Chapter 9 Tara #2
She’s supposed to be his ex, but the way they move around each other says otherwise. Do they still end up in bed? Are they one of those couples who claim to be divorced but can’t seem to break the orbit—circling each other until gravity pulls them back in again?
Across the room, the rival bidder raises his paddle again. The auctioneer’s voice cuts through: “One million euros to Monsieur Baron Hunt.”
A ripple of admiration runs through the crowd.
I can’t tear my eyes from Gustave. He doesn’t look rattled, doesn’t even glance at his opponent. He simply lifts his paddle once more, wrist relaxed, gaze cool, like a man who won’t be denied.
When the auctioneer’s gavel comes down, the applause rises like a wave.
I feel it in my bones. Gustave’s untouchable, out of my reach, out of my galaxy.
“Wow! I’d love to be invited to the de Valois estate.” Cece squeezes my hand. “They say he has some amazing art.”
I’m about to tear my gaze from him when, across the glittering crowd, Gustave looks up. His storm-gray eyes lock onto mine, and the impact is a jolt of live current.
My breath catches.
I look away quickly, slipping into the stream of people drifting back toward the lobby now that the auction is over.
The evening is winding down, and after a few more drinks, there is the slow shuffle toward the exits.
“Tara, how are you?”
I freeze. He’s at my elbow, impossibly close, standing by one of the tall windows that frame the Paris night.
Beyond the glass, the city glitters—streetlamps haloed in mist, car lights threading along the Bois de Boulogne, and in the distance, the faint shimmer of the Eiffel Tower.
“I’m well. Ah…congratulations on the Cimabue.”
“Thank you.” His voice is smooth, cool as glass, but his eyes burn when they meet mine. “He’s a favorite of mine. What do you think of him?”
“Well, he is one of the first great Italian painters to break from the Italo-Byzantine style,” I remark.
And Cece thinks you like him because you’re both equally haughty!
“Have you seen his mosaics in Florence?”
“Yes. Santa Maria Novella.” I smile faintly, remembering. I had gone there right after I graduated with my master’s, before I started my PhD at NYU. “The Crucifix knocked my socks off.”
His lips tilt. “Cimabue’s work suggests that divinity can bend, even break.”
It feels as if he’s not only speaking of the artist but something else.
I wet my lips, suddenly warm. “And yet, for all his innovation, Giotto eclipsed him within a generation.”
“The man who breaks the path is rarely the one who walks it,” Gustave says quietly.
“Giotto was simply a superior artist,” I say airily, in my comfort zone.
“Was he?” he challenges.
“Absolutely! While Cimabue’s figures were linear and stylized, Giotto conveyed complex human emotions.”
“You know your art.”
“I do.”
We fall silent for a long moment, and the space between us thrums with meaning neither of us dares to voice.
I clear my throat. “I should—”
“I trust you’re finding Paris agreeable,” he cuts in, stopping my retreat.
The air around us feels electric. I’m being singed by his heat and energy.
“I am. Though I confess that”—I gesture lightly toward the glowing glass walls and the crowd swarming in couture—“this isn’t my usual Friday evening.”
The corner of his mouth curves, the faintest hint of amusement. “Nor mine. I prefer quieter company.” His gaze lingers on me long enough to make my pulse skip before he adds, “But one makes appearances. It is expected.”
“And one buys an expensive painting. Is that expected, too?” I don’t know why I’m provoking him—maybe because Simone was hanging on his arm, maybe because he told me he wanted me but couldn’t have me, like we’re stuck in some eighteenth-century melodrama.
Whatever.
“I bought the art because I love it.” His eyes lock on mine. “One can’t have everything one wants—but when the opportunity appears, I take it.”
We could be discussing the weather. Yet beneath the civility, there’s a harsh truth.
Her perfume hits before I see her. Chanel and money.
“Mon chéri,” Simone coos, gliding up in her burgundy satin, resting a proprietary hand on Gustave’s arm.
Her eyes flick to me, cool appraisal, before she tilts her head as though in thought. “I don’t believe we have met.”
I blink. Has she already forgotten me? Probably.
I extend my hand, polite as ever. “We have. At the Louvre. I’m Tara Gayarre. I’m working on the Carriera pastel.”
Her eyes widen—a fraction, enough to suggest surprise or something close to mocking. “Ah, but of course. Forgive me. So many faces, so many events.” She shakes my hand, drops it, and then turns smoothly back to Gustave, dismissing me as if I’m part of the décor.
The message is clear: You’re a nobody, barely worth remembering.
My spine stiffens, but I keep my smile in place. If she thinks she can erase me with a feigned lapse of memory, she has sorely underestimated Latinas raised on sarcasm and stubbornness.
“I imagine it must be difficult to keep track. You must meet so many interesting people every day,” I say lightly.
Simone’s lashes flicker. Gustave’s mouth twitches, as if he’s fighting a smile.
Round one, I think.
Before either of us can fire another volley, a booming laugh cuts through the din.
“Bravo*, Gustave. I thought Hunt was going to win.”
Philippe—something, I forget—his friend, I remember, appears like a storm front: broad-shouldered, flushed with champagne, and trailed by a model girlfriend who’s probably half his age and twice as bored.
“Sigrid was quite impressed,” he declares. Sigrid seems to be no such thing. She smiles vacuously and goes back to scrolling through her phone.
Philippe’s gaze swings to me. “And who is this enchanting creature?”
Oh, but I know his type, I think, amused.
Before I can answer, Simone does.
“One of the Louvre’s restorers. She’s working on that little pastel Gustave likes.”
Her voice drips with that syrupy benevolence people reserve for patting a child on the head.
Heat floods my cheeks. I know exactly what she’s doing—shrinking me. To her, I’m not Tara Gayarre, specialist, PhD, the woman trusted with a Rosalba Carriera. I’m staff. The help. A curiosity who wandered in from the wrong world.
But Philippe, at least, appears sincere. He takes my hand with a courtly flourish. “Mademoiselle*, anyone who revives our treasures is as valuable as the artists we admire. You preserve our souls.”
I laugh awkwardly.
Simone’s eyes gleam.
Gustave shifts beside me, tense, his mouth drawn in a line. I can feel the fire in his glance, but he doesn’t speak.
I have no idea why Simone’s going after me, a nobody. Does she suspect? Has she seen anything? I can’t imagine. Gustave and I have been prim and proper in public, haven’t we?
I step back, eager to disappear into the faceless crowd, when Simone says, “Tara, you must find it odd being here with so many”—she waves a hand at the room—" les gens connus*.”
My French is rusty, but I know she’s insinuating I don’t fit in with all these famous people, her included.
“Simone, come on, hardly famous. No one knows who I am,” Philippe remarks, his eyes on me, dripping with curiosity. Even he’s aware of the undertone. “Which is why I have to hang around with Sigrid,” he adds to lighten the air that’s now thick with animus.
Right then, Cece materializes at my side, sliding her arm through mine.
“Congratulations, Gustave. Brilliant purchase.”
“Merci, Cece.”
Cece greets our little group with her usual easy warmth. She’s been at the Louvre for a few years and can spot half the patrons and curators without needing introductions.
Simone’s glare flicks over her with distaste as well.
Ah—so that imperious attitude isn’t reserved solely for me. She’s a garden-variety snob, disdain reserved for the entire plébéien* class.
“Come on,” Cece says brightly, her smile pure manufactured sunshine. “They brought out the macarons. Let’s not let the aristocrats eat them all.”
She tugs me away, leaving Simone’s perfect smile frozen mid-expression.
Behind us, Simone’s voice rises—loud enough to carry. “They let anyone into these parties these days. I’ll have to speak to Giselle about handing out invitations to the help.”
Gustave answers, but his words are lost as we weave through the glittering crowd, putting him—and his ex—behind us.
“What’s her damage?” I ask Cece after we to snag two macarons each.
Mine are vanilla and pistachio, and she goes for strawberry and passion fruit.
“She’s an elitist snob,” Cece mutters, biting into hers. “Sometimes I think that Robespierre didn’t do enough.”
I chuckle. “You French are so bloodthirsty. After all, you did produce a man like Dr. Joseph-Ignace Guillotin.”
Cece’s eyes twinkle. “You know, even though it’s named after him, Dr. Guillotin didn’t invent the guillotine. Dr. Antoine Louis, a French surgeon, actually designed it.”
I smirk, shaking my head. “Cece, you’re the Wikipedia of some truly morbid information.”
“Have I told you about how the catacombs were formed?” Cece’s expression lightens with amusement.
I laugh, and the venom from Simone that stung me dissipates.
* Corny (French)
* Well done
* Miss (French)
* Famous people (French)
* Plebeian