CHAPTER TWELVE
Maeve stood embarrassed and uncertain in the middle of Leo’s studio. Why on earth had she agreed to do this?
Last time she’d set foot in this room, she’d been greeted by the sight of Leo rolling about with a naked woman, and she didn’t want to be the next woman to shed her clothes for him. Or roll about on the floor with him, for that matter. Not that she had any qualms about her body. Although nothing special, her body was perfectly functional. But it was one thing to strip off in the gym showers without worrying too much about lumps and bumps, and quite another to pose nude under the cool, discerning eye of Leo Rémy.
She hugged herself, looking about. ‘I… I’m keeping my clothes on,’ she told him, and winced at the high-pitched, prudish note in her voice.
He laughed, going about the high-ceilinged room and flinging open the windows to the sounds of distant traffic and beeping horns, with sudden flurries of music behind those.
‘Naturally.’
She was relieved by that reassurance. No nudity. Though on a scale of one to ten, her relief was still only about a four. The other six points were screaming at her to get out while she could…
‘Where do you want me?’ she asked stoutly.
His head whipped around and he stared at her. ‘Do I want you?’ he repeated in astounded tones.
‘No – God, no!’ She also stared. ‘I said… Where.’ She huffed out a breath, her heart thudding. ‘Where do you want me?’
‘Oh.’ Leo blinked and ran a hand through sleek hair. Why did he have to have such magnificent hair? She wished he was in his seventies with a head of woolly grey. Or younger than her, perhaps, with dreadlocks down to his waist and a cheeky grin that meant she didn’t have to take him seriously. As it was… ‘Sorry. I must’ve misheard.’
Dragging a stool forward, he pointed to it. ‘Sit. No, facing me. One hand here,’ he ordered her brusquely, positioning her as though she were a mannequin. ‘And one there, in your lap. Yes, that’s it.’ He stared at her intently, then stalked around the stool, examining her from every angle. He did something to her hair from behind, while she sat still and alert, staring at the far wall. ‘A few inches this way?’ She shifted obligingly, and he stopped her, a warm hand on her shoulder in the sleeveless dress that Bernadette had lent her. ‘That’s enough… Perfect. Now, don’t move.’
‘You said I wouldn’t have to hold still,’ she grumbled.
‘Did I?’ He bent to a wooden chest, gathering pencils and sketchpad. His bottom was rather magnificent too, she thought, and realised she had been staring fixedly at it. When she didn’t respond, he glanced at her over his shoulder and she hurriedly averted her eyes, pretending to be fascinated by a particular spot on the floor. ‘Yes, my apologies. That was a lie.’
Abruptly losing interest in the floor, her gaze shot to his face again. Not his bottom, she told herself firmly. Never his bottom.
‘What?’
‘Well, not entirely a lie. You can move later, once I’ve got the basic outline down,’ he elaborated with a grin. He returned to what he’d been doing and unknowingly her gaze drifted back down to his nether regions. Goodness, he looked very… fit. ‘Until then, you need to keep still, okay?’
‘Hmm.’
Leo shrugged out of his jacket, slinging it carelessly over the back of a chair. Flipping open the sketchpad to a fresh page, he started sketching her with swift, fluid pencil strokes. His dark gaze switched between her and the sketchpad every few seconds, penetrating and yet impersonal at the same time.
Maeve sat as still as she could. It felt unnatural. And her nose was itchy. She could feel it demanding that she lift a finger and give it a good old scratch. But he had told her not to move. She resisted. It got itchier. It became maddening. She bore it for a few more seconds, aware of her face twitching, and then demanded, ‘How long before I can –’
‘Hush.’
‘Move?’ she finished.
He didn’t respond but bared his teeth, making a low noise under his breath as he sketched.
‘What was that?’ She stared, incredulous. ‘Did you just growl at me?’
‘Hush… I’m… working…’ Thrusting his pencil between his teeth, Leo groped for a piece of putty on his cluttered work desk. ‘Didn’t quite get your… arm… right.’ Frowning with concentration, he used the putty to erase something on the paper before tossing it back onto his desk. The eraser bounced, landing with a clatter in an open box of paint tubes. He didn’t even glance in that direction, focused on the sketchpad. ‘Can’t have you… looking like…’ He began sketching again without completing his sentence.
Still fighting the desire to scratch her nose, Maeve frowned. ‘Like what?’
‘Stop frowning.’
‘But like what?’ she repeated, trying not to frown.
‘Hmm?’
‘You said… You can’t have me looking like… Only you didn’t finish what you were going to say.’
‘Sorry?’ He narrowed his eyes on her, then kept working. ‘Oh, yes… I didn’t want you looking like you have three arms. Or one arm twice the width of the other one, perhaps.’
Now she was incensed. ‘What?’
‘Sit still, please. Just a little longer.’
She glared at him. ‘You do know what you’re doing, I take it?’
At that, his gaze rose to her face and fixed there. His look was arrested. Had he finally heard what she was saying? ‘Yes, yes,’ he hissed.
‘Yes, you know what you’re doing?’ Her nose was itching intolerably. ‘Or yes, something else?’
‘Whatever you’re thinking right now,’ he muttered. ‘That angry glare. Hold it, would you?’
‘Are you serious?’
Leo grimaced. ‘No!’ The cry was anguished and from the heart, alarming her.
‘You’re not serious?’
‘No… You changed expression. Weren’t you listening to me? I said, don’t move. I said, keep glaring at me.’ He dashed furious lines across the paper. ‘Whatever you were thinking before, think it again. Think it harder.’
‘But I don’t know what I was thinking.’
He swore in French, baring his teeth again. She recognised the swear word and it was not a very pleasant one.
‘Excuse me?’ She fixed him with a cold stare.
‘Yes, yes. That’s perfect.’ His eyes lit up with excitement and he began sketching almost violently. ‘This time, hold it. Keep hating me… Yes! More hate! I love it!’
She exhaled crossly. ‘You are a very strange person, Monsieur Rémy.’
‘No talking. Just glaring, thank you.’
‘Oh, for goodness sake…’ But she lapsed into silence. Was the man crazy?
Maybe this was what all artists were like though when they were working, she thought, watching him with reluctant fascination. Shouty, sweary and a bit weird. She’d often wondered about that, being utterly uncreative herself and therefore entranced by the idea of someone being an artist, able to make art out of nothing. Dabbing paint onto a blank canvas or creating something out of a heap of odds and ends.
Lost in that thought, she raised a hand at last and absentmindedly scratched the maddening itch on her nose.
‘Argh!’ Leo threw down his sketchpad and tore at his hair.
‘Oops.”
It was long past midnight when Leo finally allowed her to move. By then, Maeve had grown so stiff and wooden that he had to help her get up. She walked about the room like someone who”d been riding a horse for hours, bow-legged and slow, and stretched her back out cautiously while he examined the sketches he’d made.
She was exhausted. But at least the studio was warm. She could imagine what it must feel like to sit completely still in here for hours in the dead of winter.
He had a kettle in the room and got up to make chamomile tea for them both. They sat sipping it, with Maeve still on her stool and him sitting cowboy-style against a chair back, also looking every bit as exhausted as she felt.
‘Perhaps we could pick this up again in the morning?’ she suggested, and found her throat dry. She hadn’t realised how dehydrated she was until she tried to speak. ‘Goodness, it’s almost one o’clock in the morning. Past my bedtime.’
His brows soared. ‘Past your bedtime? Why? You don’t have work in the morning.’ He studied her. ‘Do you never relax?’
She felt heat creep into her cheeks. ‘Of course I relax,’ she said defensively. ‘Maybe being a schoolteacher has made me a little institutionalized, it’s true. But there’s nothing wrong in preferring to get an early night whenever possible. I’m still recovering from the other night when I was up until goodness knows what time,’ she reminded him. ‘Wandering the streets of Paris and wondering what was going to happen to me.’
He nodded, his intent gaze on her face. ‘What would you have done if we hadn’t been able to offer you somewhere to stay?’
The question threw her. Though she’d already thought about it and been thankful that she hadn’t been left in that awful position. It would have been a disaster.
‘I… I’m not sure,’ she admitted. ‘I don’t know anyone in Paris. At least, not really.’
His brows drew together now. ‘What does “not really” mean?’
‘Oh, only that I have a grandmother here.’
He lowered his cup, his stare astonished. ‘I didn’t know you had any family living in Paris.’
‘I didn’t know either,’ she said with a shrug, ‘or not until recently. I lost my father not so long ago, but while he was still alive, he talked to me about some old photographs that he said belonged to my mother. One of them was of a woman in Paris holding a baby. My father said that was my grandmother and that the baby was my mother. But my mother left us when I was still a very young child myself, and we’ve never been back in touch. So for all I know my grandmother could have passed away by now.’ She gazed dismally into her cup of chamomile tea. ‘And I never knew her.’
There was a lump in her throat as she looked away, feeling ridiculous. She didn’t know why she was getting so emotional over an old lady she’d never met and probably never would now.
‘What’s her name, this grandmother of yours?’
‘I don’t actually know. And I only have her address.’ Regret gnawed at her. ‘Or rather, had, past tense. Because I don’t even have that anymore. It was written on the back of the photograph which was –’
‘In your rucksack,’ he finished for her.
‘Yes.’ She sighed. ‘It was in a zipped side pocket. So whoever took my rucksack has the photograph now.’
‘And you can’t remember the address?’ He tipped his head to one side, regarding her in mild surprise. No doubt he thought her a prize idiot. ‘Didn’t you even write it down somewhere else?’
‘I suppose it might be in my search history. But that’s on my phone too. In my stolen rucksack.’ She found herself wiping away a tear. It was tiredness, that was all. She’d had a very busy day and it was late. ‘Perhaps I should go to bed.’
‘Drink your chamomile tea. I want to take a few more sketches of you in a different position. Do you mind?’ He got up and fetched his sketchbook without waiting for a response.
‘Yes, actually, I do mind.’
‘Hmm… Ten more minutes. I promise. Maybe fifteen.’
She glared at him resentfully. But what could she do? He had made the point himself just minutes ago. She would have been sleeping on the streets that first night alone in Paris if he hadn’t offered her a bed at Chateau Rémy. Or if his grandmother hadn’t offered her a place to stay, more accurately. No doubt he would have had no qualms about her wandering the streets. But she felt infinitely safer at the chateau, especially given how few funds she had available.
She had savings, yes, but they were locked up in a special deposit account that was strictly reserved for putting down a deposit on a house one day. Whenever she’d saved enough to make a mortgage affordable rather than crippling… Surely she could put up with a few more days’ hardship rather than break into her precious savings?
‘That’s it. Perfect. There’s that hatred again…’ His smile was almost feral as he dashed off a few strokes of his pencil, and then moved her about like she was a rag doll. ‘Tilt your head slightly that way? That’s it, stop.’ He continued sketching. ‘Maybe twenty minutes. Then you can go to bed, I promise.’
She gave him a fulminating look and his smile widened.
It wasn’t hatred though. She wasn’t sure of much when it came to Leo Rémy. But one thing was for certain. She didn’t hate him.
Half an hour later, there was a tentative knock at the door. Leo’s head shot around and it was his turn to glare now. ‘Come in.’
It was his sister.
‘Sorry to disturb you,’ Bernadette said, hesitating on the threshold with uncharacteristic shyness.
‘I doubt that you’re sorry.’ Leo frowned, addressing his sister in rapid French, ‘And why are you disturbing us? Can’t you see that I’m busy?’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Good God, is that the time?’
‘It hasn’t escaped my notice that you’re working again,’ Bernadette replied in the same language, ‘but this is urgent.’
Leo lowered the sketch pad, instantly alert. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’
From behind her back, Bernadette produced Maeve’s rucksack. ‘The police dropped this off earlier. But I’ve only just tracked Maeve down. She wasn’t in her bedroom… How was I to know she’d been in here with you in the middle of the night?’ Her smile was almost malicious.
With a shriek of joy, Maeve dashed forward and was rewarded with her beloved rucksack. Well, not beloved. Nobody loves their rucksack. But in that moment, she loved it, and even hugged it to her chest, because it meant she was saved.
Then she weighed it in her hand.
‘But… it… it’s empty.’
‘Yes, I’m afraid the thieves cleared it out. Apart from a few personal effects that they didn’t bother taking,’ Bernadette told her in careful, slow English mixed with a few French phrases when she couldn”t recall the correct word. ‘It was found behind some, erm, dustbins not far from where it was stolen. So the thieves probably emptied it and threw it away within minutes of stealing it. The police have left a number where you can talk to them, if you’d like. But, other than that, they say there’s no news. Your passport is still missing, and although they found, erm, fingerprints on the bag, the prints don’t match anything in their databank.’
Maeve unzipped the rucksack and peered inside. She had half-hoped to find her notebook inside, but it was gone. Her passport and mobile phone and all her notes on important phone numbers had been in that notebook.
Scrabbling about in the bottom of the rucksack, she found only pens and a few other odds and ends. A packet of gum. Hairbands.
She groaned, closing her eyes. ‘They’ve taken everything of any value. I suppose I was lucky to get the bag back. Much good it will do me.’
‘Have you checked all the compartments?’ Leo asked, his voice a disturbing rumble in her ear. ‘If they only had it a few minutes, they may not have been very thorough.’
She turned, surprised to find him standing so close to her, also peering into the empty rucksack. ‘I don’t imagine there’ll be anything…’ she muttered, but unzipped the small side pocket, and stilled, staring. ‘Oh, there is something.’ She produced the faded photograph of her grandmother. ‘It’s a miracle,’ she breathed.
Bernadette came forward to peer over their shoulders at the photograph. ‘A miracle?’ She sounded puzzled, glancing at her brother. ‘Je comprends pas. Who’s that in the photo? Why is it important?’
‘My grandmother,’ Maeve explained. ‘It’s the only picture I have of her, and I stupidly never made a copy. I thought it had been lost forever.’
‘May I?’ Leo took the photograph and studied it. ‘That looks familiar. How do I know that street?’ he mused, then turned over the photograph and read the address out loud. ‘Ah, yes… I’ve taken Grandmère there a few times. In fact, I think that woman may be a friend of hers.’
Maeve’s mouth fell open. She was probably gaping like a goldfish but didn’t care. ‘Your grandmother knows my grandmother?’ Astonishment made her voice lift to an almost childish pitch as she asked, ‘You definitely know that street? Are you sure? You’re not making this up, are you?’
‘Why would I make it up?’ He shook his head, handing her back the photograph. ‘Grandmère will be asleep now. But I’ll speak to her first thing in the morning.’
He touched his sister’s arm. ‘Thanks, Bernadette. You did the right thing, bringing the bag up tonight.’
‘But I still don’t understand,’ she said in French. ‘Are you saying Maeve’s grandmother is French?’
‘That’s what my father told me.’ Maeve spoke in French too, staring down at the lady in the faded photograph, who looked so like her. She had not expected to feel so much emotion on being reunited with this priceless piece of family memorabilia. ‘Now I’ve got this back, maybe I’ll be able to find out more.’ She glanced hopefully at Leo, who nodded.
‘Of course we must find out. I can see how much it means to you.’ He bustled Bernadette out of the door, thanking her again with a wolfish grin. ‘First though,’ he said, reverting to English, ‘would you mind just standing there with that photograph for a few minutes, while I take some sketches?’
‘What? Are you kidding?’ Maeve took a shaky breath, battling with outrage. ‘You are beyond everything, Leo Rémy. I swear, I’m living through a nightmare here. I’m exhausted. I need to sleep and… and…’
‘And spend time with your photograph?’ Leo was already sketching her, ignoring her passionate outburst.
‘Well, yes.’
‘You can spend time with your photograph standing there,’ he pointed out, ‘while I draw you.’
She felt like stamping her foot. But she didn’t want to come across like a spoilt schoolgirl. Not when he was so cool and controlled.
‘You’re incorrigible,’ she muttered.
‘Thank you,’ he said seriously.
‘It wasn’t a compliment. And I’m going to bed.’
‘Five more minutes.’
‘One minute.’
He gave a hoarse laugh under his breath, still sketching her. ‘Three minutes.’
She ground her teeth. ‘You are the most annoying, persistent, infuriating man I’veeverhad the misfortune tomeet.’
‘Misfortune?’
With a jolt, she recalled everything he’d done for her since this nightmare began, and felt horribly guilty again. ‘All right, I take that part back. You and your grandmother have been very kind. But you do seem quite arrogant,’ she added, unable to stop herself, ‘if you must know.’
‘You’re still here though, aren’t you?’
Now she really did stamp her foot. Which made her feel ridiculous, especially when he glanced down at that offending foot with a flick of his dark brow.
‘Only b-because I don’t have much choice,’ she spluttered. ‘You… You’ll probably throw me out on the streets if I don’t say yes.’
‘My grandmother would never allow that, as you know perfectly well. So I must assume you’re here of your own volition, Mademoiselle Eden.’
‘Why, you…’
‘Look at the photograph,’ he suggested pleasantly.
She swallowed the angry words boiling inside her and did indeed look down at the photograph. She’d said it was a miracle. And it was. The thief had not taken her grandmother’s picture. Perhaps they hadn’t even noticed that little zip compartment. Or they looked at the photograph and realised it was of no worth to them, so put it back and threw the bag away.
Whatever the reason, she was deeply grateful not to have lost this piece of her past. She ought to have taken a photo of it, and then it would have been preserved, for her photos were automatically uploaded to an internet folder. But she’d never imagined that she would have her bag stolen. As soon as she was able, she would find a way to make a copy. Just in case…
‘Yes, that’s it,’ he said softly, nodding in approval. ‘The expression on your face… I could paint you for hours.’
‘Oh, you dare!’