Page 22

TWENTY-TWO

Champagne

Vivianne

Paul stands there, resplendent in his tuxedo, his eyes widening as they take me in. “Vivianne,” he breathes, his gaze heated. “You’re stunning.”

The perfectly tailored tuxedo accentuates Paul’s broad shoulders and narrow waist, hinting at the muscular build beneath.

His stance exudes confidence, power radiating from every inch of him, but it’s his eyes that captivate me. They’re dark and intense, burning with a hunger that makes my skin tingle. He looks like a predator about to devour his prey, and a thrill runs through me at the thought.

A flush creeps up my neck, warming my cheeks. “Thank you,” I murmur, stepping into the hallway. My heart races, and I can’t help but feel a mix of excitement and nervous anticipation under his scrutiny. Part of me wants to shrink back, while another part yearns to step closer, to see just how far that hunger in his eyes might take us.

Paul’s hand finds the small of my back as we walk to the elevator. His touch sends sparks through my body. The doors slide open with a soft chime, and we step inside. As we descend, an awkward silence fills the small space. The air feels thick, charged with unspoken tension.

I catch Paul’s reflection in the mirrored walls. His dark eyes are intense, and my breath stills.

The elevator dings, breaking the spell. Paul guides me through the opulent lobby, nodding to the concierge as we pass. Outside, the crisp Parisian night air rushes to greet us, carrying with it the scent of rain-washed streets and distant flowers.

A sleek black Mercedes idles at the curb, its engine a low purr. The doorman, his white gloves stark against the gleaming paint, opens the car door with a flourish.

Paul’s hand on my back becomes more insistent, urging me forward. As I slide into the plush leather seat, the hem of my dress pools around my feet, the fabric shimmering like liquid fire in the streetlights. I take a deep breath, smoothing my hands over the crimson silk of my gown. The fabric whispers against my skin, cool and sleek.

Paul joins me in the backseat, his proximity in the enclosed space quickening my pulse. As we pull away from the hotel, the lights of Paris blur into a golden haze outside the window, and I can’t help but wonder what dangers and revelations this night will bring.

Paul extends his hand, and I place my fingers in his, feeling a jolt of electricity at the warmth of his skin. The drive to the mansion is short but charged with anticipation. His hand rests on my knee, his thumb tracing small circles that send sparks of excitement coursing through my body, a tantalizing promise of what’s to come.

As we pull up to the magnificent mansion, its windows ablaze with light and music drifting out with a seductive melody, Paul turns to me.

“Remember,” he murmurs, his voice low and husky, “we’re madly in love.”

He helps me from the car, and the moment I stand, he wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me close. His other hand slides along my cheek, cupping the back of my neck, asserting complete control. Before I can take a breath, his lips find mine in a strong, powerful, and dominant kiss.

The sensation is overwhelming, a sudden surge of heat and electricity that courses through my veins. His grip on the back of my neck is firm, holding me in place, while his arm around my waist presses me tightly against him. I can feel the hard length of him pressed against my belly, a testament to his own desire, and it sends a thrill of anticipation rushing through me.

His lips are demanding, moving against mine with an intensity that leaves no doubt—he owns this moment, and he owns me. I melt into the kiss, my body responding instinctively to his commanding touch.

His tongue teases my lips, seeking entrance, and I part them willingly, allowing him to deepen the kiss.

His taste, his scent, and his powerful presence envelop me, igniting a fire deep within. His hand at the small of my back slides lower, pressing me even closer, making me acutely aware of every inch of him.

The kiss becomes a dance of passion and possession, a promise of the depth of our supposed mad love. It’s all so real, so intense, that for a moment, I forget it’s a charade. I forget this is all for show.

As he breaks the kiss, leaving me breathless and dizzy, his eyes hold mine captive. He presses forward, his body flush against mine, and his hands move to cup my jaw, my cheek. His thumb flutters against the shell of my ear, sending shivers of pleasure down my spine.

“You’re mine tonight,” he whispers, his voice a low, husky growl that sends another wave of heat blasting through me. “Say yes.”

My heart pounds in my chest, my senses alive and tingling with the aftermath of his kiss. All I can think about is that I can’t wait for later tonight. What will it feel like to have him, to feel his body against mine, to surrender to the passion that crackles between us?

I take a deep breath, gathering my wits and my resolve. This is the role we’re playing—madly in love, irresistibly drawn to each other, and as I look into his eyes, I know we can pull it off.

Because in that moment, with the taste of his kiss still lingering on my lips and the feel of his body imprinted on mine, I feel it—the fire, the passion, the undeniable connection.

“Yes,” I whisper back, my voice barely audible but filled with conviction.

And with that, hand in hand, we step into the glittering world of the mansion, ready to face whatever secrets and dangers lie within, ready to convince everyone that what we have is genuine, even if it’s only for tonight. The anticipation of what’s to come buzzes through me like a live wire, making every touch, every glance, a promise of the passion that awaits us later.

I laugh softly, breaking the tension.

Paul’s eyes narrow slightly as he cocks his head, curiosity etched into his expression. “What are you laughing at?”

I can’t help but smile; the nervousness that’s been bubbling inside me suddenly replaced by something else, something more certain. His question hangs in the air, and the playful glint in his eyes makes me bold.

I turn to him, stepping closer, my fingers tightening around his hand. “I was just thinking,” I say, my voice low, teasing, “that I don’t think pretending is going to be a problem tonight.”

His brow lifts, intrigued, but before he can respond, I continue, leaning in just a little closer, my lips barely brushing his ear.

“In fact,” I whisper, feeling the shift inside me, the decision settling in my chest, “I can’t wait for later tonight.”

His grip tightens almost imperceptibly, and I catch the flicker of something darker in his gaze—desire, control, anticipation. The tension between us swells, thick and electric.

This thing between us is real, and it’s far more dangerous than either of us anticipated.

Paul lets out a low chuckle, his breath warm against my skin. “Careful, Vivianne,” he murmurs, his voice a velvet warning, “I’m not sure I’ll be able to wait that long to feel your legs wrapped around me.”

The words hit me like a spark to a dry fuse, igniting something deep inside. A gasp escapes before I can stop it, my body reacting before my mind can catch up.

Heat pools low in my belly, an eager thrum of anticipation spreading through me. I can’t stop the way my heart races or the way my pulse quickens with every word he speaks.

His gaze is locked on mine, sharp and knowing, and I realize with startling clarity that the hunger burning in him mirrors my own.

A slow smile spreads across my lips, the playful edge gone, replaced by something raw and intense. I lean into him, my voice low and filled with the same desire that’s been steadily building between us.

“Who says you have to wait?” I whisper, my breath brushing against his ear.

Paul’s eyes darken, his grip tightening around my hand as if holding himself back takes every ounce of restraint. The air between us crackles with tension, every inch of me alive and ready, eager for what’s coming next. His gaze dips to my lips, then back to my eyes, a silent promise of what’s to come.

“You’re playing with fire, Vivianne.” His chest rises with a deep, controlled breath as he lets out a low growl.

“Then make me burn.” I smile wider, not backing down.

He holds my gaze for another beat, the intensity between us simmering to a fevered pitch, before he breaks into a wicked grin. “Oh, you will.”

We ascend the marble steps, Paul’s hand a comforting presence on my back. The massive oak doors swing open, revealing a world of opulence and intrigue. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the gathered crowd, their light dancing off jewels and champagne flutes alike.

The air is thick with perfume, cigar smoke, and the heady scent of wealth. Conversations in a dozen languages swirl around us, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the clink of glasses. As we step into the grand foyer, heads turn. I feel the weight of their stares, assessing, judging, wondering.

Paul’s arm tightens around my waist, a silent reassurance. We move further into the room, and I can’t help but gasp at the artwork adorning the walls. A Monet here, a Picasso there—each piece more stunning and more illicitly obtained than the last.

As we wander through the crowd, I spot a painting that makes my heart skip. “Paul,” I breathe, “is that…?”

He follows my gaze, his expression darkening. “ The Storm on the Sea of Galilee . Rembrandt’s only seascape, stolen from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in 1990.”

I stare at the masterpiece, drinking in every detail. The turbulent sea, the frightened disciples, Christ’s serene figure amidst the chaos—it’s all there. To see it in person, after believing it lost forever, is overwhelming.

The grand ballroom bustles with Europe’s elite, their whispers and laughter mingling with the soft strains of a string quartet. Paul’s hand rests possessively on my lower back as we navigate through the crowd, his touch a constant reminder of our supposed intimacy.

* * *

“Paul, mon cher !” A statuesque blonde in a shimmering gold gown glides toward us, air-kissing Paul’s cheeks. “It’s been too long.”

“Margot,” Paul greets her warmly. “Allow me to introduce Vivianne Faulks, my new—companion.”

Margot’s eyes sparkle with interest. “ Enchanté , Vivianne. I do hope you’re keeping our Paul on his toes.”

Before I can respond, a distinguished gentleman with salt-and-pepper hair joins us. “Paul de Gaulle, you old devil. Who’s this vision you’ve brought?”

“Vivianne, meet Henrik Larsson,” Paul introduces, his arm snaking around my waist. “Henrik, this is Vivianne Faulks.”

Henrik’s brow furrows, his head cocking to one side. “Faulks? Why does that name sound so familiar?” His eyes suddenly widen in recognition. “Ah, you’re the one who discovered The Lovers was a fake at the Met. Brilliant work. How on earth did you figure that out?”

Paul’s arm tightens around my waist, reminding me to be careful with my words. I smile, trying to appear modest yet confident.

“It’s a combination of things, really,” I begin, choosing my words carefully. “First, there’s the technical analysis—examining the pigments, the canvas, the brushstrokes. But beyond that, it’s about knowing the artist intimately—their techniques, their quirks, the evolution of their style.”

“It’s a meticulous process,” I pause, gauging Henrik’s reaction before continuing. “We use a combination of methods—from UV fluorescence and X-ray imaging to microscopic analysis of the paint layers. But it’s not just about the scientific tests. It’s also about provenance research, studying the artwork’s history, and understanding the context in which it was supposedly created.”

Henrik nods, clearly intrigued. “Fascinating. And how did you discover The Lovers was a forgery?”

“There were subtle inconsistencies in the brushwork that didn’t align with Van Gogh’s technique at the time. It’s like recognizing a friend’s handwriting—you might not be able to explain exactly why, but you know when something’s off.”

I lean in slightly, as if sharing a secret. “The key is to approach each piece with both skepticism and an open mind. Sometimes, the tiniest detail can be the key to unraveling a forgery.”

“Vivianne has quite the eye.” Paul’s hand slides to my hip, a gesture both possessive and proud. “It’s one of the many things I admire about her.”

A flush creeps up my neck at his words, acutely aware of the heat of his touch and the intensity of his gaze. I almost forget we’re playing a role—the line between pretense and reality is officially blurred in the most delicious way.

As we exchange small talk, a painting on the far wall makes my breath catch.

“Excuse me,” I murmur, drawn to the artwork.

Paul follows, his hand never leaving my back. “What is it, ma chère ?”

“It’s Farmer with a Hoe by Kazimir Malevich,” I explain, my voice hushed with awe. “It was stolen from the Kharkov Art Museum in 1941. It’s been missing ever since.”

“You have quite an eye, Miss Faulks.” Henrik leans in, intrigued. “What can you tell us about it?”

I clear my throat, feeling Paul’s encouraging squeeze. “Malevich was a pioneer of geometric abstract art. This piece, from his Peasant series, combines his earlier Suprematist style with more figurative elements. The bold colors and simplified forms are characteristic of his work.”

As I speak, more guests gather around us, listening intently. Paul’s proud smile fuels my confidence.

We move through the room, and I spot another masterpiece. “Oh my,” I gasp. “That’s Femme devant une fenêtre ouverte by Paul Gauguin.”

Margot raises an eyebrow. “You’re familiar with it?”

I nod enthusiastically. “It was stolen from the Kunsthal Museum in Rotterdam in 2012. It’s a later work of Gauguin’s.”

Paul pulls me closer, his lips brushing my ear. “You’re amazing,” he whispers, sending a shiver down my spine.

As we approach a third painting, a portly man with a thick mustache joins our growing entourage. “Claude Rousseau,” he introduces himself, kissing my hand. “Your knowledge is impressive.”

I smile, turning to the artwork. “This is View of Auvers-sur-Oise by Paul Cézanne. It was stolen from the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford on New Year’s Eve, 2000. Cézanne’s use of geometric forms to structure the landscape was revolutionary, influencing the development of Cubism.”

As I finish speaking, I notice the crowd’s impressed murmurs. Paul’s hand slides lower on my back, his touch both possessive and proud.

“I think,” he says to the group, his eyes never leaving mine, “that we’ve found the true masterpiece of the evening.”

The heat in his gaze makes me flush, and for a moment, I forget people surround us. In this world of stolen beauty and hidden agendas, Paul’s desire feels like the most genuine thing in the room.

As Paul disappears into the crowd, a striking couple approaches. The woman, tall and elegant in a midnight blue gown, smiles warmly.

“Vivianne Faulks, isn’t it? I’m Isabelle Durand, and this is my husband, Etienne.”

Etienne, distinguished in his tailored suit, extends his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Faulks. Your insights on the Malevich piece were fascinating.”

“Thank you,” I reply, pleasantly surprised by their interest.

Isabelle’s eyes light up. “We’ve been collecting for years, haven’t we, darling?” She turns to Etienne, who nods in agreement.

“It’s our shared passion,” he adds. “We were particularly impressed by your analysis of the Gauguin. You have an eye for the nuances of post-impressionism.”

We fall into an easy conversation about various art movements, their knowledge matching my own. I relax in their company, enjoying the opportunity to discuss my passion with like-minded individuals.

“You know,” Isabelle says after a while, her voice lowering conspiratorially, “there’s a piece we’re considering purchasing tonight. It’s not one of the ones on main display, but I think it would fascinate you.”

Etienne nods, his expression eager. “It’s in one of the side rooms. Given your expertise, we’d love to get your opinion on it before we make our decision.”

Isabelle leans in slightly, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “We’re a bit torn, to be honest. Your insight could be invaluable. Would you mind taking a look at it and giving us your thoughts?”

I hesitate, glancing around for Paul, but he’s nowhere to be seen. The prospect of offering my professional opinion on a potential acquisition is tempting, and I find myself intrigued by their request.

“It would only take a few minutes,” Etienne adds, sensing my interest. “And your perspective could help us make our decision.”

Their enthusiasm is contagious, and the opportunity to further showcase my expertise is tempting. However, I need to be cautious. I shake my head slightly.

“Well, I couldn’t offer an opinion on the spot. There’s so much that goes into what I do. Identifying forgeries from authentic pieces requires extensive analysis and testing.”

Isabelle nods understandingly. “Of course, we completely understand. We’re not asking for a definitive authentication. We’re more interested in your initial impressions—how you feel about the piece and what your instincts tell you. Your expertise could give us valuable insights, even if it’s not a final verdict.”

Etienne chimes in, “Exactly. We’re just curious about your thoughts as an art expert. No pressure for a formal opinion.”

“It’s in a private viewing room nearby,” Isabelle adds gently. “We won’t keep you long.”

Their reassurances ease my concerns somewhat. It couldn’t hurt to take a look, and I’m admittedly curious about this mysterious piece they’re considering.

Their genuine enthusiasm and the prospect of seeing a rare piece of art are too tempting to resist. I find myself nodding. “Well, I suppose a quick look wouldn’t hurt.”

Etienne smiles broadly. “Excellent! You won’t regret it, I assure you.”

Flattered by their interest, I agree. They lead me through winding corridors to a smaller, more intimate room. Plush velvet chairs surround a low table, and soft lighting illuminates a stunning landscape on the far wall.

“Is that a Cézanne?” I ask, moving closer to examine the painting.

Isabelle’s eyes light up. “Indeed it is. Tell me, what do you think?”

We fall into an animated discussion about post-impressionism, Etienne joining in with insightful comments about the art market. Their passion for art mirrors mine, and I relax in their company.

As our conversation flows, Isabelle glances at her husband with a warm smile. “Darling, why don’t we celebrate our new acquaintance with a toast? I believe I saw that special champagne we love at the bar earlier.”

Etienne’s eyes light up. “Ah, yes. Excellent idea, my dear.” He turns to me, his expression conspiratorial. “You’re in for a treat, Vivianne. There’s a particular vintage here tonight that’s absolutely divine. From a little-known vineyard in Champagne we discovered last year.” He stands, straightening his jacket. “Allow me to fetch us a bottle. I won’t be but a moment.”

As Etienne exits the room, Isabelle leans in, her voice lowered. “You’ll love this Champagne. It’s become quite a favorite of ours at events like these. A hidden gem, really.”

A few minutes later, Etienne returns, carefully balancing three flutes and a bottle. “Here we are,” he announces proudly, setting the glasses down and beginning to pour. The Champagne sparkles invitingly in the soft light.

Isabelle raises her glass, her eyes twinkling. “To new friendships and shared passions.”

The moment feels warm and genuine, and I find myself touched by their hospitality. I raise my glass in response, eager to sample this special vintage.

I accept the glass gratefully, enjoying the easy camaraderie.

“To new friendships,” Etienne toasts, and we clink glasses.

The Champagne is exquisite, crisp and light on my tongue. As we continue our art discussion, warmth spreads through my body. At first, I attribute it to the Champagne and the exciting conversation.

But as minutes pass, the room begins to tilt. My thoughts become fuzzy, and I find focusing on Isabelle’s words increasingly difficult. My limbs feel heavy and uncooperative.

“I-I’m not feeling well.” My voice sounds distant to my ears.

Isabelle and Etienne exchange a look I can’t quite decipher through my blurring vision.

“Perhaps you need some air, dear,” Isabelle says, her voice oddly distorted. “Etienne, help Mademoiselle Vivianne.”

I try to stand, but my legs buckle beneath me. The room spins, and darkness closes in. I’m vaguely aware of hands gripping my arms as I slump forward, unable to resist the pull of oblivion.