Chapter 4
CHAPTER
FOUR
His goddess come to life wore a lime green coat.
Nothing else—not books, or art, or even the lone strands of a violin from a nearby street performer—could grab his attention away from her as she stopped at the next bouquiniste.
He wanted to say it was the contrast of her lime green attire with the deep emerald paint of the stand, but he knew that wasn’t it. No, not at all.
She might have stepped out of a Titian painting for all her rich colors.
She had a wild mass of red hair and green eyes that sparkled in a flawless oval-shaped face.
Her brows were thick and arched, and her mouth was lush and sexy and painted a deep rose.
Long gold earrings hung from her ears—those chandelier kind, brushing the strap of an oversized purple purse that he now saw matched her purple leather gloves.
Her legs were encased in navy leggings embroidered with white roses, leading down to navy lace-up boots that were old-school Victorian in style.
What should have been a cacophony of color somehow looked perfect on her.
His mouth went dry.
God, she was captivating! Her vitality was as tangible as a waterfall. She wasn’t afraid to be seen, and it made him insatiably curious about her. What kind of upbringing had she had to be so bold, to be so…herself.
Because he knew he was looking at an original—the same way he knew when he was looking at a print.
Then she looked up, and his stomach lodged in his throat. Those eyes…
What paint could ever do them justice?
Then he noticed the book in her hand. Titus Andronicus. Whoa! Shakespeare had written a lot of plays, but this was one of his most obscure. No question about it—he had to know more about this beautiful woman.
“Excuse me, miss,” he called out, taking a few steps toward her. “I have to ask… What made you pick up Titus Andronicus of all plays? Was it the 1999 movie Titus with Anthony Hopkins?”
She laughed and sauntered toward him. “No, but that was a great movie,” she said, her voice melodic with a slight British accent.
“Actually, this is the second time I’ve read it.
My latest edition of The Shakespeare Journal had an article on the 1957 theater production with Laurence Olivier and Vivien Leigh, which inspired me to pick it up again. ”
His heart began an excited drumming in his chest. “The production where they used red ribbons to denote the blood—”
“Which had people fainting in the theater.” She put a dramatic arm to her forehead.
“I’ve always wondered if that would have been me.
Or if I would have laughed and gotten kicked out.
Not at the ribbons. But at the people fainting.
I mean, how horrific could those trailing ribbons really have been? ”
He started to laugh. “Yeah, that’s my first thought when I see a red ribbon trailing behind someone’s straw hat on a windy day. Blood. Brain injury.”
“Call an ambulance!” she cried and then winced. “Oops. Better not say that too loudly.”
Her laughter joined his. God, she had a gusty laugh, filled with passion and color, and he didn’t want it to end. He knew it was crazy, but he suddenly wanted to ask her out. “Are you visiting Paris? Because I’d really love to invite you to coffee. If you’re free…”
She worried her lip, her beautiful laugh disappearing on the wind. “Oh, how I wish I were simply a tourist and that we could join arms and head off to a café and laugh some more. Because you are absolutely adorable, Dr. Jackson.”
He nearly dropped his art box. “Whoa! How do you know my name?”
“I do my research like a good student, which you would appreciate as a professor,” she said, edging closer with a flair even the wind might envy.
“Hang on… Now you’re really freaking me out.”
“I’m sorry.” She had the grace to wince. “To be fair, I did come by Nanine’s to meet you yesterday. Did you get my card? I’m Phoebe Anderson with the Anderson Gallery in Saint-Germain.”
He had to grip his art box tighter. Wait—he knew that name.
This funny, beautiful woman was one of the people who were interested in him as an artist?
And from a big gallery, no less. “No way! You look way different than you do in your photo on the website.” Madison had laid down eight such cards yesterday, and between the champagne toasts and the ongoing party at the house until late in the evening, he, Brooke, Axel, and Kyle had looked up everyone. Her included.
“Way different in a way I never want to look again.” Her eyes went to angry slits. “My mother put an old photo of me in New York black with my hair in a tidy little French twist from when I was interning at the Doray Gallery in Soho over six years ago.”
His mouth went dry. Every renowned artist showed his or her work there. “You were at the Doray?”
“Yes, and I didn’t fit in very well, although I tried, which part of me hates.” She cursed. “Back then I was still seeking parental approval. My only excuse was I was in my early twenties and still growing up.”
What was Sawyer’s excuse? Wasn’t letting his mother’s question mess with his mind the same thing? Otherwise, he wouldn’t care what she thought, right? Only it wasn’t just that. He was self-critical as well.
Her brow was knit, the lines there a clear sign of female frustration. “No comment, Dr. Jackson? Like that’s okay, Phoebe. Or why did you have a mother complex?”
He pushed his gold spectacles up higher on the bridge of his nose. “I wouldn’t presume. We all have shit with our parents.”
“Well said.” Her exhale was harsh. “You should know. I’m so over it.
But my mother loathes my style now—it’s too gauche and bohemian for words, Phoebe.
We disagree yet again. Only her web people created and run my branch website, and they do what she says under punishment of death.
We’ve been battling over that photo since it went up last month. ”
He could understand controlling mothers. Maybe that was why she read Shakespeare. His plays were teeming with them. “Well, I happen to like your style. It’s what I first noticed about you. One of the reasons I wanted to ask you out…”
God, should he be embarrassed?
“Thank you! I’ll give her your opinion when we have another family argument via Zoom.”
That had his mouth twitching. “So you’re a new gallery in Paris—”
“Exactly, with our main one being in London. Chelsea, of course. But you would know that since you looked me up. As I told Chef Garcia, which I hope she told you, I would love to host your first show here. You’re hot right now, so it’s a good time to ride the momentum.”
Brooke had echoed the same sentiment last night, but Axel had cautioned Sawyer to go at his own pace, to which Brooke had jokingly said, “But beyond a snail’s would be good.” That had made him laugh because it wasn’t far from the truth.
“That’s very good of you—”
“I know you don’t have an agent yet. I checked. I understand you’ll want one. While you’re looking for one and considering other galleries, as I’m sure I’m not the only one who reached out yesterday, I’d love to show you mine. With coffee being part of the deal, of course.”
He liked that she was letting him down easy, but how could he tell her he didn’t have enough paintings to show at this level?
Forget that he had commissions to paint—although Axel had told him he could paint them at his convenience.
Nanine’s wedding date hadn’t been set, so her wedding portrait wasn’t on his slate yet.
He needed to paint like his life depended on it. His career did.
The mere thought of people swilling free champagne and critiquing his art—while he was in the room—made him want to upchuck.
Maybe he shouldn’t say anything. Brooke had told him not to talk to people yet. Be a little mysterious, Sawyer. Like you don’t need them and have all the offers in the world.
“Umm, I have your card,” he hedged.
“Yes, of course, but in the art world, you need to be ahead of the game to get what you want. And what I want is you, Dr. Jackson.”
His skin broke out in chills. Oh, how he wished her interest weren’t purely professional. Someone bumped into him, and he edged away as the clueless tourist with a backpack and white tennis shoes knocked into him again. “But you haven’t even seen my work!”
“I managed to pay someone for their reservation last night. I must say I agree with everything that Le Monde said. The meal was exquisite. So was your artwork. Also, I watched you drawing from my perch overlooking the quay.”
He didn’t know what was more shocking—that she’d been a restaurant ticket scalper of sorts or that she’d been art stalking him. “But that was rubbish!”
She laughed, and God, what a laugh. Breathy.
Sultry. Like the trail of cigarette smoke in an old movie.
“Rubbish, eh? So you’re handsome and modest and you know your Shakespeare.
How refreshing! You can’t imagine how many artists I deal with who think they’re the next messiah and can talk of nothing else.
Art is full of egos. That makes you, Dr. Jackson, a welcome change.
Oh, sod it! I’m going to be impetuous and raise your initial offer. Would you like to go out to dinner?”
His already full head spun like a child’s top at the invite. Yes! He so wanted to go. “Dinner?”
She rested a hand on his arm, and even through his coat, he could feel the heat of her touch. “We can leave aside business for now, which should work just fine since you’ll be finding an agent and painting like crazy. Because who has thirty paintings simply lying around?”
He pressed his lips together so he wouldn’t blurt out, Not me.
“I’m glad you asked me out. Because I’d like to get to know you better too. But I must confess, I’m pretty tenacious. You want to make a living doing this, yes?”
This he could certainly nod to. He couldn’t wait to resign from being a professor. Yes, he’d loved to surround himself with art and paintings, but it always made him feel sad to admire these great works only from the outside. God, someday in the future he would. It seemed insane to imagine it.
“I want your show in my gallery regardless of what happens between us on a personal level. My mother launched my father’s career, and even after their divorce ten years later, she was still showing his paintings and helping his career. Because tenacious women are smart like that.”
“Tenacious, huh?” His heart was pounding so loudly he could barely hear the tourist boat’s horn sound on the Seine.
“Are you sure this is only a date? How can I trust that this isn’t all about business in the end?
We weren’t simply two people having a chance encounter.
You arranged it, and I don’t like to be rushed.
I’m a professor who usually has a very scheduled life. ”
She gave a beatific smile a painter like him would kill to capture. “Not anymore. Welcome to the fast lane, Dr. Jackson. As for how you can trust me? First, I never lie. I was raised around some of the most mendacious of people out there. Art is teeming with them. I have vowed not to be like them.”
He almost drooled at the way she spoke.
“Second, I will not speak of art tonight or any other night we go out. Should we go out again. Third, I give you my word that I won’t let any personal relationship we have intrude on business, and being half British and old school, my word is my bond. Does that assure you?”
So he’d been right about her accent. His heart slowed as he studied her. She wasn’t smiling now. She looked a little offended even. God, a woman who spoke of honor and code! How could he pass up a date with a colorful goddess like this? Yet he remembered what Brooke had told him…
“Maybe,” he only replied, playing it coy like the French.
Her smile blew up again, so explosive it was like fireworks had gone off before his eyes. “Oh, I do love a challenge. So…Rouges. Tuesday. Eight o’clock. Will that help ensure you show up?”
He’d researched the Paris restaurant circuit as part of his work on Nanine’s, so he knew the place well. It was hard to get a reservation. “But that’s a two-star Michelin restaurant and—”
“I don’t mess around.” She cut an attitude as she flung her hair over her shoulder, a move he rather admired. “Also, the invitation is mine, so it’s my treat.”
He made a face. “I’m old-fashioned. If we’re going out, especially the first time, I will be the gentleman. That’s a point of honor for me.”
Another gusty laugh had his nerve endings tingling.
“Oh, be still my heart. So many incredible qualities and a gentleman. Lucky me! All right, I will honor your sense of…honor. Forgive my play on words. It’s my half-British side.
Would you like to go back in time and ask me to go to Rouges instead of coffee?
I can walk back over to where you first saw me, and we can go again. ”
That spurred a laugh out of him. “You’re enjoying yourself.”
“Always. Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale, vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man. If you let it be.”
“More Shakespeare.”
“King John, in fact.”
“I know. Act three—”
“Scene four,” she finished, her green eyes sparkling like glorious peridots. “See, we can speak of other things. Few men can quote the classics, and I do so love them, having studied English literature at Oxford.”
He was a goner. He could almost hear Dean saying kismet. “I am assured. Phoebe.”
“Aha! You used my name. So now we have become officially acquainted. My turn. Sawyer.”
He found himself tongue-tied as she walked away. When she was about ready to cross the street, she looked over her shoulder at him and gave him a wink Chaucer would have described in Canterbury Tales as saucy.
Cupid’s arrow had struck dead center.