Master of the Game by Sidney Sheldon

Dominique was a source of constant encouragement. “You are going to be better than all of them, chéri. Believe me. I know.”

If Tony was in the mood to paint at night, Dominique would cheerfully pose for him, even though she had been working all day. God, I’m lucky, Tony thought. This was the first time he had been sure someone loved him for what he was, not who he was, and it was a feeling he cherished. Tony was afraid to tell Dominique he was the heir to one of the world’s largest fortunes, afraid she would change, afraid they would lose what they had. But for her birthday Tony could not resist buying her a Russian lynx coat.

“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life!” Dominique swirled the coat around her and danced around the room. She stopped in the middle of a spin. “Where did it come from? Tony, where did you get the money to buy this coat?”

He was ready for her. “It’s hot—stolen. I bought it from a little man outside the Rodin Museum. He was anxious to get rid of it. It didn’t cost me much more than a good cloth coat would cost at Au Printemps.”

Dominique stared at him a moment, then burst out laughing. “I’ll wear it even if we both go to prison!”

Then she threw her arms around Tony and started to cry. “Oh, Tony, you idiot. You darling, fantastic idiot.”

It was well worth the lie, Tony decided.

One night Dominique suggested to Tony that he move in with her. Between working at the école des Beaux-Arts and modeling for some of the better-known artists in Paris, Dominique was able to rent a large, modern apartment on Rue Prêtres-Saint Severin. “You should not be living in a place like this, Tony. It is dreadful. Live with me, and you will not have to pay any rent. I can do your laundry, cook for you and—”

“No, Dominique. Thank you.”

“But why?”

How could he explain? In the beginning he might have told her he was rich, but now it was too late. She would feel he had been making a fool of her. So he said, “It would be like living off you. You’ve already given me too much.”

“Then I’m giving up my apartment and moving in here. I want to be with you.”

She moved in the following day.

There was a wonderful, easy intimacy between them. They spent weekends in the country and stopped at little hostels where Tony would set up his easel and paint landscapes, and when they got hungry Dominique would spread out a picnic lunch she had prepared and they would eat in a meadow. Afterward, they made long, sweet love. Tony had never been so completely happy.

His work was progressing beautifully. One morning Maître Cantal held up one of Tony’s paintings and said to the class, “Look at that body. You can see it breathing.”

Tony could hardly wait to tell Dominique that night. “You know how I got the breathing just right? I hold the model in my arms every night.”

Dominique laughed in excitement and then grew serious. “Tony, I do not think you need three more years of school. You are ready now. Everyone at the school sees that, even Cantal.”

Tony’s fear was that he was not good enough, that he was just another painter, that his work would be lost in the flood of pictures turned out by thousands of artists all over the world every day. He could not bear the thought of it. Winning is what’s important, Tony. Remember that.

Sometimes when Tony finished a painting he would be filled with a sense of elation and think, I have talent. I really have talent. At other times he would look at his work and think, I’m a bloody amateur.

With Dominique’s encouragement, Tony was gaining more and more confidence in his work. He had finished almost two dozen paintings on his own. Landscapes, still lifes. There was a painting of Dominique lying nude under a tree, the sun dappling her body. A man’s jacket and shirt were in the foreground, and the viewer knew the woman awaited her lover.