Page 12

TWELVE

Railway Station

Vivianne

Less than an hour later, I accept Paul’s hand as he assists me out of the embassy limo. A tingle shoots up my arm, a sensual heat lighting my nerves from my fingers all the way to my core.

Paul towers over me, his constant presence exhilarating, his attention overwhelming, and his rich, dark scent doing strange things to my insides.

I dismissed my driver, Jacques, and told him I wouldn’t need him later today. His gruff reply surprised me, but I brushed aside the rude behavior. I was too excited by the prospect of viewing artistic treasures to be bothered by his curt tone.

On the left bank of the Seine, opposite the impressive Tuileries Gardens, the Musée d’Orsay occupies a place of honor in the center of Paris. The former Orsay railway station was restored and converted into a museum.

Many say the building is the first true piece added to the museum’s collection. Staring up at its magnificence, I can’t help but agree.

Art from the mid-1800s to the early 1900s wait for my inspection. While I can’t wait to get inside, I linger on the stone steps and admire the restoration.

Can a place have a soul?

If so, the converted Orsay railway station shines with the brilliance of the great masters’ works housed within. I’ve only studied these paintings in books and on the Internet, and I can’t help but feel giddy with excitement about getting inside.

Not that I didn’t spend my childhood surrounded by the works of masters, but these are new pieces to admire in person.

The paintings at home are cherished friends, every brushstroke known to me with intimate familiarity developed over a lifetime.

The works housed inside the Musée d’Orsay are different. I haven’t absorbed their essence like the others. In a few moments, I will be standing within arm’s reach of masterpieces I’ve only ever studied from a distance.

Late March brings springtime temperatures to the city, and the air ripples with a slight chill. I shiver, and Paul responds by wrapping an arm across my shoulders. It’s overly intimate, perhaps, but I welcome the warmth and lean into him to breathe in more of his rich scent.

Besides, if we are to pretend…

“It will be warmer inside, ma chère. ”

Honey coats his words, a rich timbre seeking my soul and touching my heart. The moment is fleeting but profound.

I shiver again, dispelling the connection. This time, my reaction is not from the cold.

Clouds build overhead, threatening to bring the rain forecasted for the day. However, the grayish pall of the sky does nothing to lessen the brilliance of the museum. In fact, it accentuates the finer hues of the cream and beige embedded in the stone, adding texture, deepening shadows, and drawing my eye to every magnificent curve.

With a light but confident grip, Paul holds my hand and moves me away from the limousine so Larson can exit. Larson takes off, heading toward the glass awning that forms the museum’s grand entrance.

Paul takes his time, setting a pace I can easily manage in my heels.

Larson bypasses the long queue of those eager to purchase their admission tickets and speaks to one of the guards. Paul and I catch up to him and follow him inside.

Beyond the entrance, a great hall dominates the interior, funneling guests down the long nave. Glass caps the airy space, allowing the natural light of the sky to diffuse through the building. Terraces overlook the nave from the median level, and the topmost floor perches over the lobby.

In a word, it’s breathtaking.

I admire the design while Larson checks in with security. Entranced doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel. The open space overwhelms me, and I can’t decide where to look first.

I appreciate Paul’s steady presence. Too engrossed by the beauty of the museum, I allow him to lead me away from the entrance.

“Have you visited the museum before?” Paul bends his arm and places my hand in the crook of his elbow.

He keeps his opposite hand over mine, a firm reminder of his presence.

Soft light from the glass ceiling mingles with spotlights set to highlight precious works of art. I crane my neck and admire the stone rosettes decorating the walls, surprised by the hush of the crowd lingering in the large open space.

I’m not the only one struck speechless by the beauty of this place.

“I have not,” I say with a deep breath of admiration. “It’s visually stunning and emotionally brilliant.”

Every nuance of the space has been planned to impact all the senses. The airy nave absorbs the noise of those inside, muting conversations and instilling a sense of awe. Light, sound, and even the heavy rosettes set in the walls lend their weight to the permanence of the building.

“You’re aware of the museum’s history, n’est-ce pas? ”

“Of course.” I am a student of art. “I find it remarkable—how devoted the French are to beautiful things.”

“ Mais, oui, but then we French take time to truly admire beauty.”

His lingering stare has me wondering if we’re talking about the millions of dollars in art and sculpture housed within these walls or if he means something else entirely.

Too overwhelmed by the splendor of the Musée d’Orsay, I don’t try to decipher his intent.

“I think you’ll enjoy your visit. Since this is your first time, I would be pleased to escort you around the museum after our business concludes. We can then discuss your favorite exhibits over dinner.”

Before I can respond, Larson returns. A laminated badge swings on a lanyard around his neck, and he holds two similar passes.

“We’re all set,” he says. “René Brault will be here shortly.”

I accept the pass Larson holds and slip it over my head. As soon as I have the lanyard adjusted, Paul claims my hand again and places it back in the crook of his arm.

“Do we have time to view any of the exhibits?” I bite at my lower lip and scan the tourists filing past, wishing I could join their exploration.

Larson gives a quick shake of his head. “René is on his way. I’m surprised you haven’t been here before.”

No doubt, he expects my wealth brought me all over the globe. Sadly, that is not the case. With an overprotective father, overseas travel was severely restricted.

Paul answers before I can formulate a response, “She has not. I’ve offered my services as her guide. Mademoiselle Faulks will be in more than capable hands, allowing us to become better acquainted before our departure. I have plans for dinner as well, so you need not worry yourself about playing host.”

Yes, his capable hands, and as hands go, I desire more of Paul’s touch, yet fear it too. His attitude concerns me a little. He didn’t wait for my answer about dinner, presuming I would say yes. I pull a little away from him.

“Are you a fan of the impressionistic style?” Paul closes the gap between us.

With him towering over me, I feel sheltered by his presence, yet my stomach flutters with the richness of his cologne. No man deserves to smell that heavenly.

“I am.”

“Wonderful,” he says. “The impressionist exhibit spans the length of the fifth floor.”

“I thought there were only three levels?”

“Three principal levels but many more floors. And the impressionist gallery is located on the Seine side. The views of the river are amazing.”

“I look forward to it then.”

“The works of Van Gogh as well as those of Gauguin to the Nabis are well represented.”

“Isn’t that where the murder happened? Is that part even open?” I assume the police would have closed the exhibit.

“Ah, there he is.” Larson has been silent, too busy scanning the crowd to interject himself into the conversation.

He lifts a hand in greeting and heads toward a gentleman approaching in jeans, a turtleneck, a button-up sweater, and a suit jacket layered on top. Larson takes off to greet the man and waves for Paul and me to follow.

A thin man, René Brault struts through the crowd, disdain dripping from his upturned nose. Arrogant comes to my mind, but his fingers flutter over the seams of his jeans and telegraph unease.

While he walks like he owns the place, his dark eyes dance left and right as if assessing those passing by for threats. Something rattled this man, and I’m sure the murder is only part of it.

“ Bonjour .” A thick French accent rolls off his tongue.

Brault grips Larson’s hand, and the two men shake. His eyes widen when he notices me—or is it Paul? Brault releases Larson’s hand, eagerness shining in his eyes.

“Monsieur de Gaulle, what an honor.”

Okay, not me, but surely, he was briefed about my role—a role I’m still a little unclear on.

Paul shakes his hand and then presents me. “May I introduce Mademoiselle Vivianne Faulks? She is an expert in the study of forgeries.”

Brault’s brows climb upward. “Ah, I have heard many wonderful things about you, Mademoiselle.” His eyes shift to Paul and narrow for half a second. He kisses the back of my hand, his lips grazing my skin.

Paul pulls me back under his protective umbrella with a possessive tug. I should resist, but the need to assert my independence falls away under the intrusive stare of René Brault.

“Well, I’m not certain what you plan to accomplish,” René begins. “I’m getting pressure to reopen the exhibit, and I can only leave it closed for so long.”

“Another few hours won’t make a difference,” Paul says.

“Aren’t we supposed to meet the Interpol officers?” I ask.

René turns and heads back in the direction he came, responding to Paul over his shoulder, “They are already here and gone. They showed up over an hour ago.”

Larson steps beside René, his lips thinned into a hard line. “Our appointment was for two o’clock.”

I glance at the museum’s signature clock. We’re a few minutes early. The museum has two clocks, each nearly as famous as the artwork they preside over.

The massive steel and glass constructions look out over the city of Paris. If I have time later, I want to peer out through the clock face and see Paris as dusk drifts over the city. Maybe the fabled Paris lights will glow beneath the sky.

“Interpol makes their own time,” René says with a sniff.

Paul presses his hand over mine, keeping me snug against his hip. He lowers his voice to a husky whisper. “Mr. Larson doesn’t seem pleased.”

“I’m certain a murder takes precedence in this case?” I ask.

“Perhaps, but arrogance is all too common among your countrymen. Larson would do better not to antagonize Monsieur Brault.”

I miss the placement of my stiletto and stumble. Paul doesn’t hesitate. He supports me until I regain my balance. The brush of his finger against my breast might or might not be intentional.

René escorts us to the post-impressionist exhibit, walking briskly, challenging me to keep up. Paul remains beside me, offering his arm. I shouldn’t enjoy the richness of his scent as much as I do, but I find myself leaning into him and accepting his help.

Beneath my tender grip, the steel of his biceps never wavers, leaving my mind wondering what else he hides behind his suit.

We take the elevator, and René ushers us forward past various exhibits. We eventually reach one arched opening with an “Exhibit Temporarily Closed” sign prominently displayed in front.

Three stanchions, with ropes of red velvet suspended between them, keep the area blocked. Normally, such a thing would discourage a curious museum patron from exploration, but the Musée d’Orsay doesn’t appear to be taking any chances. They positioned a guard behind the stanchions to ensure no one makes it past the velvet ropes.

René’s lips twist as he unclips one of the ropes. “This is one of our more popular tour stops. We’ve received numerous complaints over its closure.”

Larson steps through, and I follow with Paul at my side.

René glances at Larson. “I hope this is the last visit required. The police have assured me their investigation is complete.”

Irritation floods his voice, but I understand. Renoir, Monet, and Van Gogh are highlights of the Musée d’Orsay. I can only imagine the grumblings of tourists denied visiting the great masters’ works.

For many, their visit is a once-in-a-lifetime event. This exhibit contains twenty-five paintings by Van Gogh alone.

We pass the impressive and wildly famous Starry Night Over the Rh?ne , and I tug on Paul’s arm, pulling him to a stop. The wild movement inspired by Van Gogh demands admiration.

“It’s breathtaking,” Paul whispers. The heat of his breath sends chills racing down my spine.

I squeeze his arm and then release him to take a step closer.

At home, I would have stretched out and hovered my fingertips over the rich paints. My father drilled his no-touching rule into my mind even at a young age.

Like children were to be seen and not heard, the paintings on the wall were to be seen and never touched.

“It’s no wonder the world adores this piece,” I say. “It provokes an instinctual reaction—a catch-your-breath and stop-your-heart kind of moment.”

He steps up to meet me, and I turn when he speaks, “I know exactly how you feel.”

Only Paul isn’t looking at the painting. His gaze lingers on me, and his expression reveals open admiration and smoldering desire.

My cheeks heat, and I take another step forward, placing him behind me. He doesn’t need to see me blush. He also doesn’t need to know how much that simple compliment made me smile.

René clears his throat, frustration edging his words. “Mademoiselle, if you please?”

Of course, I’m here on business, but it’s a treat to admire the paintings in the solitude of a closed exhibit.

An unnatural silence fills the space, and I envy the museum guards. A quiet but vital job, they roam day and night. The night shift has the blessed privilege of doing exactly what I’m doing now without the shuffling of feet, the clack of heels, or the cries of children interrupting the experience.

I should go with René, but I want to trace the whirls of color and light with my eyes for one more moment.

A tiny black spot hidden in the midnight blue layers catches my eye.

And there’s another.

A mark so obscure, I take another step closer, squinting to get a better view. If there were a guard, they would tell me to step back.

But there it is…The tip of a starling’s wing.

“Everything okay?” Paul places a hand on my shoulder.

It can’t be…