The Art of Seduction (6 page)

Their eyes met and she breathed softly, “Yes, I know.” Then added, “I saw the hotel's name on the door of the coach.”

He rapped on the ceiling, lowered the window, and called to the driver to tell him where to go.

Then, with great solicitation, he busied himself in tidying her up, grinning sheepishly—endearingly—as he attempted to replace the pins in her hair, putting her bonnet gently on her head, watching as she awkwardly stepped into her undergarments as the coach shimmied from side to side.

When they finally stopped, he said, “We'll meet tomorrow, shall we? To…continue your education.”

She smiled bashfully, delighted by the prospect.

He gave her a mock frown. “In art, I mean. I can show you Montmartre. We can walk through Mason's world.”

“I'd just as soon take this enchanted coach.”

He laughed, a deep, rich, rumbling sound that made her feel all tingly inside. “I have some business in the morning, but I'll have a coach pick you up and bring you to meet me. Shall we say one o'clock?”

She nodded. She couldn't seem to stop smiling.

He bent to kiss her forehead, then opened the door and handed her down in front of her hotel. “Until one, then.”

She watched the coach lurch away, an antiquated fantasy from another age, like the carriage that had taken Cinderella to the ball. Hugging herself, she marveled at what had just transpired. It had all happened in a fever. She felt both shattered and exhilarated.

She'd come to Paris to live the life of a Bohemian, wanting to savor all that life had to offer so she could capture it in paint. But in many ways, that life had been a fraud. Because she'd never really felt the passion she'd been after. None of her earlier explorations had seemed real.

But
this
was real. She didn't know this man, didn't know anything about him. But the communion she'd felt with him was more meaningful, more fulfilling than any she'd ever known.

She was already dying to see him again. But a walk through Mason's world…It complicated things immensely.

Because she wasn't who he thought she was.

And she was already beginning to wish he knew the truth.

G
arrett bolted up in bed, his heart racing, his body burnished with sweat. He was surrounded by darkness, so silent that all he heard was the sound of his own ragged breath. What was happening?

The nightmare.

Quickly, he turned on the lamp. Fumbling, he reached for the book of color reproductions he kept at his bedside and opened it. The page he'd turned to featured a Chardin still life: a silver goblet, a bowl and spoon, three pieces of fruit on a tabletop. He forced his mind to sink into the tranquil picture, and it calmed him.

They were the curse of his existence, these nightmares. He'd had them every week or two since he was a boy, and though they'd varied in detail, they were basically the same. Trapped in apocalyptic darkness, desperate to escape, surrounded by unseen terrors, reaching out for him, pulling him back. In the distance, a dim blue light—so radiant, so pure—that he knew it was his salvation from this pit. But the harder he tried to get to it, the faster it receded from him, until he was struggling with all his might, the light vanished completely, and he was engulfed by the unspeakable. Then he jolted awake.

When he did, he felt as terrified as he had in the dream. Until he could turn on the light and find a piece of art to look at. To soothe him, to bring him back to reality.

He tossed back the sheet, threw his legs over the side, and rose naked from the bed. Stepping over to the dresser, he took the pitcher of water in hand, holding it high, letting it pour down like rain over his head. It cooled his throbbing head and washed away the last remnants of the dream, trickling down over every tight muscle of his body. With his hands, he plastered back his wet hair, then rubbed the water over the sinews of his chest, his fingers ruffling the thick damp hair. Then he went back to the bed and sprawled upon it, his naked body still taut from the stress of the dream, letting the world settle itself around him.

Gradually, it came back to him. Paris. The Grand Hotel. The gold suite. And, finally, the extraordinary day he'd just experienced. Just when he thought he'd seen it all and the rest of his life was going to be routine, a day like this one came along.

He'd been asked to come here to have a look at the Caldwell paintings and the phenomenon that was building around them. Frankly, he hadn't expected much, so it had all taken him by surprise.

He still wasn't sure what to make of it. But as he lay there, reliving the experience, he was even more sure that, buried in this phenomenon, was an enormous opportunity for him.

Then he thought of the woman and felt himself stir once again. She, too, had taken him by surprise. Christ Almighty! He'd just intended to lay on a little charm. But the situation had exploded into one of the most intense carnal experiences of his life. Something about her brought out the beast in him, stirring feelings he couldn't even define. For someone who liked to be in control of every situation, she was a perilous proposition. He'd have to be careful with this one.

Had his overture been an unwise move? In retrospect, probably so. Why had he made it, then? Obviously, because she said she was leaving and he had to prevent her from slipping out of his fingers. Still, she'd been more than he'd bargained for. Once again, he cautioned himself to be careful.

Well, here I am. What am I going to do now?

Some decisions had to be made.

For some time he remained there, propped against the pillows, letting things play out in his mind, beating down erotic thoughts that kept popping up about the delicious interlude in the coach, knowing there was no way he was going to walk away from this.

Suddenly, the spark of an idea hit him. An ambitious idea. An outrageous idea. So ambitious, so outrageous that he couldn't take it seriously, but…he couldn't let go. It would take patience, meticulous planning, all his skill and dedication. But maybe…just maybe…

Slipping into a robe, he felt such a surge of creative satisfaction that he knew he was hooked.

He walked the long path to the double doors and threw them wide, opening up the bedroom to the sitting room beyond. A sliver of light stealing through a crack in the curtains helped him see the shapes and shadows of the tasteful furnishings of the suite. He yanked back the drapes, letting in the golden glow of the lighted façade of l'Opéra across the street. His fourth-floor French doors put him in line with an exhilarating view of the gilded angels that graced the rooftop of Garnier's palace, as if they were soaring before his eyes.

He looked at them for a moment, these muses that seemed to have been placed there just for him on this auspicious night. Then, going to the bar and pouring himself a brandy, he pulled a chair to the window and sat facing it.

He stayed there for the rest of the night, sipping the brandy slowly as his eyes caressed the view and his mind began to unfold his exhilarating plan.

 

Mason awoke the next morning feeling strangely happy and at one with the world. It was such an unusual feeling that, for a moment, she couldn't figure out why. Then she remembered. The show…the riot over her paintings…and him…

Richard Garrett.

She stretched her limbs, smiling dreamily, feeling the sweet afterglow flood through her. Snuggling deeper into the feathery folds of the bed, she luxuriated in the majesty of her good fortune.

Her discretely luxurious surroundings served to reinforce the dreamlike sensation. Falconier's suite was a large, high-ceilinged space at the front of the block-long building consisting of two levels: a comfortable sitting room with a mezzanine bedchamber above overlooking it. Striped wallpaper of cranberry and plum created a backdrop for the maroon and hunter green furnishings. Pictures of celebrated race horses adorned the walls.

But for Mason, the most extraordinary aspect of it was the fact that her phenomenal streak of good fortune had placed her directly across the narrow Rue Scribe from the Grand Hotel and Richard Garrett.

As if it was meant to be.

She heard the key turn in the door downstairs and sat up in bed. Then she heard Lisette's voice, “Thank you,
mon cher
.”

A young male voice answered, “But it is my pleasure, Mademoiselle Lisette. I have delighted in your artistry many times at the circus.”

“Aren't you sweet,” Lisette said. “Here's something for your trouble.”

“Oh, no, Mademoiselle. I could never accept anything from you. Meeting you is honor enough.”

“I'm up here,” Mason called when she heard the door close.

“Still in bed?” After a moment, Lisette appeared coming up the spiral stairwell. She looked at Mason, lying in bed with her hands above her head, bathed in morning sunlight streaming through the windows, a satisfied smile on her face.

“I'm a woman of leisure,” Mason sighed.

“Where did you go yesterday? I looked for you everywhere. Then I had to go to work.”

Mason stretched again, savoring the feel of her body against the cool sheets. “I was swept away by Apollo.”

“What Apollo was that?”

“Didn't you see me with him? The tall Englishman? I don't know how you could miss him. He made every other man there look like Toulouse-Lautrec.”

Lisette blew a dangling strand of hair out of her eyes. “I only saw Dargelos trying to make my life miserable, as usual. But tell me.” She flopped down on the bed beside Mason. “What man is this?”

“Like I said. A god.”

“But
who
is he?”

“His name is Richard Garrett.”

“And who is Richard Garrett?”

“Who knows? Who cares? He has something to do with the art world. But, Lisette, he loves my paintings. He understands them.”

Lisette turned over onto her stomach, peering closely at her friend. “I do not think that is what put the smile on your face,
chérie.
”

“No! He ravaged me! It was wonderful.”

“Ravaged you?” Lisette tucked her chin into her hands. “Tell me!”

Mason shifted up in the bed, too excited to lay prone any longer. “You remember what it was like when I first got to Paris? When I wanted to taste the Bohemian life…those conceited painters you set me up with? Well…it was nothing like that. Richard Garrett swept in like a knight on his charger and showed me what I've been missing. And here's the really strange part. That night in the river, when I thought I was going to drown…I thought about this man I'd never known. It was as if I was wishing for him to appear. And then, out of the blue…he does. It's as if fate heard all my wishes that night and decided to grant
all
of them to me in one fell swoop. Here, pinch me so I know I'm not dreaming.”

Lisette was laughing. “He was that good, eh?”

“It's not just that. Well, he was, yes. He was
astonishing.
But it's more than that. He
believes
in me! You should hear the things he says, the way he talks about me. When I listen to him, when I see myself through his eyes, it's as if all the things I thought were wrong with me disappear. He makes me feel that everything that's happened to me happened for a reason, to make me what I am. That what I am may be worthy, after all; someone I could learn to love. No one has ever made me feel that way before. It's such an amazing feeling, Lisette, that I almost don't know what to do with it.”

“I've never seen you like this. You're falling in love with this man.”

“Am I?” Mason tried the thought out in her mind and felt it answered in the sudden flitting of her heart. “I suppose I am.”

“
Chérie,
I am happy for you. But you do have a teensy little problem, no?”

“Problem?”

“He thinks you are your sister.”

Mason grinned. “That is a problem, isn't it?”

“What are you going to do?”

“I'm going to tell him the truth.”

“And…You don't think that will make a difference? You
have
tricked him, after all.”

“He's so crazy about the paintings, he'll be ecstatic to find out I'm alive.”

“If you say so. But you'd better be very careful about how you deliver this exciting news. You don't want to make him feel like a fool.”

“That's a good point. We're going for a walk this afternoon. He's going to take me on a tour of Montmartre and show me ‘Mason's world.' If I wait until afterward, he
will
feel foolish. So I have to tell him right away.” She rolled the covers around her hands, thinking. “I know! You can help me.”

Lisette sat up. “Oh, no.”

“You know men. Here's what we'll do. We'll go to breakfast. We'll go to the Café de la Paix—”

“The Café de la Paix! That's the most expensive place in Paris!”

“I know. But we'll sign it to Falconier. It's the least he can do for us. I feel like celebrating. And while we're at it, you can help me figure out just the right way to tell him.”

 

Mason and Lisette's celebratory mood was tempered when they reached the lobby. Lisette put her hand on Mason's arm to stop them short. A distinguished, grey-haired man had just come through the door and was looking around, as if to get his bearings.

“What is it?” Mason whispered.

“That man. He's Inspector Duval of the Sûreté. The most feared flic in all of Paris.”

Mason paled. “Policeman?”

“Yes, someone you definitely do not want on your trail.”

As she said this, the inspector noticed them. Smiling pleasantly, he walked toward them.

Lisette's hand tightened on Mason's arm. “What does he want with us?” she muttered.

As he came before them, still smiling, there seemed nothing threatening in his demeanor. He looked, in fact, like a kindly grandfather. He removed his hat and gave a slight bow.

“Mademoiselle Amy Caldwell, I believe. From America.” He spoke in English, which was accented but fluent.

“Yes,” Mason answered cautiously.

“I thought you must be, as you are in the company of your sister's friend. I am Honoré Duval of the Prefecture de Police. I am here to extend the condolences of the French nation on the loss of your sister. If I might be of assistance in any way during your stay here, I hope you will call upon me.”

Mason could sense Lisette's tension beside her. She smiled sweetly and said, “Thank you so much, Inspector, but I don't think that will be necessary. My sister's friends have been extremely generous and have been helping me through this difficult period.”

He watched her closely for a moment, as if studying her, and she could see, beneath the benign exterior, the eagle eye of a man whose profession caused him to suspect hidden meanings in small details. He remained silent for several awkward moments.

Lisette put some pressure on Mason's arm, prompting her to leave. But before she could move, the policeman said, “I wonder if I might ask a somewhat indelicate question.”