her and thought, you bastard. You’re just like the rest of your kind. What do you care that I’ve come all this way for nothing? It’s not convenient for you to sit for your portrait, and that’s that.
    “You don’t work from photographs?” he asked her.
    “No.”
    The blue eyes moved from her face to his mother.
    “This is all my fault,” Mrs. Sinclair said in obvious distress. “I should have thought of this sooner.”
    Leo shrugged, his big shoulders moving easily under his expensive jacket.
    Damn, thought Isabel.
    Leo looked at her. “Well, Miss MacCarthy,” he said in his soft voice, “I reckon you’ll just have to come back to Washington with me.”
    Isabel’s dark eyes widened. “Washington!” she said in