Page 10

TEN

Studio

Paul

I can’t believe my eyes when the startling figure of Vivianne Faulks passes by the front of my studio in Montmartre.

Clad in an outfit hugging her curves, the woman turns heads as she meanders through the early afternoon crowds.

Hell, even I track her movements, lingering on the sway of her hips and the way her golden hair caresses them with each determined stride. The delicate fabric of her blouse, while modest, defines the soft swell of her breasts, making me ache to explore what lies beneath her clothes.

Not one to be overly familiar with women’s fashion, I’ve spent enough time around the rich and famous to know there’s nothing simple or cheap about the black pants, cream-colored blouse, and the expensive scarf she has wrapped around her neck.

Everything about the woman screams polished, refined, and dripping of wealth. She’s a fool to have taken to the streets alone.

I lift my brush away from the canvas to stare as she walks past the bay window of my studio.

Lilacs.

When she fell into my arms at the Met, the scent of lilacs infused my nose. My favorite flower.

A delicate but strong beauty.

I yearn for another breath of Vivianne’s delicate scent. We aren’t scheduled to meet for another day. I know the specifics behind her attaché assignment to the American consulate.

While I would love to sequester her away from the world for a day or a week—hell, even a year wouldn’t be long enough—patience will serve me best.

One week is the usual in-processing time for new consulate employees, but the Interpol agents assigned to the case are restless. Exceptions are being made, and Vivianne will finish her orientation in less than a day.

After that, she will be mine.

With the base layers of the canvas still wet, I lay down my paintbrush. The crisp morning chill lingers on the afternoon breeze, making me frown. Miss Faulks’ outfit, while stunning, is impractical this time of year.

I grab my leather jacket and cashmere scarf off the wall tree by the door, leaving my painting unfinished and the brushes full of paint, where they will harden and dry.

It’s an acceptable loss, as I’m more interested in following the American beauty. The streets are generally safe, but she sticks out as a tourist, wealthy and oblivious.

I will ensure she remains safe.

What is she up to?

She’s alone, and her path takes her beyond the usual flow of the busy tourists. Maybe she has an adventurous streak in her, even if incredibly dangerous. I rush out, zipping my jacket and settling my scarf around my neck.

The golden glow of the sun glints off her straw-colored hair. She turns the corner at the end of the street, and I step up my pace to follow.

Her path will take her toward the Boulevard de Clichy. What will her reaction be to the colorful array of sex shops lining those streets?

A classy woman like her, a Faulks heiress no less, will probably turn her nose up at those stores. I can’t help but see if she will pause in front of the shops I frequent.

I follow a discreet distance behind her, taking ample opportunity to admire the way the dark linen hugs her ass.

She’s slim at the waist, and her hips flare with perfect proportion. She wanders from one side of the street to the next, stopping to admire the window displays from the numerous shops and galleries lining the rue. She appears in no hurry, taking her time to linger.

Not one to pursue the opposite sex, I smirk, but I’m not a stalker despite my current behavior. Women come to me. They maneuver to be close to me, and some even beg.

Hell, most beg, and I enjoy the attention. Sadly, only a few ever catch anything more than my cursory interest. Women strong enough to endure my particular appetites are treasures I admire and cherish for their strength.

Vivianne would look delicious in my bed, and I’m eager to explore such an entrancing opportunity.

In our brief contact, however, she has shown little interest. Not that there isn’t attraction smoldering between us. The air crackled, but she held herself back.

She glances over her shoulder, her eyes pinching as she scans the thick crowds of people. I stop and regard her, daring her to pick me out from the crowd.

She does not.

Instead, she continues down the street. I close the distance, enjoying my chase, but remain far enough behind that she won’t notice me following. She turns a few more times to scan the crowd.

Something bothers her.

Can she sense my presence?

Usually, I wouldn’t hesitate to approach. I tend to take what I desire, but something holds me back. Perhaps it’s the sadness held within her delicate eyes.

How much of the Faulks legacy has been transferred to the woman I trail? She doesn’t appear cold and calculating.

Does she know the extent of her father’s dealings? How deep into the family business has she been allowed?

I love the way her name rolls across my tongue. Whispering, I caress the syllables and speak her name onto the passing breeze,

“Vivianne.”

She shivers and hunches her shoulders, her head casting left and right. Is our connection that strong? Or am I fooling myself and imagining something that doesn’t exist?

Pressing my lips together with the implications, I let the distance grow between us. If I catch her now, it might complicate matters later.

In that New York deli, I intimated what would be required. She didn’t appear receptive, but an eagerness glittered in her gaze.

I intend to pursue that possibility and see how far I can take things.