Chapter Thirty-One
ROUX
One week later…
It was one of those rare fall days in Paris — sky a brilliant blue, air crisp, sun shining. Perfect for that date I’d been promising Gen.
We walked hand in hand along the Seine, a new experience for me. Not the Paris part, but walking hand in hand like a couple of happy lovers. Which I supposed we were.
Mates, my tiger growled. Even better.
We hadn’t made it official with a bite yet, but that wasn’t far off. And in the meantime…
“Wow. A whole day, just to enjoy ourselves,” Gen murmured, tilting her face toward the sun as we walked.
“Two days,” I reminded her.
“True, but yesterday felt a little more like work.”
“If that’s work, I’m happy to put in overtime,” I declared.
We’d spent the previous day rearranging her — er, our — apartment in the chateau and moving my things in, followed by a long afternoon walk through the surrounding fields, woods, and vineyards. A perfect day, as far as I was concerned.
The others had finally eased up on their teasing, and Bene had even helped me move my few things over to Gen’s.
The faster you move out, the sooner I get the west wing to myself, he’d said. The entire west wing, baby.
Don’t get too comfortable, Gen warned. We’ll be renting those rooms soon.
He shrugged. I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it. And in the meantime, my own little kingdom.
Bene definitely cultivated a short-term mind-set. But I, for one, wondered what the future held for him.
I’ve decided not to decide until the new year, he’d announced in typical Bene fashion.
That long? Marius had grumbled.
Mina elbowed him.
I mean, only that long? he’d corrected himself glumly.
It was all an act, though — Marius being grouchy, Bene unable to commit.
We’d all grown into what felt more and more like a family — even Henrik, bizarrely — and it was hard to imagine the chateau without everyone there.
Living together-but-apart in our own little apartment within the grander place was a perfect arrangement as far as I was concerned.
“Things will change when Dora arrives,” Gen mused as we walked along.
Her cousin — the third co-owner of the chateau, together with Gen and Mina — was due to arrive in about one month, just in time for Christmas.
I squeezed Gen’s hand. “Things changed when you arrived — for the better.”
“I just wonder how long Dora will stay. She’s been pretty noncommittal about it so far.”
I chuckled. “I thought I was coming for a few months, and now, I never want to leave. Maybe the same thing will happen to her.”
Gen laughed outright. “You mean, finding the perfect person and falling in love?”
I shrugged. “Why not?”
Gen snorted. “Her options are Henrik and Bene. I can’t see either happening.”
“Don’t forget Officer Dulaire.”
She snorted. “Clem is not her type.”
Surprisingly, I felt sorry for the guy. He’d lost Mina and passed up his chance with Gen. If I were him, I would regret that for the rest of my life.
I held her hand a little more tightly, grateful things had worked out as they had.
We walked in silence, gazing at the Louvre on the opposite bank.
“That’s where those thieves got in to steal the crown jewels,” I murmured, pointing to an upper balcony on the middle floor.
“Bastards,” she grumbled. Then she held up a finger. “Oh! I know what they could do to increase security at the Louvre.”
“Bring in vampires and warlocks to cast spells?” I guessed.
She nodded. “Can you imagine? Thieves would think twice.”
I shrugged. “They didn’t stop you.”
She made a face. “I only did it for my dad’s painting. Also, we got lucky.”
I snorted. “Not luck. You were brilliant.”
“Maybe just a little.” She grinned.
We walked on in silence. A short time later, she pointed to another architectural landmark.
“Oh — the Orangerie!”
I patted my pocket. “Got our tickets right here. Six p.m.”
“And I have my sketchbook right here.” She patted her backpack. “I can’t wait.”
She’d decided on a theme to paint on the ballroom walls — water lilies in the style of Monet. Everyone loved the idea, so we weren’t just visiting the museum to enjoy the paintings. We were researching too.
Gen grinned and slid her arm around my waist. “For the record, this is already the best date ever. Brunch was delicious too.”
We’d detoured to my favorite place in the Latin Quarter on the way over, but that was just a warm-up to what I had planned.
“Not the best date yet, but it will be,” I promised. “We’re nearly there.”
I’d tried to create a little suspense about our next destination, and while it had to be obvious, Gen clapped and cheered when we arrived.
“The Musée d’Orsay!”
I nodded. “For pleasure, not work. And not just the cheap ticket. We have all day.” I patted her backpack, then my pockets. “We have your sketchbook, drinks, and a reservation for the Café Campana at three.”
Her eyes went wide. “The one that looks out through the face of the clock?”
I nodded, fairly proud of myself. “I got us the best table for two, with the best view.”
“How did you manage that?”
“Marius knows a guy who knows a guy… I didn’t ask too many questions, though.”
She tsked. “Monsieur Anand, are you letting your principles slip?”
I shook my head. “Principles are for big things. Other things, you can let slide.”
She laughed. “I’m corrupting you.”
I kissed her hand. “Just a little.”
I’d prebooked tickets — full price for the first time in my life, but it was worth every penny — so there was no waiting in line. We started with the sculptures on the lower levels, formerly platforms in the converted train station. Gen already had her sketchbook open, ready to choose a subject.
“How about Rodin?” I asked, pointing to The Gates of Hell.
Gen whisked right by it. “Are you kidding? Total mood-killer.”
She spent a minute contemplating the dynamic lines of Bourdelle’s Hercules Slaying the Stymphalian Bird, depicting the demigod as an archer, then moved on.
Avoiding the crowd at Degas’s La Petite Danseuse, we continued our search, eventually working our way up one level.
“If only he did tigers,” I murmured when we reached Francois Pompon’s Ours blanc, a smooth, minimalist polar bear in marble.
Gen chuckled, and I thought she might sketch it. But she walked straight on to Bugatti’s Walking Panther.
“This one,” she said firmly.
I scratched my chin. “Not a tiger, but close.”
“I’ll make him into a tiger for you,” she declared and proceeded to do just that from a nearby bench.
I sat beside her, my arm propped behind her, my thigh touching hers.
Heaven, my tiger hummed.
A day in one of my favorite places with the woman I loved?
Yes — the best. I focused on Gen as much as the artworks around us, mesmerized by her quick, confident pencil strokes.
When she paused to smooth back a stray lock of hair, my soul sighed.
That small, simple movement held so much grace and serenity, it swept me away.
Truly heaven. And I could look forward to weeks of the same, because we’d soon be painting the ballroom, among other jobs at the chateau.
Home, my tiger hummed happily.
I touched Gen’s back and watched as she made the panther — now a tiger — practically leap off the page.
She stopped to contemplate her work, then the sculpture. “Bugatti… Like the car maker?”
“Brother to the car maker.”
She chuckled. “Of course you would know that. Pretty artistic family, huh?”
“They don’t hold a candle to yours.”
She laughed, bumping my shoulder. “Maybe in some ways. But we’ll leave the cars to you.”
Visions of handing me tools and sketching me at work on the Jaguar danced through her mind, and I hid a grin. The equivalent of me watching her sketch, I supposed.
Twenty minutes later, we stood and explored other artworks on that level. Then we indulged in cake and coffee at the café, right by the massive clockface with its iconic views over Paris.
Gen reached across the table to wipe a crumb off my cheek. I licked it off her finger, and whoosh! My inner temperature soared, and my tiger grew dangerously hungry.
Gen licked her lips, which only made things worse.
“There’s got to be a broom closet we could disappear into around here,” she murmured.
I thought she was joking, but no. After a few dead-ends, she found one by sneaking down a narrow hall of administrative rooms.
“Oh my gosh. I really am a genius,” she whispered, running her hands down my rear in the darkness of that small space.
“You are,” I agreed, helping her shed a few layers and hoisting her up.
We might not have scored points for grace or elegance, but we did manage quiet.
The important thing is to score, Gen chuckled into my mind.
Then she choked back a moan and hung on.
So, whew. I hadn’t exactly planned on that little interlude, but it was like Gen said. Sometimes the best things in life were unplanned.
Afterward, we held each other, panting hard. Then, when we caught our breath, we doubled over in chuckles at what we’d just done.
“Shh. Shh,” I urged, trying to muffle my own laugh.
“Talk about an artistic movement,” Gen chuckled.
“An interactive installation,” I threw in.
We both cracked up. I’d never laughed so hard — the silent kind where you heaved for breath and held your sides.
“Now you’ve truly corrupted me,” Gen said when we finally got ourselves together.
“You, Mademoiselle Durand, are the one corrupting me,” I insisted.
She listened at the door, then nodded. “The coast is clear.”
We snuck out as stealthily as we’d snuck in. Then we split up at the restrooms to clean up as best we could. I splashed my face with water and ran my hands through my hair, undoing the bedroom look Gen had given me.
A twentysomething guy at the next sink glanced over, wide-eyed.
“Euh…tu profites bien des expos, toi?” he deadpanned. Enjoying the exhibits, huh?
I grinned. “Inoubliable.” Unforgettable.
Then I found my way back to Gen, who whispered in my ear. “I’m almost tempted to ditch the museum and head to Henrik’s place. Now that we know where he hides the key and all…”