Excerpt of The Secret Courtesan by Kerry Chaput

The library on a Friday evening is nothing new for me. Sharing space with a man who cares about something as much as I do? Well, that’s undiscovered territory. Rain patters the tall old leaded windows as dim light flickers in the brewing storm. Like we’re about to hold a seance.

            We’ve been staring at the images of The Estasi for ten minutes in full silence under the low, filtered light of table lamps. This hall could rival Hogwarts, with its wood paneled ceilings and arched alcoves of faded books all around us, as if pages may begin flying off the shelves in a cloud of stardust.

            “What do you see?” Noah asks.

            “I think she’s sitting against something.”

            He rests his arm over the back of his chair. “Do tell, Dr. Harding.”

            I lift one of the high-res photographs. “They say she would have been a standing statue in the garden, a depiction of his wife in the throes of an orgasm. But the way the skin folds at her waist, she’s sitting.”

            “Perhaps against a second person,” he says with a twinkle in his eye.

            “Another thing.” I show him a close-up of her face. “This. Her mouth and her eyes. Either the artist didn’t know what ecstasy looks like—which is entirely possible—or they were aiming for something else.”

“Color me intrigued.” Noah rolls his chair closer.

“Okay, humor me.” I face him. Our knees accidentally touch. My instinct is to pull away, but his lips twitch into an almost-smile, which feels even more intimate. I soften my legs against his.

Noah seems to have noticed me hesitate. He tilts his head until we meet eyes, his reassuring smile pulling me back in. “Prepped and ready to humor, Doctor.”

I sidestep right past his charm. “Close your eyes.” He does, and I resist the very real urge to kiss him. To cup his cheeks in my hands and breathe in his cologne. I shake away the desire. Must focus. “Imagine you’re in the dark with a woman. Er, uh, or man?”

He peeks open one eye. “Woman.” He closes it again.

“Yes.” Me, biting back a smile. “You’ve wanted to touch her for weeks. She leans her mouth to the soft spot behind your ear. She kisses your neck while her hands slide up your torso.” His face has changed. Intensified. “She runs her tongue along your jaw. She hungrily seeks out your mouth. Her kiss is full and soft. Her tongue slips through your barely parted lips.” His mouth parts. “She straddles you and reaches her hand to your throbbing—”

Snap. My phone’s camera startles him.

He throws open his eyes. “Did you just take a photo of me?”

“Yes.”

“I feel oddly offended and aroused.” He considers. “Equally.”

I can’t resist a tight-lipped smile. “I’m sorry, Dr. Beckett. But we all must sacrifice in the name of science and discovery. Stick with me, I have a point.” I hand him my phone. “Here. Fair is fair.”

“Shared mortification. I can get on board with this.”

“One caveat. You don’t want me aroused.” My breath hitches. “You want me to fall in love.” This may seem forward, but I need him to understand the depth to which I believe this. The Estasi drips with feminine energy. I can’t explain it, so I’ll have to make him feel it.

His eyes remain steady on mine, but he cracks the hint of a smile. “Challenge accepted. Close your eyes, Mia.”

“No turning back now.” I hesitate. My need for someone to understand my wild ideas suddenly feels dangerous. Too close to my real feelings.

“Eyes closed,” he says. “Go on.”

He swallows and clears his throat. His voice drops to a husky whisper. “Candlelight warms the room with amber light. You want him to touch you. Undress you while he stares in your eyes. He slides the dress strap down your shoulder and presses his lips on the curve above your collarbone. He pulls you close. Chest to chest, your breath heaves together. While his mouth explores your throat and neck, his hand reaches back to slide the clip from your hair. Locks fall free down your bare back. He loses his hands in your soft, honey brown hair as he whispers, ‘You’re perfection.’”

Snap.

I open my eyes and we share an intense moment as my heart thumps hard against my chest. So hard, the beat thrums in my ears. I expected him to make a terrible joke about boobs, but the man made my toes curl.

He breaks the silence, and between heavy breaths says, “Holy hell, why didn’t I major in women’s studies?”

“I didn’t learn this in school, Mr. Purple Jumper. This is life.” I pull out my phone and watch as he toggles between the images.

“They’re different, but I’m unsure what I’m supposed to find,” he says.

“Here.” I point again to the mouth. “Your mouth is parted, but the face is taut. Pulled down and primal.”

He looks between the image and me. “And in yours, it’s a parted mouth but everything is elevated. Light.”

“Yes. Being touched for lust versus touched for deep passion. They’re different.” Even in my very limited experience in relationships, I know that much. Though my work demands sixty hours a week, I’ve managed a few unsatisfying romances over the years. Art admirers make great sexual partners, but romantic ones? Not so much.

He lifts the picture experts believe is Caterina. “She’s in full passion. Love, even.”

“Very good, Dr. Beckett. What do we know about their relationship?”

He runs his fingers through his thick, wavy hair that desperately needs a trim, as it keeps falling over his temples. “Lucca sculpted his wife in a moment of love and passion?” He catches himself. “Lucca and Caterina weren’t in love. They were toxic at best.”

“Like the sixteen-hundreds version of Johnny Depp and Amber Heard.” I tilt my head and grin. “Give me a theory.”

I don’t want to say it. He’ll think I’m ridiculous. Better to make him guess.

He taps his fingernails on the desk. “This face represents a woman who loved him.”

“Maybe,” I say with a shrug.

He twists his mouth to the side. “This is how he wished Caterina would look at him?”

“Doubtful.” I lean back in my chair. “Come on, Dr. Beckett. Dig deep.”

His blushed cheeks suggest frustration. The wind picks up. A gust sends a smattering of leaves onto the window and howls through the arches just outside. “If you have a hypothesis, why not just tell me?”

Because I’ll sound like a fool. “Because this is more fun.”

He releases a frustrated growl. Then he looks up. “Wait. This isn’t a Lucca original.”

Satisfaction blooms with the hope he may see what I see. “Closer.”

The cadence of his voice quickens. “He commissioned an apprentice. He discovered another man sculpting his wife.”

“Now you’re just disappointing me.” I cross my arms as he huffs.

Please see what I see. Please help me find a reason to say it aloud.

He slams his hands on the desk with a sweet, frustrated whine. “Okay. You said you learned to examine facial intricacies because of your life.”

“Yes.”

“Your life as a historian?” I don’t respond. “As an American?” Now, I roll my eyes. “As a . . . a woman.” He says the word not as a question, but with whispered declaration.

I feel exposed. Naked, almost. “Correct.”

He shakes his head. “You think The Estasi was sculpted by a woman?”

Ah, the sweet sound of my theory said aloud. As if I’m not alone in a bubble about to burst. I shrug, downplaying my relief. “There were plenty of women artists of the time. Few made history books, of course.” I search his eyes for signs of pity or horror. I see only intrigue and I can’t stop myself. “Besides, there’s a quality here we haven’t seen in men’s sculptures from that time. This woman reveals life. Not the mother archetype or the harlot, either. She looks how a woman feels.”

He rubs his face with both hands and stares at me in disbelief. “This would be an enormous discovery.”

“All off my hunch as a woman.” The words deflate any bravado and bring the romantic air of the evening to a crashing halt.

“I see your conundrum. If you dig into this and you’re wrong, you’ll lose all credibility as a historical expert. But if you’re onto something, you’ll blow up several careers.”

Including my own.

We’re so close, wading in the shallow end of the danger pool. It’s nice not to drown alone. “If we look at history from a different angle, we see different truths.” I point to the images on my phone. “That’s what they taught us in undergraduate women’s studies.”

He stares at the picture of me imagining his hands on my body. “The question now is who sculpted The Estasi?”

“I suspect our answer lies in the buried truth of women artists. No one thinks to look there.”

He smiles. “Except another woman.”