The Golden Madonna by Rebecca Stratton

door at the top,he tightened his hold on her arm momentarily, so that she looked up at him in the dim coolness. She thought for one moment that he was going to have second thoughts about bringing her there, and then, just as inexplicably, he shrugged and reached past her to open the door.
    He pushed her through before him, with a hand in the small of her back as if he still feared she might turn and run, and Sally stood in the doorway for a moment, looking around her, not knowing quite what to expect, a strange and head-spinning sense of excitement stirring in her suddenly.
    Miguel Cordova was a proud and, in some ways, a strangely reserved man, and yet he was admitting her, of all people, to his holy of holies. The studio that none of his other students had ever seen. Always sensitive to atmosphere, she felt a faint tremor through her body when she experienced a feeling of intimacy that disturbed and excited her.
    Even had she not known it was his room, she felt she would have sensed it instinctively, for it was filled with his strong, dominant personality. It was here that his enormous creative talent released the deep, innermost secrets of his mind and revealed them in the beauty of his paintings, and the impression of his personality was almost tangible.
    A room where he painted the things he wanted to paint, like the harsh brilliance of a picture that caught her eye, over on the far wall. Vivid and alive With all the colour, movement and barbarity of the bullfight, detailed in cruel perfection by a master of his craft. It stirred a response in her, despite her dislike of the subject.
    The room itself smelled of the inevitable mixture of oil and paint and new canvas. Of the completed and part-completed pictures that stood propped against the walls, giving tantalising glimpses of form and colour. It was a big room and still retained its essentially Spanish air, like the rest of the house, except that one of the windows at the far end had been much enlarged and gave a breathtaking view of the sea and the rocks on which the house stood.
    The big window, being unshaded, made the room much warmer and must, in the full light of day, have been dazzling in its brilliance. White walls reflected the light and even this late in the evening, gave the impression of being at the heart of some great light force. An oddly disturbing sensation.
    An easel was set up, practically in the centre of the room and lower down, nearer the big window, was a model's dais with a chair. The silk-draped chair had a bare and sadly tatty look, somehow, without an occupant, and Sally found herself wondering who had sat in it last.
    She glanced up at Miguel Cordova, and her silent question was answered by a brief nod, the persuasive hand still under her arm. 'You are very silent, nina,' he said softly after a moment, and the sound of his voice set her heart beating rapidly again as she tried to ease herself free of his hold without appearing too obvious about it.
    'I'm very impressed,' she told him. 'It's—it's an unusual room, beautiful in a way, but'
    'But?' he prompted gently, and Sally hesitated. To put exactly what she felt into words could equally easily amuse or anger him. It might even cause him to reveal that disturbing hint of cruelty again, so she moved away from him, shaking her head, declining to explain herself.
    Her evasion was short-lived, however, for he followed close behind. 'But?' he asked again, and a long forefinger brushed lightly against her neck, as it lifted her long hair gently. 'Tell me just what impression my studio makes on you, mi pichon.'
    'I—I'm not sure.' She closed her eyes briefly when a shiver slid along her spine at the touch of his hand. 'It's—disturbing. I can't explain!' she added hastily before he could laugh the idea to scorn.
    'It—disturbs you?' He echoed her hesitation, but he sounded neither angry nor amused. A hand smoothed aside her long hair, and the long fingers almost reached round to her throat as