Deceived - Part 2 Paris (8 page)

“Thank you mi reina, my queen. That makes me truly happy to hear you say that. I feel like celebrating. Come, have dinner with me tonight.”

“Sure, I would love to, but...what about Ryan?”

“I believe he mentioned seeing a friend of his, besides I want to talk to you alone about something.”

Aye!
I suppressed a squeal as a zing of excitement raced down my spine. “Oh, now I’m curious. What is it?”

“Patience, mi querido. My sweetheart. All in good time,” Francisco teased.

“Dinner sounds wonderful, but I need to go change first. Can you pick me up at my hotel later?”

“Of course. I will be there at seven.”

“Perfect.” I had to bite the inside of my lip to bridle my actions lest they reveal my emotions. I was ecstatic for the chance to spend time alone with the handsome artist from Spain and as he had hinted, Ryan did have other plans. I was glad that Ryan was seeing people in Paris. Lately, he had been venturing out on his own, making friends with some of the local artists in the infamous Left Bank area. Maybe the City of Love would produce a romance for him also.  

The sky threatened rain, but the evening air was warm as Francisco came to my hotel to pick me up for dinner. In my short time in Paris, I had learned that the weather could fluctuate between rainy and sunny. I had on a light sleeveless dress and put my hair up, leaving a couple of long strands falling down to frame my face.

“Chloe, you are radiant,” Francisco said as he leaned his elbows on the table to study my face. We had walked to Les Ombres, a swanky contemporary restaurant with modern French cuisine and fantastic views of the Eiffel tower, which was as easy to love as all the cafes and restaurants I had been to in Paris.

“Francisco, has anyone ever told you that you are very charming?” I teased.

“Ah, well, it is my curse, beautiful lady,” he said.

This, being our first official date, I was glad to have the time to dig into this guys brain and find out what he was really like. I was infatuated with him and his creativity captivated me. I always wondered how people get to be so talented at what they do.  Like Monet, or any of the famous artists, whose paintings I had seen here at the museums. Are they born with it, or did something in their childhood contribute to their talent?

“Tell me Francisco; were you always creative even as a child?  Or, did you have a mentor who guided you?”

“Yes, I was always creative; I find my inspiration from nature.  I look every day to find beauty. Let’s ...say...a rose for example. The design in the petals, as they lay one on top of the other, the color of the red rose that looks like velvet...these are all things of inspiration to me. I express that beauty, as it comes through me, with my interpretation, then I put it on the canvas for all the world to see.”

“Wow, that’s beautiful and so poetic,” I cocked my head to one side.

Finally, a real sensitive kind of guy that’s not afraid to show it.

I was filled with an inner excitement that I wore like a mask on my face.

“But enough about me, I want to talk about you, beautiful lady.” He leaned over and took my hand, pressing it to his lips again. My lashes fluttered as I felt his warm breath caress my hand and I bit my lower lip to stifle the sigh I wanted to exhale.

As the night went on, I filled him in on a little of my background, how I grew up in the Midwest and after college fulfilled my dream of working in Manhattan. Everything up until the part about Patrick. Then I stopped the rehash of my life story. I couldn’t bear to bring myself to mouth the words that I had met the love of my life and he betrayed me. It made me feel foolish and besides, I was here to forget Patrick and possibly find a new love.

As we talked for well over an hour after dinner, the effects of the wine began to affect my vision, creating a fuzzy halo around Francisco’s gorgeous head. His long hair falling down around his face as he talked and those expressive eyes, all contributed to my effort to try to learn him by heart, and as he walked me to my hotel, it was obvious to me that an invisible web of attraction was building between us.

The walk in the fresh night air felt good and I was thinking more clearly by the time we reached my hotel. I knew I had to be guarded with my heart this time. Francisco was the type of man who could charm the pants off any girl, so I cautioned myself to not make it so easy for him.

“Thank you for dinner Francisco.  I’m really glad we got together.”

“Chloe, I’ve had a wonderful evening with you. You please me and make me glad I’m a man. I want to see you again...soon...tomorrow, every day and every night.”

“I, I, Francisco...”

“Shhh...hush. Don’t speak. Just let me absorb you...” His voice grew deeper as he learned in, taking my chin in his hand and slowly kissed my lips, his tongue swirling inside my mouth, tugging my lower lip as he pulled away. Purposefully pressing his body to mine, his nearness made my senses spin. I felt the firmness of his chest pushing against my breasts and we held each other as if the world would disappear if we let go.

My fingers traced the sturdy line of his jaw, my thumb resting in the dimple in his chin. I pulled his mouth to mine full of fire, my heart racing, my hot breath panting. I pushed my hands up into his long hair driving his kisses to my lips. He pulled away, holding me to take a long look, his eyes blazing into mine and grabbing my wrist, he raised my hand to his lips, kissing the palm without breaking his gaze. Shivers of electricity shot through my body like morse code to my loins and I felt the tingle reverberate like thunder.  

“I want you Chloe, I want to feel my hand on your womanhood, the heat of your skin, the taste of your sweetness,” he breathed in a low voice. “Let me in, let me...”

Without waiting for a response, he pressed his lips to mine and my knees went weak, as I fought to keep my wits about me. Don’t be foolish, think with your head Chloe, not with your heart. I had been down this path before. This time I needed to stick my ground.  

“Francisco...” I gently placed the palm of my hand on his chest and pushed him back. “You are amazing. I truly enjoy being with you but I don’t want to rush things. You understand.” I brushed a stray strand of hair back behind my ear and took a breath. My heart was pounding and all of my senses were turned on, but I stayed focused. “As much as I would love to invite you in, let’s take it slow and let’s say… save it until next time.”

I knew that if he came in, we would be one tangled twisted mold of human flesh all over the bed. I was sure of that. Francisco had eyes that could melt a girl faster than ice cream in the summer sun and now I knew his kisses. Oh my, his kisses. They roused fire from the depth of my being and glancing down at my breasts, my budding nipples were aware of it too.

My heart was singing, filled with excitement, as he reluctantly let me go, promising to be back the next day.

***

The rest of the week passed quickly, exuberantly with Francisco taking me to the Eiffel tower and the summer Jazz Festival, whenever we could fit it in between my work and his painting. My favorite sightseeing trip was to the Musee Rodin Museums and Galleries, housed in the very home, which Rodin used as his home and studio during the final years of his life. The museum had a sculpture garden with Rodin’s famous sculpture, “The Kiss”.  As we viewed the sculpture, Francisco explained to me that the man and woman kissing fell in love while reading the book of Lancelot and Guinevere, a story of romance. Unfortunately, as the story goes, she fell in love with her husband’s younger brother, that’s who she is kissing in the sculpture, and upon discovering this, her husband killed the both of them.  The book can be seen in her hand in the sculpture.
How romantic is that?

Paris really was living up to its reputation as the city of love and I sighed, as we turned away from the sculpture to finish our tour of the gardens. We continued walking with our arms encircled around each other’s waist to the end of the museum.

We spent every day together and our relationship was blossoming like a flower. I found myself teetering on the brink of falling for this guy, wondering if this could be the one to make me forget Patrick once and for all. Maybe it was the city, maybe it was the newfound liberty, I had given myself, to be vulnerable and open again after the heartache of Patrick. All I knew was that the mixture of everything coming together was magical and exhilarating. I felt alive again; the fog of the dark shadow of the Baroness and the Hamptons were finally lifted.

The clickety clatter of my high heels on the polished cement floor of the gallery would soon become muffled as guests, prospective clients and even tourists, began arriving for the opening night of the Galerie de Lumiere. Francisco was the featured artist when launching Ryan’s first international gallery. I scurried around the gallery making sure there were enough program leaflets for people to pick up at strategic locations throughout. The brochure included a bio of Francisco with his picture and a complete portfolio of the pieces for sale. There would be some VIP’s in the art world coming tonight and this section of town was well known as the most popular hangout spot for the artsy type.

“Bonsoir, my lovely,” Francisco sang out as he made his way to my side of the room and gave me a peck on the cheek.

“I’m excited Francisco.  How about you? Opening night jitters? Or is this old hat to you?” I asked noticing how striking he looked tonight. Who wouldn’t want to buy his paintings once they saw how devilishly handsome he was?  

“A little, but I am pretty well known, at least among the local artist and critics. Tonight will prove to me how well I am accepted by a larger audience,” he said confidently.

I turned to re-arrange a stack of flyers, wrinkling my brow. I had a momentary inner twinge as a reflex reaction to his last remark, but brushed it away quickly. “I’ve also alerted the local community cultural affairs press. We will see if someone shows up.” As if destiny was listening in on our conversation, I spotted a man carrying a satchel, enter the lobby area. He stopped to speak with another gentleman and I could tell from their gesturing and pointing that the man with the satchel was asking for me. He came forward and I heard a voice at my elbow. “Excuse me, are you Miss Swanson?” the man with the stachel asked.

“Yes, I am.  You must be the reporter....”

“Yes, Victor Clemount. Pleasure to meet you Miss Swanson. I am here to meet Ryan Barrick and Francisco Parada. I would like to interview both of them for a piece in my newspaper.”

“Of course. “ I nodded and with a palm up gesture of one hand, introduced the two men.

“Monsieur  Clemount, allow me to introduce you to Francisco Parada. Francisco, this is Monsieur Clemount, whom I told you about.” The two shook hands as if sizing each other up. “Excuse me gentlemen. I will go find Ryan, I mean… Mr. Barrick. I’ll be right back,” I said and clicked off to locate Ryan through the small crowd of people who had drifted in from the wet weather outside. I was pleased to see that the groupings of people lingering in front of each piece of art seemed to be taking a genuine interest in the paintings, studying them for long periods and talking excitedly about each one.

When I brought Ryan back to Monsieur Clemount, Francisco was deep in conversation with the reporter. He seemed excited, and kept going on about himself, while Monsieur Clemount frantically scribbled on a small pad of yellow paper. I could barely find a break in the conversation to introduce Ryan. Finally there was a brief pause as Francisco came up for air, and I blurted out, “Monsieur Clemount, allow me to introduce Mr. Ryan Barrick, the owner of the gallery”. Francisco seemed annoyed at the interruption and gave me a stern look, but once again, I brushed off his arrogant behavior to opening night jitters.

Most of the night, Francisco and Ryan were chatting up the arts crowd, Ryan making sure to butter up the patrons and Francisco eagerly charming the pants off anyone, who looked like they had a fat wallet. He certainly was good at it; he could schmooze and paint. At the end of the evening, as Ryan locked the door behind the last person, he turned around and proclaimed the opening a grand success. Everyone had left the building, everyone except one sharply dressed young blond man, whom Ryan had had his eye on all evening. When Francisco suggested we get some champagne and go back to his place to celebrate, I was glad to have an excuse to leave the two of them alone.