Chapter 14
Fourteen
I replayed how he’d held the charcoal in his strong hands, veins running over his muscled forearms, his eyes fixed on the canvas.
As the spring warmed to summer, I opened my windows and wished for a breeze, waking up sweating, imagining his fingers trailing across my skin, his lips on my neck, and my legs wrapped around his.
It was a surprise, my own visceral desire after pushing away thoughts of sex and love for decades since William’s death.
I lasted another week before I found myself visiting the courtyard of the Palais-Royal, where René said he worked on Tuesdays and Thursdays, dressed in my best green silk with white ruffles and drenched in a new perfume. I strolled along the edge, leisurely pretending to take in the sights.
Other artists were also out, but there was no mistaking him, stationed back toward the gardens. Families sat on spread-out blankets, enjoying the day as children chased each other, the lively playing of fiddle and accordion adding a festiveness, the mood light.
He sat in front of his easel, sketching the gardens, his hand floating across the paper as the scene sprang to life—a smudge blooming into pear trees and magnolia blossoms, a line becoming a neat trellis, all appearing as if by magic.
I didn’t say anything as his hand slowed, and he turned, scanning. I wanted him to see me again. I wanted him to notice me among the crowd. The second his eyes caught mine, a smile spread over his face as sweet and slow as molasses.
“Back again, I see.” He smiled as I drew near, the sunlight a beam of gold on his black hair. I didn’t know how it was possible, but he was more handsome than last time; his green eyes had an apex predator’s energy beneath a veneer of sleek refinement, and his black lashes were thick and long.
“You had an offer I couldn’t refuse,” I said, a pleasant heat feathering along my skin.
“Are you interested, then?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”
“Excellent.” He reached forward and added his slashing signature to the drawing.
He dropped the charcoal back in its tray and started packing his papers frantically.
I stepped back. “What are you doing?”
He gestured to the sun. “The light will not last. I’ll have more control in my studio.”
“I see.”
That meant I’d be alone with him . . . which probably wasn’t a good thing, but an intoxicating thrill tugged me forward like a will-o’-the-wisp leading me into a dark and dangerous wood. I should’ve been afraid, but I cleared my throat. “How long will it take?”
“Three days,” he said, folding his easel down. “One for the outline and background, the second for details, and the final for finishing touches.”
I blinked. Three days? “I don’t usually go traipsing off with a man I’ve just met.”
“Don’t worry. I assure you that the experience will be safe. Perhaps even pleasurable.” He smiled, the movement slow and sensual. He didn’t move an inch, but heat slunk through me at his gaze as if he were stripping me bare.
I waited for caution to flare, but shivery anticipation trickled down my spine.
It had been years since I had been with someone.
If he was interested and I was willing, what was the hesitation?
There was no one here whose reputation I needed to consider other than my own.
There was no Code Noir governing my every move. There was nothing holding me back.
We strolled together, our pace languid, not quite touching. His retracted easel and black portfolio swung between us, occasionally brushing my skirts and nudging me gently. I swallowed and counted the steps to his studio as anticipation built.
His voice broke into my thoughts, soft as satin. “So, do you know what you’d like?”
I shivered at the subtext in his words. “What, sir, are you offering?”
He tilted his head, his errant curls turning in the warm breeze. “That depends on you. How do you see yourself, Mademoiselle Marguerite? What kind of portrait should I create?”
I was used to being addressed by my alias, yet hearing it from René’s mouth made me pause. It was the first time, I thought, it sounded like a lie. “I don’t suppose I’ve thought about it. The regular kind?”
He shook his head. “There is nothing regular about you.” His eyes traveled down my dress. “You, mademoiselle, are unique.”
I flushed at the bold statement. Technically, he was right. I was a woman out of time—or perhaps lost in it. “You must see hundreds of people a day. Why flatter me?”
“There’s something in the way you hold yourself,” he admitted.
“That day at the salon, you reminded me of Athena, beholding her subjects, observing as they lived their small lives, wise beyond your years. You’ve seen things.
It’s in your eyes. A grief, a weariness that only comes with seeing parts of the world that many do not. ”
The unexpected truth of his words slammed into my chest. “Are you sure you’re not a writer? You certainly have a way with words.”
He shrugged. “I’m French.”
I laughed. I’d been here so long that French assurance had softened for me into a charming cultural bravado.
At that moment, I knew he had it, the same gift I’d come to understand all artists shared.
The ability to see beyond a thing, beyond what was presented.
Artists know what something is and what it can become.
Unlike Jacques, he could perceive more than the physical.
Potentially, he could see me . . . if I let him, if I could let someone see me again after all this time and all that had happened.
René was a thing of beauty himself. His stride graceful, he easily navigated the crowded street.
I studied him as we talked, orbiting each other as we navigated the crowds, the streets thick with life.
Vendors hawked from the corners, the fowler selling rows of plucked ducks strung upside down as carriages and wagons trundled past, sending the ripe scent of horse dung through the air.
His clothes were well made, without a hint of paint; everything about him was even and precise.
He made me think about how long it had been since Jacques.
With him, sex had been staid and safe. And while William and I were never together that way, I’d felt love and understanding, a shared sense of our pasts with him; this was a different sensation altogether.
This felt like abandon. I’d seen others carried away with it, and despite being more than a hundred years old, I’d yet to experience that for myself.
His studio wasn’t far from the Palais-Royal, located in a three-story limestone walk-up. He stopped at a doorway on the third floor, by the stairs.
“Here we are.” He fumbled with the key—perhaps he was not as calm and collected as he seemed. He covered it masterfully and opened the door with a flourish, swinging it wide. “Welcome to my studio.”
The entire space was an artistic endeavor: an ample central room with draping next to an open window and a smaller bedroom just beyond, both spilling over with a variety of pieces at different stages of creation.
Even the side table, with a loaf of bread, bright-green pears, and yellow cheese wedges, sat in a slant of sunlight, ready to be painted.
A detailed nude caught my eye: a blond with golden curls cascading down her neck, drawn languidly on a red velvet settee, arm above her head, apple-size breasts arched high, sporting pert nipples the color of strawberries, a fold of silvery fabric the only nod to modesty as she gazed at the viewer.
A lover.
Former or current was the only question. I blushed at the intimacy of it, her pleasure on display for the world to see.
“Do you like it?” he asked, his tone teasing. “We could explore this style, should you choose.”
“Uh, I think more . . . conventional for the first one.”
“Ah, the first,” he said, smiling. “I’m glad to know there will be others.
” He directed me to a small couch covered in a deep-blue fabric that contrasted with my dress.
I sat delicately, fiddling with my skirts, my throat dry.
Maybe this was all about a portrait. I should sit for it and be on my way.
He plucked a larger canvas from the stack and set it on his easel. “Since you don’t seem to know what kind of piece you’d like,” he said, “why don’t I make it a surprise?” He chose a wooden palette, smeared it with a brown tint, and worked a palette knife across the surface.
“We didn’t discuss a price,” I reminded him.
“Pay me what you think it’s worth.” He smiled easily as he selected a brush, flicking it through a small tin of solvent.
“You don’t understand business, do you?”
“I understand as much as I need to get by. This I do for . . . personal reasons.”
We were quiet as he began, only the steady clop of horses outside and the scrape of his brush as he roughed in the shapes on the canvas.
“What brought you to Paris?” he asked.
“What makes you think I’m not from here?”
He smiled patiently, as all Parisians do. I wondered how he could detect what must’ve been the faintest of accents after all these years living in the city.
“Fine, I’m originally from America. I came here in . . . I came for business and stayed for pleasure.”
His eyes twinkled, but he seemed to resist another quip. “Hold your head a bit higher,” he instructed.
I adjusted, half reclining on the couch. “Do you bring all your clients here?”
“No . . . only the best ones,” he said, eyes lingering.
That sent a thrill through me.
“What do you do?” he asked, changing the subject. “How do you pass the time?”
“I write articles.”
“What kind?”
I’d never thought to categorize my writing, other than knowing its strange audience of one. “Human interest stories and, um, travel guides?”
He furrowed his brow, considering the idea. “Interesting. Does it pay well?”
“If you need the money.”