The Art of Seduction (18 page)

S
ummer had come early to Auvers. The wildflowers, in full bloom, filled the air with their sweet perfume. The days were warm and lazy, the nights cool and refreshing. Villas were filling up with summer renters, and the Oise River was alive with pleasure boats and swimmers. As Mason and Lisette moved back into their country retreat, with the dogs and Hugo in tow, Mason settled in to paint, determined to do good work and blot out the clouds that threatened her new existence.

Lisette, for her part, was enjoying the vacation immensely. When not posing, she took the dogs for long walks along the riverbank and through the wheat fields on the plateau, with Hugo trailing behind. Away from the pressure of the city, Lisette found she actually had a kind of rapport with her clumsy bodyguard and was even beginning to like him. She discovered he'd once been a strong man for a circus in Lille, and he was able to help her with the new acrobatic routine she was developing for the upcoming summer session of the Cirque Fernando. Hugo even bought the materials and built her a trampoline in the field outside the house so she could practice. He had a real fondness for animals, and there was nothing he enjoyed more than lavishing her dogs with attention—the one sure way to Lisette's heart. “You know,” she told Mason in her off-handed way, “this Hugo, he's not so bad.”

But Mason had no time to join in their frivolity. She'd thrown herself into an idea derived from the Folies-Bergères. She would paint Lisette on the tightrope, as seen from the midst of a ghoulishly impersonal audience. It was very much in the vein of the pictures she'd painted that Richard had loved so much, and she wanted it to be the best thing she'd ever done. For three straight days and most of the nights, she toiled away until it was completed. But when she stood back to look at it with some perspective, she wasn't at all sure of its quality. Unlike her other paintings in this vein, it left her with no swell of satisfaction.

Was it because of all the turmoil surrounding her? Or was it possible that, with all her recent happiness, she simply no longer had such a grim vision of the world to convey? She honestly didn't know.

But the dissatisfaction of it made her feel restless and empty inside. She tried to catch up on her sleep, but she couldn't find a comfortable position. She tossed and turned, feeling as if she wanted to crawl out of her skin. She recognized it as the feeling she had when she needed to paint. But she'd just spent three days working and it had done nothing to alleviate the craving.

Finally, Mason threw back the covers, went to the small room she'd set up as a studio, put a new canvas on the easel, and in a sudden flash of inspiration, began to paint a portrait of Richard. Her hand flew across the canvas, her strokes bold and sure, the glorious image she held in her mind unfolding with an ease and swiftness and burst of skill that was nothing like the agony of the last three days. She was done within an hour. The result was far from a photographic likeness, but it captured his cleverness, his sexual confidence, his physical beauty, his streak of larceny. It captured, not so much the way he looked to the world, but how he looked to her and how he made her feel—wanted, understood, appreciated, cherished, complete as a human being.

It was the best thing she'd ever done, and it filled her with satisfaction and joy. She took it with her to her bedroom and slept in its shadow, the soundest, most peaceful sleep she could remember in years. She felt as if she were wrapped in the glow of Richard's love.

She awoke before daybreak, completely revitalized. Lying in bed, looking at the fruit of her late-night inspiration, she was suddenly seized by an impulse to paint the rising sun. Without even bothering to dress, she snatched up her supplies and went, in nightgown and bare feet, out into the dewy freshness of the encroaching dawn. She found a spot down on the lawn where she'd have an unobstructed view of the rising sun. As the sky began to brighten with pink and orange hues, she set to work, feverishly trying to capture the fleeting moment—the early light on the river, the shadows of the willows, the bloodred of the sun just beginning to peek its head over the horizon in the distance.

Mason had just placed a few dabs of citron yellow on the canvas to indicate a patch of waking wildflowers when she looked up to see a man staring at her. He was down by the river, just outside the property line. He was dressed in a business suit, so he was obviously not a vacationer or one of the local workers. When he saw that she'd noticed him, he quickly stepped back behind a tree.

Duval's man!

Had he followed her? Had he been watching the house all this time?
Oh, God, I'm painting! Amy doesn't paint!
A dead giveaway. What would he do? Close in and make an arrest?

Slowly, she began replacing the tubes of paint into her box and snapped it shut. Then she took the canvas off the easel, picked up the palette and paint box, and started back for the house. Glancing nervously over her shoulder, she saw that the man wasn't following her.

Back at the house, she bolted the door behind her and rushed up to her room. The first thing she saw was the portrait of Richard—the most damning evidence imaginable. The trapeze picture could be explained as Mason's earlier work, and the sunrise just an amateurish attempt by her sister. But this…There was nothing amateurish about it. And as far as the world was concerned, Mason Caldwell had never even met Richard Garrett.

She sat back in a chair and looked at it. She knew what she had to do. But could she? To destroy it was like destroying a part of herself.

But there was no choice.

With a heavy heart, she stood, loaded a large brush with liquid white, and before she could think better of it, covered the entire surface with rapid strokes, until all that was left was a blank canvas.

Then she locked her door, lay down on her bed, and wept.

When the others were up, she told Hugo what had happened. He went out to investigate, but the man was nowhere to be found. Mason was so jangled by the intrusion that she didn't leave the house for the rest of the day. She just stayed in her room, feeling trapped. She went to bed early that night but had a difficult time falling asleep, imagining the forces of Inspector Duval surrounding the grounds. It was long after midnight when she finally drifted off.

Sometime in the night, she awoke with a start. What was it? A noise outside. Was she imagining it? No, there it was again. Footsteps in the gravel. Noises that sounded like the rustling of leaves in the trellis outside her window. The faint squeal of an unoiled hinge. She sat up in bed, terrified, clutching the covers to her. The window was opening! As it did, she could make out the form of a man's arm pushing it inward.

Her heart was pounding like a sledgehammer. A shadowy figure mounted the ledge and swiveled his legs around to the floor.

“I have a gun,” she lied, her voice trembling.

The intruder froze. The silence was dense.

Then a low voice said, “Not exactly the welcome I'd expected.”

She recognized the fluid, faintly Scots-accented voice and the humor lurking beneath the words. In an instant, she was out of bed and throwing herself into Richard's arms in a rush of relief.

He held her so tightly her feet left the floor as he kissed her. He seemed so strong and solid, and she instantly felt safe in his arms.

“I didn't mean to frighten you,” he said between kisses. “I got word Duval is on your tail. He even had the Italian police question me in Rome. In case you're being watched, I decided the less he knows about us, the better.”

“They
are
watching the house. I've been so frightened.”

“I'm here. Everything's fine now.”

She was still shaking. “Make love to me, Richard. Please.”

He kissed her, holding her close, as if sensing that she needed his strength. “God, I've missed you.” He picked her up and held her in his arms, and she felt some of his vitality ease away the fear.

And then he was laying her softly on the bed. Shedding his clothes swiftly, he tossed them aside as she tugged the nightgown over her head. He covered her with his warmth, with the granite power of his body. He kissed her, touched her, made her feel wanted and cherished. Taking both her hands, he entwined his fingers with hers and held them up above her head on either side as he entered her. “I'm here,” he kept whispering in her ear. “There's nothing to fear.”

Mason had never felt so exquisitely reassured. Richard used his body, his long, slow thrusts, to soothe and uplift her. And when the fright had at last seeped away, replaced by the pleasure and sustenance of his love, she left it all behind and rejoiced in their tender union. She lost herself in him, in the heat of his tongue, the vibrancy of his gentle might, the potency of his devotion.

They laid in each other's arms for a long time afterward in the dark, saying nothing, listening to the rhythms of one another's breath. Mason sensed that he was giving her time, not pushing, allowing her to tell him what had happened when she was ready.

She didn't want to talk about it. She wanted it to all go away. To stay here, lying in the warmth and safety of his arms, suspended in time. But she knew she'd have to tell him sooner or later.

“Duval called me in to the Sûreté.”

He kissed her temple. “Take your time and tell me everything he said.”

She did.

“He's suspicious, that's certain,” he mused when she was done. “But he doesn't have anything. He's just trying to scare you into doing something foolish.”

“That's what I thought. But with all his resources, surely he'll check in Boston and find out there's no record of Amy there.”

“There is now. I had an associate insert some documentation there. Birth record, baptism, graduation from Miss Hanover's College for Women. It's all on file in various Boston institutions. There's also a notation in the books of the Cunard Line proving Amy bought a ticket to France.”

Mason was astounded that he'd had the foresight to do such a thing. It was almost eerie. But it was ingenious. It brightened her spirits considerably. She snuggled closer to him, tangling her fingers in the thick hair of his chest, feeling his strong pulse.

“You've taken care of everything, haven't you?”

“I've tried.”

“And Lugini? How did it go with him?”

“He was a bit resistant at first, but I was persuasive.”

“Is he going to give us the endorsement we need?”

“We'll soon see…Which reminds me, did you manage to get any work done through this ordeal?”

“I finished one painting.”

“Let's have a look.”

She slipped on her nightgown and went to the studio to fetch it. He'd already turned on the bedside lamp. She propped it up against the iron footboard.

He stared at it for a long time, giving no indication of his feelings.

Finally, she said, “I don't think it's that good. Something seems to be missing.”

He cocked his head. “I like the concept. The tightrope at the Folies-Bergères. But the contrast between the radiance of the tightrope-walker and the venality of the crowd isn't quite sharp enough to give it the impact it needs.”

“Maybe the problem is I just don't feel that way anymore.”

“No, the problem is you've been under a great deal of strain and pressure, and you've momentarily lost your muse.” He kept staring at it.

Mason felt awful, as if she'd failed him. The other three paintings and now this one. They clearly did nothing for him.

“I'll knuckle under and do better,” she promised.

For a long time, he continued to look at the canvas without speaking. Finally, he said, “No, I think we'd better give up this part of the scheme. For one thing, it's too dangerous. With Duval watching as closely as he is, there's no way we shall be able to fake a shipment from the States. So we'll just go with the eighteen masterpieces we have. They'll be enough.”

Still, he seemed preoccupied with the disappointing painting. It was as if he was searching it for something and was troubled that he couldn't find it. She saw in his eyes a kind of veiled disbelief that was so upsetting to her she walked over and snatched the painting away.

“Let me get rid of this thing.”

When she came back into the room, Richard seemed himself again. She turned off the light and slipped into bed beside him. He kissed her forehead tenderly. But as she settled in against his body, she couldn't help but feel that his disappointment over the painting had jarred something elemental between them.

She tried to fall asleep, to recapture the feeling of being protected in his arms. But she was very much aware that he wasn't relaxed. He was still propped against the pillows, one arm behind his head. She could feel his distance.

That night, Richard had another nightmare. He awoke as he had before, crying out in terror. Mason turned on the light and held him close, but it took much longer this time for him to escape the clutches of the dream.

“Won't you tell me about it?” she pleaded. “I want to help you. I can't stand to see you in such pain.”