by Ava Miles
“What kind of house did you grow up in?” he asked, wondering what his penthouse would look like through her eyes.
“A big one,” she said with a frown. “Filled with famous art by the hottest painters, and marble, and lots of silence. I never felt like I could make a mess. My mother and my nanny always scolded me.”
His house boasted a lot of art and silence too, but maybe she would appreciate the mess in his apartment, after all…
They continued along the gravel path. Other statues beckoned them to stop and linger. The armless figure of a woman looking at the ground, her leg raised on a rock, seemed to say, I may have been desecrated, but I am still a woman. I still matter. I still have things to speak. To share.
“He had such a brilliant way of capturing the human body,” Margie said. “Every one of these figures feels alive to me.”
The bronze sculptures were hot to the touch, as if they too believed they were alive, and they were scattered throughout the grounds. Evan led Margie through the narrow enclosures where the trees and shrubs had been cut back to perfection. They listened to the faint whispers of more of Rodin’s figures before settling onto the blanket he’d packed in the picnic basket.
“Good thing I brought my baguettes,” Margie said, nudging him with one of the loaves.
Memories flooded him from the mere touch, and he grew rock hard, thinking about how they’d fed and caressed each other with the bread before making love.
“I’ll never see a baguette the same way ever again,” he admitted.
Her eyes fired with heat, and he suddenly felt like he was standing amidst the flames of a forest fire.
“Neither will I.” Her hand rested on his thigh briefly before trailing away. “What else did you bring for our picnic?”
His subzero picnic basket had kept the cheese and saucisson cold. And of course, the pink champagne they’d enjoyed at dinner after their first kiss in Paris. He drew out two champagne glasses that fit perfectly in their special holder. He popped the cork to the champagne, and she held out the glasses for him to fill. The sound of her joyful laughter before she took her first sip made people turn to look for the source of the magical sound.
“Why am I not surprised you have a basket that keeps champagne cold? Did you invent it?”
He wished he had, just to see her smile like that. “No, but I have some ideas for improvements.”
She laughed, and he waited for it to subside so he could feed her bites of brie. She, in turn, fed him bites of baguette, which made him very uncomfortable.
“So the baguette wasn’t the best idea,” she said, her lips pursing together like she was suppressing laughter. “Maybe you should put yourself in your subzero basket.”
“Venus wouldn’t apologize for raising my ardor,” he said, feeling the pull of the past around him.
“I love it when you call me that,” she said, running a hand up his thigh.
“If you keep doing that, I’m going to go Parisian on you and kiss you senseless right here on this blanket.”
She propped herself up on her elbows and tilted her head to the side, studying him. “What’s stopping you?”
He set down his champagne glass and was on top of her in a minute. The feel of her mouth was lush. The shape of her body under him was as curvy and welcoming as the goddess who’d given Margie her nickname. He could have devoured her, but there was enough American in him to pull away. He was breathing hard, but then again, so was she.
“How far is your place from here, Evan?” she asked.
Too far and not far enough, he realized. “We’re having a picnic, Margie. Or we’re supposed to. I made a schedule.”
“Evan—”
“Stop torturing me,” he pleaded. “I really want to court you. I promised I would.”
She bit her lip as she poured him another glass of champagne.
He leaned in to kiss her. “I’m sorry for being cross. I’ve just never wanted to do something for someone this much. Margie, I want to give you all the romance Paris has to offer.”
Her smile told him all was forgiven, and they supped on bread and wine and cheese and meats. Simple, but flavorful, fare. The fountains babbled like little toddlers. The bronze figures bathed in glowing brilliance in the waning sun.
And all seemed well. For a while.
But the sun was going back to her bed, and Evan felt the change in the earth, and in the unnameable and unstoppable connection between them. They only had six days left, it seemed to say. And that was never going to be enough.
“I think it’s time we went to your house,” she said, reading his mind.
She was still lying on her back on the blue picnic blanket, drowsy with sleep.
He felt guilty suddenly. He wanted to spend every waking moment with her, and she had to be at work at two o’clock in the morning. “You need to sleep.”
Her smile was as lush as the gardens around him. “I can sleep at your house, and then you can drive me to work.” He liked that idea since she’d turned down his offer to have someone drive her to work.
They packed up the picnic and took off for the car, stopping only to marvel at the final sculpture on the pathway on the way out. It was perhaps the most impressive of Rodin’s works, but it was deeply depressing to Evan’s eyes. The Gates of Hell were two massive doors sculpted in bronze and about twenty feet tall.
“It’s said there’s something like two hundred figures in the piece,” he told Margie as she studied it somberly. “Every one of them seems to delight in expressing their agony.”
Some of the people looked like they were clawing back the bronze door in an attempt to set themselves free.
“He knew a lot about agony,” Margie said. “It makes me sad. He had all this, but he still wasn’t happy.”
Evan gripped her hand. “I felt like that—before Dare Valley. Before you.”
“I’m glad you don’t feel that way anymore.” She looked at him with her emerald eyes. There was some emotion there to which he couldn’t put a name.
“You changed that,” he told her, cupping her face. “You’ve changed everything.”
“And now we really need to go back to your place. Evan…”
He waited for her to continue.
“You’ve changed things for me, too,” she said softly.
He swallowed the lump in his throat, and then he kissed her sweetly on the lips. Who cared if tourists were milling around them?
When they separated, she gave a final look at the statue. He couldn’t seem to look at anyone but her.
“Shall we go?” she asked.
He nodded and then walked quietly to the car.
His gut tightened. What would she see? The madness of the inventor? The lushness of the billionaire? Or the man who had no photos of himself or anyone else, because other than Chase, who hated pictures, there was really no one else in his life with whom he wanted to capture any memories. At least not until Margie.
***
Margie could sense Evan’s nervousness as he parked the Fiat in an underground garage. Honestly, he wasn’t the only one who was nervous.
She wondered what he usually drove because this car couldn’t possibly be his normal ride. Not considering all the Internet gossip about his love for racing fast cars. But if he’d bought it to perpetuate his lie, why was he still using it now that she knew he was a billionaire?
Then it clicked.
He didn’t think she would be comfortable in one of his luxury cars, and he was right. For the moment, she’d simply accept the Fiat as the prop that it was. Seeing his apartment would be jarring enough.
So while he jangled his keys in his hand as they walked to a side door, she took deep breaths to calm her nerves. But then he put his eye close to a red scanner on the wall by the door all super-spy-like. There was a click, and he opened it.
“A retinal scan?” she asked before she could stop herself.
“I…ah…have extra security…because of my inventions,” he sai
d, his brow furrowing.
“Right,” she said as they walked down a narrow hall to another door. There was a keypad next to it, and he needed to enter a code before opening it. His security alone probably cost more than her Victorian in Dare Valley. “Are you sure I’m cleared for all this?”
“You’re with me, so you’re cleared.” He held the door and let her precede him. “It’s five flights up. Is that okay? You’re small, but I don’t think you’d fit in the dumbwaiter.”
“I’m good,” she said with a choked laugh, tackling the stairs. Their footsteps echoed in the narrow space. “I know you’re looking at my butt.”
“Of course I am,” he said, touching the back of her hair gently. “It’s the best view in Paris.”
His compliment didn’t ease the tightness in her chest. At the end of the stairs on the fifth floor, there was another industrial gray door. He reached around her and punched in a second code.
“Another one? And seven digits at that,” she commented, breathing a little hard from the climb, or so she told herself.
“My company,” he said, frowning now, “requires the highest security clearances. Since I work at home…”
He broke off, holding her elbow as they entered a hallway that felt like it belonged to another era. This was the billionaire’s lair.
Soft light glowed from frosted cut glass sconces. A thick tapestry on one wall depicted a Roman scene of women lounging by a pool of water. Another wall held an arresting portrait of a woman gazing out a window while clutching a bouquet of flowers. Through the windows, the city of Paris was spread before her like a banquet, the Eiffel Tower captivating in the background. On the floor, there was a rich maroon and navy carpet with yellow fleur de lis on the dark cherry floors.
“It’s beautiful, Evan,” she said, because it was. Unfortunately the luxury of it all was wreaking havoc with her ability to breathe. “Just how I imagined Maxim’s looked back in its prime.” The bistro had become a famous dining establishment starting around the late nineteenth century, known for its lush decoration that seemed to drip with plush velvet and European sophistication. Growing up, Margie had loved watching the classic movie Gigi, which had filmed some famous musical scenes in the cultural icon.
“I wish I could have taken you to dinner there years ago,” he said, leading her to a pair of large French doors that she assumed led to his apartment. “They recreate it for tourists now, but I don’t think it’s the same.”
There was a black and gold gilded staircase to the left, which wound round to the lower floors, and she stopped for a moment to admire it in spite of herself. She had to give Evan credit. He’d made the most of his billions. “I take it that’s where most guests come up.”
He dropped his hand from her elbow, but not before she felt the perspiration on his palm. She tried to remember what a big step this was for him.
“Or I use those stairs when I go by foot,” he said. “We have a…security guy in the building. I only use the back stairs when I drive.”
Her mind veered again to his other cars, and she had to reel it back in.
At the front door, he paused. “Promise me you won’t freak out when you see the paint…stuff. Or everything else. Margie, I’m afraid you’re going to run down those stairs the minute you go inside.”
She put her hand on his chest and felt his heartbeat knocking underneath. “I promise I won’t run. Come here.”
They both needed to touch each other. Right now. Rising on her toes, she pressed a kiss to his chin before he lowered his head. Their mouths met. His sigh gusted out, filled with anxiety, and she breathed out her own. She traced another heart on his chest and felt his arms come around her. This was what mattered, she told herself. Their love. Not his money.
“I love you,” she whispered.
“I love you too,” he whispered back. “You are the most amazing woman I have ever met.”
“Thank you,” she said, feeling a touch more settled. “Show me the rest, Evan.”
He depressed a hidden panel in the doorframe and keyed in another code. The double doors clicked, and he pushed one open for her. The round entryway had a large gold mirror and a discreet crystal chandelier that looked antique. The walls were a rich emerald. The floor was a beautiful parquet with a sun in the center. Landscape paintings of seasides and country venues hung on the walls.
“It’s beautiful,” she said.
It really was, she was forced to admit.
She reached for his hand as he guided her down another hallway.
He jerked away from her. “Ah…I’m sweaty.”
And he was, poor guy. He might be more nervous than she was. There was a spattering of droplets at his temple. She grabbed his hand anyway and made herself laugh. “Like we haven’t been sweaty before.”
He stopped and looked at her. She could almost feel him unwind like a fresh sail catching a gentle breeze.
“Good point,” he said, his thumb caressing her skin.
His shoulders seemed to settle down more too. Before they’d been up by his ears. Realizing her posture wasn’t any better, she dropped her shoulders down as well, then let him lead her further down the hall and into a large sitting room.
The furniture looked both comfortable and lush. The walls had to be twenty feet high, and the windows at least fifteen, giving a breathtaking view of curved rooftops and graceful archways below a larimar-colored sky. Painted a deep plum, the room was covered with more artwork: a peacock, a sailor in a small boat at night, and three cherub-like children reaching for croissants with a warm fire in the background. Oh, how she adored that last one. It made her wonder if Belle and Andre’s children looked like that.
It was nothing like she’d expected. His tastes cemented him as a romantic, but it was the picture of the children that told her he’d tried to make this place his home—a haven where any child would feel safe and warm and loved.
Knowing how unhappy and lonely he’d been before Dare Valley, her heart broke for him. This was a man who was starving for a family. Just like her.
“It’s beautiful, Evan,” she said, ignoring the part of her brain starting to calculate the expense of her surroundings. “But I don’t see the paint.”
His mouth pressed into a tight line. “Turn around. I tried to keep it on one wall.”
She slowly spun around, and since he was holding her hand, he followed her like they were those children in the painting. The patches of paint on the bare wall commanded her gaze. There was no pattern to the rolls. Some crossed each other like two roads meeting at an intersection, while others looked like an endless highway through the countryside. The colors he’d chosen were appealing. Periwinkle, teal, red, and yellow, and then she realized some of the colors were the same ones he’d used to paint her bakery.
Her heart felt like it turned over in her chest. “I notice some familiar paint colors.”
His foot started tapping on the gold and green Aubusson rug. “I was…kind of missing you, I guess.”
It took her a moment to speak. She turned to face him and traced the tense line of his jaw. “That’s really sweet.” And because she knew he needed to hear it, she said, “And I don’t think you’re crazy. Not one bit.”
The rap-pa-tap-tap he was making with his shoe ceased. “You haven’t seen what I did to the floor.”
He led her behind the couch, and sure enough, there it was. Somehow he’d spilled yellow paint on the hardwood and hadn’t mopped it all up. Paint cans lined a plastic sheet near the wall alongside a host of rollers and brushes.
“You forgot to put down enough plastic on the floors,” she said with a tsking sound.
“I get impatient sometimes when I’m thinking about…things,” he said.
“I seem to remember that,” she said with a laugh. “Show me the rest, Evan.”
He seemed eager to lead her away from his Pollack-like paint montage. His kitchen made her sigh. God’s honest truth, money could buy a person a fabulous kitchen. And she had
major kitchen envy here. Van Gogh might have painted it on a happy day. It was a rich gold fitted with cherry cabinets. Copper pots hung above a massive stove. There was a café scene on the wall of a man and woman drinking espresso. And there was one brick wall by the massive Viking range, which conveyed the building’s age. Oh, the number of cinnamon rolls she could bake in an oven that size.
He led her to the wall when he noticed her gazing at it. “When I bought the place, I had the kitchen remodeled. There had been some water damage from the roof. My contractors uncovered this wall, and if you look very closely, you can see the date of 1777 carved into one of the bricks.”
She leaned closer. “Oh, I see it! How marvelous!”
“I thought so. This apartment was owned by the Goulous family for two hundred years, but they fell on hard times after the Second World War. Since then, it’s changed hands twice.”
“And now it’s yours. How lucky for you.” She was grateful to realize she was happy for him. There was nothing wrong with him being wealthy, and the last thing she wanted to do was become some horrible judgmental person. Especially with him.
He led her through the rest of the house, pointing out two guest bedrooms and a smaller sitting room.
“Do you work on your inventions here?” she asked him.
“Most of the time,” he said. “I…can communicate with my colleagues when the need arises. Mostly I like to work alone. Especially when I’m in my crazy inventor mode.”
Thinking about him as the president of a billion-dollar corporation was a challenge, but then again, she knew Chase was the man who ran things.
When he would have continued with his tour, she stopped him with one hand. “I wish you’d stop calling yourself a mad inventor, Evan. How can everyone else start seeing you for you until you do?”
He buttoned his jacket. Then unbuttoned it. And then buttoned it again. “Why is it you see me so clearly?”
“Because I used to feel lost and eccentric in my own way,” she admitted, feeling the common ground between them unfold, right in the center of his luxurious home. “I wasn’t like anyone else I grew up around.” And because she needed to say it, and he needed to hear it, she continued. “I was the only person around who seemed to realize having money didn’t make us happy. It didn’t give us value. It didn’t make us more special than anyone else. It was simple economics.”
