Page 19

NINETEEN

Mnemonic

Paul

I glance at Vivianne’s computer. Isabella Pratt stares out of the screen with a brittleness I know all too well. She once tried to add me to her long list of failed relationships.

The heiress is a shrewd businesswoman with impeccable taste in art. However, her men tend to find their final resting ground at the bottom of a grave.

“Lunch?” She glances back at the screen. “I still have quite a bit of work to do.”

“You also need to eat.” I open the file folder. “I see Larson gave you the files. I can help you with them.”

“Oh, I don’t need help.” Her lashes flutter. “I’m doing much better with them now. Belinda taught me a trick.”

“A trick?”

“Hey there, honey.” Belinda shuffles over from her desk. “Damn, you look nice. You can give me the bacon with all the sizzle, Monsieur.”

Her attempt at French with her thick Southern accent makes me smile. She greets me with a peck on the cheek. I’ve met the office mother hen—her words, not mine, twice. Belinda lives larger than life and uses her Southern heritage as an excuse to flirt with all the men. It’s innocent, even if over the top.

In the end, it means nothing. The woman has a husband she’s been married to for over twenty years, and with all the photos of him cluttering her desk, she’s clearly deep in love.

I indulge her hug. “Mademoiselle Knight, you’re looking magnificent, as always. I adore that scarf.”

Belinda’s cheeks flush red, and she ducks her head, trying to hide her reaction.

“Mademoiselle Faulks said you taught her a trick for learning these names?”

The distraction works. Belinda’s eyes light with an eagerness to share whatever trick she’s taught Vivianne.

“Do you want to show him?” Belinda clasps her hands. “Tell him about Willy.”

“Willy?”

I stand behind Vivianne and place a hand on her neck. She stiffens slightly but doesn’t pull away. Her eyes sparkle with the same mischief Belinda shows.

Vivianne takes in a deep breath. “Let me tell you a story about wee Willy.”

“Wee Willy?”

“Oh, yes, wee Willy, the balding polo player who rides the fillies. He fell off his fourth horse, but he’s riding his fifth wife. Look at her, um…”

The blush coloring Vivianne’s face has the fabric of my pants tenting. My Achilles heel is a flustered woman.

“Go on,” I encourage. “Please tell me about poor wee Willy and his fillies.”

Her laughter mingles with that of Belinda’s. The two of them have been having fun with their game.

With a swallow, Vivianne continues, “Well, balding wee Willy might have fallen off his fourth horse, but he found solace in his fifth wife?—”

“Whom he rides.” I can’t help but poke fun at Vivianne’s mnemonic.

“Yes,” she says, sobering up a bit. “Polo is his game, but the fillies are his love. Four horses. Five wives. He strives to make it to the winner’s circle but keeps falling short. His last venture cost him a small fortune, not that he cares.”

“Because of his wives?”

“Because wife number six is in the wings; she’s the daughter of a Texas tycoon.”

I sweep the hair off her nape, causing her to shiver. I whisper, “Can you tell me about anyone else? Or is that the only story you’ve crafted today?”

“Oh no, I’ve made it through the list twice. I keep forgetting stuff here and there, but this is much more fun.” She shifts her attention to Belinda. “I am so grateful.”

“No problem. My job is to facilitate.” Belinda turns to me. “Are you stealing Miss Viv from me?”

“Sadly, yes,” I admit. “For the rest of the day.”

“Oh no,” Vivianne says. “I can’t take the day off. I have to learn this list, and Larson said he’d be back later to discuss a few more things.”

“We can go over your list at lunch.”

With a shake of her head, Vivianne refuses. “This information is restricted. I can’t take it out of the building.”

“ Ma chère, you must learn to trust me.” I point to the screen. “Everything you need to know about those people is firmly locked in my brain. Besides, I want to show you something, and we need to review our plans for this evening.”

I take her wrist and turn her toward me. With the slightest pressure, I command her attention.

“I’m a bit nervous about tonight.”

“Trust me.” I sweep a lock of hair out of her face and tuck it behind her ear. “I would never put you in a position where you felt uncomfortable.”

“But this makes me uncomfortable. You’ve been to this kind of event before. I haven’t.”

“Which makes this even better.”

“Better?” She cocks a hand on her hip. “How does that make anything better?”

“Dr. Phillips wouldn’t have agreed to let you come if he didn’t have faith in your ability to pull this off. Think of this as any one of the hundreds of charity events you’ve attended in the past. The people might be different, but the dance is the same. Believe in what you know, and trust me to know the rest. You’re a fresh face. Everyone will want to know who the beauty on my arm is.”

I hope to ignite a new passion within her mind and open a few possibilities for us both.

I need more information about Vivianne, like how she spotted my masterpiece hanging in the Musée d’Orsay. To do that, I need to get her alone.

Although it’s still early in the day, I want to take Vivianne to my studio in Montmartre. I glance at her footwear and breathe out a sigh of relief.

The woman dresses in haute couture like she’s been born in it but makes remarkably poor choices when it comes to her shoes.

Last night, I went against my instincts and had her ride the Métro in her spiked heels. I want to do the same today, taking her on a tour through my city. Vivianne wears ballet flats today. We’re going for a walk.

“Come.” I hold out my hand.

She does it again—bites at her lower lip. That tiny act is more sensual than anything she could throw at me.

Gazing at her mouth makes me think about kissing her full lips. Kissing her lips makes me imagine what it would be like to feel her curves, and that makes me ponder even more decadent things.

Some degree of intimacy is expected. How chaste will she force me to keep things? Not that I’m looking at groping her in front of the inquisitive eyes I’ve mentioned, but I know myself too well. When I desire something, I take it. Fiancé aside, she isn’t married yet.

“Where are we going?” Her full lashes give a long, slow blink, another deeply sensual act. Is she baiting me? Or is she genuinely unaware of her latent sensuality?

“A visit to my studio.”

“Your studio?” Her expression brightens. “I would love to see your studio.”

“Are you up for a walk?” I step back while she collects her purse.

“Will we get to ride the Métro again? Or should I call my driver?”

“No need for your driver. The Métro is across the way. You’ll enjoy the gardens. We have a little time to kill before lunch.”

She casts her gaze toward the bank of windows. I’ve been in this office only a handful of times, and I know the view is lacking. There are a couple of choices regarding which Métro stop we should take.

“It’s a beautiful day, ma chère .”

“I noticed.” She pauses for a moment while I hold the door. “I spent more time staring out the windows than I did on the files Larson wanted me to learn.”

“Ah, yes. He likes to give homework to his employees, but you do not work for him.” We walk side by side down the stairs.

“I do. I’m assigned to his office as an attaché.”

“True, but you don’t work for him.”

She pauses at the landing. “If not him, then whom? I should probably meet my boss before we head to Lac Léman.”

Americans are so funny with their hierarchal systems. “Don’t worry about that just yet.” I layer another intonation into my words to make them more than a suggestion.

To my delight, she doesn’t question further. Soon, I’m guiding her out into the late morning sunshine. The slightest chill hangs in the air, but it’s clear that warmer days are right around the corner.

She inhales deeply. “I love Paris. I didn’t know if it would smell like exhaust and trash or like the wonderful perfumes Paris is famous for.”

“It’s a mixture of both. Paris is a relatively clean city but still a city.”

“Well, I love the crispness of the air. It makes me feel…” She pauses and inhales deeply, a smile settling on her lips. I could stare at her all day long.

“Like what?”

Her eyes close, and her brows pinch together. “I don’t know.” When she opens them, I make certain she looks right at me. The deep blue of her irises softens with a look of contentment. “It feels like anything is possible.”

“Ah, the romance of my city has affected you?”

“It has. I would love to spend more time here.”

I would love to facilitate such a move, but how would I pull her away from her family?

I press my palm to her lower back and guide her across the street.

“The statues in the gardens are breathtaking. We don’t have time to admire them, but I thought you’d enjoy a quick walk through them.”

“Definitely.”

While I don’t hurry her through the gardens, I don’t allow her time to linger either. She responds well to my cues, allowing me to set the pace and lead us to our destination.

I purchase her pass while she stops to examine the map of the Métro. She’s an inquisitive soul.

Before long, we exit the Métro near Moulin Rouge and walk past the rows of sex shops and clubs. They’re unavoidable.

“Montmartre is an amazing place,” she says. “It’s every artist’s dream.”

“Indeed,” I say. “Many of the masters have plied their craft here.”

“When I came here the other day, it felt like I was walking in their footsteps.”

I lead her up the twisting maze of cobblestone streets. “That’s why I enjoy having one of my studios here.”

“You have others?”

I have several. “Paris is where I grew up. I’ll always think of the city as my home. Unfortunately, I spend very little time here.” I point to a small shop across the street. “My studio.”

“That’s yours?”

The narrow two-story structure sits in the middle of a long row of shops. I could throw a stone and hit my favorite patisserie. The same could be said for the café next door where I purchase my morning coffee. I love the weight of age on the building.

Bay windows sit on either side of the wrought iron door, barring unwelcome visitors from my retreat. Natural light pours into the studio through the large plate glass, imbuing my canvases and paints with vitality.

I rarely paint at night, but when I do, I eschew electric lights, daring to illuminate my work by the flickering of candlelight. A safety hazard, Merlin would say.

And the old man has a point.

The toxic fumes of paints and solvents are always a concern around open flames, but I’ve invested in an air-handling system that is more than sufficient to move ten times the air required.

I’m not concerned about fire.

Bringing someone who is not a client into my studio is like taking them into my most intimate space. In a way, my soul is laid bare within these walls.

“This is yours?” Her breathy voice lifts with surprise.

“It is.”

“You said you were an artist, but I never expected a private studio.”

She steps away from the window and glances up and down the street.

It’s not quite noon, and there is little traffic. This street is off the main thoroughfare where most of the tourist traffic occurs, which is one of the reasons I was so surprised when I saw her walking outside my window the other day.

“This studio has been in my family for generations.” The statement is a truth and a lie rolled into one.

I have no family.

Or rather, I didn’t have a family until Merlin discovered my charcoal sketches on the walls of the back alley I once called home.

I was starving, half-dead, and much more interested in drawing than finding my next meal. This studio belonged to Merlin, but he gifted it to me after I made my first successful forgery.

The hinges creak, as they always do. No matter how much grease I apply, the damn thing refuses to give up its screech. I stopped caring years ago, although I still apply grease once a year.

“Come inside.” My heart thumps a little, knowing she will soon be within one of my most personal places.

This is my portrait studio, where I craft legitimate art pieces sold to an eclectic clientele. I make a good living as an artist, but I make much more as a counterfeiter and a thief. For obvious reasons, I don’t paint those pieces here. That studio remains closed to everyone.

The moment Vivianne crosses the threshold, her nostrils flare. How do the oils, thinners, blank canvases, and unfinished wood frames impact her delicate senses?

To me, every time I come here, it smells of home. I don’t know what a typical home smells like. I was orphaned young and spent my first few years within the walls of an overcrowded orphanage.

Then, I ran away.

Alleys and gutters have a unique smell, but they never felt like home. This studio and the other one are different. I create beauty out of nothing. All it takes is a creative eye and the steady application of a brush to canvas.

“It’s so clean.” Vivianne walks to the middle of the room and places her clutch down on an empty wooden stool.

I wouldn’t describe the studio as clean. The unfinished wood bears the marks of my work; dried paint from years of study, practice, and creation has turned the stool into a kaleidoscope of color.

Vivianne steps to the left toward the work I painted the other day. It will never be finished; the oils have dried and crusted. I tossed the ruined brush earlier this morning, but it was worth it.

“It’s beautiful.” She traces her fingers over the edge of the frame.

Her reaction intrigues me. For anyone else, I would’ve rushed over and covered the nude, but I want Vivianne to see my work, even in such a sorry state.

“Unfortunately, that piece is ruined.”

She shakes her head. “I disagree.” Her fingers flutter over the paint, her training well ingrained as she never once touches her fingers to the canvas. “There’s a vitality here. A sense of an intensity broken mid-thought.” She glances at the window. “Almost as if the artist was interrupted by something much more powerful than the vision here.”

The woman has crazy insight. Her intuition gives me chills. Her attention turns from the street and back to me. With her brows tugged together, she purses her lips.

“When did you paint this?”

I can’t afford her to draw the next logical conclusion, so I lie again. “It was quite some time ago. I can’t fully remember what pulled me away from the work, except that when I returned, the paints dried. I couldn’t save it.”

“I think it’s brilliant the way it is.” Vivianne traces the penciled outline of a nude woman, following the drafted charcoal sketch into the base layers of paint that have been applied.

The woman in the painting faces away; her torso twisted until only the curve of her left breast and a peaked nipple show. Her hair cascades over her shoulder and tumbles in sinuous waves down to her waist. The background is unfinished but was meant to be a meadow.

“Brilliant? That might be a bit of an overstatement.” I stand behind Vivianne and inhale the lilac and rose of her perfume.

Even in this place, filled with potent aromatics, Vivianne is the only thing to capture my attention.

“Having you look at an unfinished piece of mine is like having you see me naked.”

“Now, that is a visual.” She giggles and presses her fingers to her mouth.

“Not a bad one, I hope?”

“Do you usually paint nudes?” Her deflection causes me to narrow my eyes and take a step back.

“When inspired by beauty.” I gather her hair at her nape. This time, she doesn’t flinch but allows the intimate touch.

“Why don’t I see any other paintings? Where’s the rest of your work?”

I have several pieces in progress but none I can discuss.

“I’d love to paint you,” I blurt out.

“Me?”

I go to the ruined piece. “You’re quite exquisite.”

“You want to paint me?”

“ Mais, oui, ma chère. ”

Her spine stiffens, and the muscles of her jaw clench. A negative reaction, but her eyes betray her true feelings. She gazes with longing at the canvas.

“I’m sorry, Paul, but my father would never allow that.”

I’m not interested in what her father would or wouldn’t allow. Her boundaries have been tested, and she isn’t repulsed. Reaching for her hand, I break the tension with one of my disarming smiles.

“Come, time enough later to make a decision. For now, I’m hungry, and there’s this wonderful café I’d love to take you to.”

She gives a fractional nod, and her fingers curl in my hand. “Lunch sounds perfect.”

As I lead her out, she glances at the painting one last time. I smile as thoughts of painting her in the nude fill my mind.