“Beautiful, isn’t she?” John said.
“Breathtaking.”
“I fell in love the moment I saw her. I love how he made her skin so luminous-looking. And her lips. The way he caught them in mid sigh? Doesn’t she look like a woman who’d just been—”
“Right,” Piper said. This was her sister’s elderly boss they were talking about. Some images were best left to the imagination.
Unfortunately, John was right. The painting dripped with sensuality. It wasn’t the sexiness that caught your attention, though. At least not as far as Piper was concerned. It was Ana’s expression. She was looking at the artist with nothing short of adoration. They weren’t looking at a seventeen-year-old girl draped naked across a sofa. They were looking at a woman in love. Piper wondered if that wasn’t the reason Theodore Duchenko wanted all the paintings destroyed.
She tried to imagine how it would feel, to be that deeply in love and have it ripped away from you.
“Are you all right?” John asked.
“Fine. I was thinking about poor Ana Duchenko is all. She’s going to be so happy to know this painting survived.” She reached into her bag for her cell phone. “You said I could take a few photographs?”
“Yes, yes. Be my guest. Just make sure the flash is off, if you don’t mind. I don’t want the colors to fade.”
“Thank you.” Whether he sold Stuart the painting or not, Ana needed to see proof her love for Nigel still existed on canvas.
While she clicked away, John maneuvered his way around the dining room table to pour tea. Frederic, meanwhile, had moved to the opposite of the room to study the painting. Piper caught the telltale movement of his head that said he was looking at it in sections.
“You said on the phone, you were trying to locate the painting for the real Ana?” John handed her a teacup, then offered one to Frederic.
“Ana Duchenko,” Piper replied. She proceeded to tell him the story. As the details poured out, she realized she was destroying any chance Stuart had at buying the painting cheaply, but that didn’t matter. It was more important John Allen understand that the painting was more than “notorious.”
“Fascinating,” John said. “So as far as you know, this is the only painting left that Nigel Rougeau painted.”
“Unless someone has one hidden in their basement, yes.” Frederic gave a soft cough, a warning that she ignored. “Nigel died shortly after Ana went back to the States.”
John gave an odd sigh. “Such a tragic story. I knew that painting had to be a work of love the first time I saw it. You can see the emotion in her eyes.”
So he did understand. “You know, Ana never married.”
“She didn’t?”
Piper shook her head. She felt as if she were gossiping about some old Hollywood romance the way her host was hanging on every word. “She lives in Boston with her cat, Nigel.”
“The cat is named Nigel?” John clutched his chest. “I think I might cry.”
“So you can see why her nephew wants to buy the painting. He wants to return the portrait to her while she’s still alive.”
“That’s such an amazing story,” John said. “To think, poor Nigel, robbed of his potential greatness. Can you imagine what he could have achieved if Theodore Duchenko hadn’t destroyed his work?” He looked to Frederic, as if waiting for confirmation.
“A genuine loss,” Frederic replied.
“Not to mention a great inspiration,” Piper added. She snapped a few more pictures to be safe. She’d already made a mental note to send Nigel’s sister a copy as well. “I think Ana really was his muse.”
“I think so, too. I see why her nephew wanted to track the work down.”
“The question is...” For the first time since they’d sat down, Frederic addressed the elephant in the room. “Would you be willing to sell her?”
“Well...” John drew out the word for several beats. Never a good sign. “I’ll be glad to talk with Mr. Duchenko, of course, but like I said, she is one of my favorite pieces. I love looking at her while I eat.”
That was an image Piper could do without.
They spent another hour or so looking at the rest of the collection, the older man thrilled to show his paintings to someone who “appreciated them.” When they were finished, Piper once again urged him to consider selling Ana Reclining.
“I promise I’ll think about it,” he said. “I do have a soft spot for star-crossed lovers.”
“Thank you.” Looking at Ana’s portrait one last time, she crossed her fingers that the painting would be heading to Boston soon.
“Mrs. Lester was right,” she said when they were on the way to the car. “He is quirky.”
“Quirky but savvy. His collection is amazing. The Bergdahl alone was worth the trip.
“Congratulations, by the way.” With his arm around her shoulders, Frederic kissed her temple. “Your treasure hunt was a success.”
Yeah, it was. Still, Piper frowned.
“Is something wrong?”
“I don’t know. I thought I’d be more excited, but...”
“You’re sad because your hunt is over. That is not unusual.”
It was more than the end of the hunt. She was reminded all of a sudden that looking for Ana’s painting was what kept Frederic in her orbit. Now that the search was over, would she be enough to make him stay around? Or would their affair be over when they returned to Paris?
She really stank at this taking-things-as-they-come stuff.
“These last couple days of adventure have spoiled me.” In more ways than one.
“The day is not over. We can still have adventures.”
“Like what?” she asked, as if she couldn’t guess already.
Frederic stopped walking and stared at her with a focus Piper had never seen before. Part desire, part...confusion? Whatever the emotions behind his eyes, it set off a slow burn in the pit of her stomach.
“May I show you something?” he asked, running his thumb across her lower lip.
“Of course,” she replied. When he looked at her like that, he could show her anything.
CHAPTER EIGHT
IT HAD TO be the ugliest painting Piper had ever seen. Not depressing ugly like the painting in Bernard’s gallery, but ugly-ugly. From what she could tell, the mural had been a group effort. Different sections reflected different styles. In the center of the mess, Saint Michael wrestled a fire-breathing dragon. At least the description said it was a dragon. Piper thought it looked more like a winged cow. The army of angels behind him was one giant block of white and gold, on which black lines had been painted to represent limbs while the villagers on the ground...she wasn’t quite sure what the artist was thinking when he painted them. As for poor Saint Michael, he was rewarded with a protruding nose and lips so large he looked as if the dragon had slammed his face into a rock.
To her right, Frederic beamed at the work like a man looking at his child. “Saint Michael vanquishing evil,” he said, reverence in his voice. “What do you think?”
“Umm, it’s different.”
“Have you ever seen anything so ugly? It’s even worse than I remembered.”
Oh, good. She was afraid she was going to have to pretend something way beyond her acting skills.
They were in the chamber by themselves, the abbey ruins not being one of the area’s more popular attractions. Piper could see why. Ugly mural aside, there wasn’t much else to see. Much of the monastery had fallen into ruin. Only the room they were in survived.
She turned back to the painting. “You wrote a paper on this piece?” After all the beautiful things he’d shown her the past couple of days, it was a bit of a letdown.
And yet Frederic seemed thoroughly enchanted. “Yes, I did.”
“Why?” She
had to be missing something. Maybe there was some historical connection she didn’t understand.
Taking her hand, he led her closer. “Because I don’t think this painting was ever about being good. The men who painted it had to know they didn’t have talent. Or perhaps they thought they did. It doesn’t matter. This painting is perfect because of its flaws. You see ugly, I see joy. Passion.”
The passion was Frederic’s. You could feel it radiating off him as he spoke. Like the day in the Place des Vosges, only ten times stronger.
“Of all the paintings I have seen in my life, this is one of my favorites. Because it is pure.”
“When you put it that way.” Piper’s heart was suddenly too big for her chest. She felt so amazingly honored that he would share the piece with her. Wanting to thank him for the gift, but afraid he’d hear the emotion in her voice, she settled for a smile. “To think, all the other tourists will look and see a saint with swollen lips.”
“Poor Saint Michael. He does look like he’s had one too many collagen treatments, doesn’t he?”
“I’m glad you got to see him again.”
“I am, too.”
They studied the mural in silence. Or rather, Frederic studied the painting while Piper studied him. From the moment this affair began, back in the kitchen in Paris really, she’d been haunted by a sense of surrealism, unable to believe they were together in the first place. Now this. She could feel herself starting to fall. If she hadn’t already fallen, that is.
“Can I show you something else?” he asked.
“Here? At the abbey?” Frederic nodded before catching her hand in his again.
“It is outside,” he told her.
Behind the monastery, the land spilled into a large grassy field dissected by boulders and a few errant black-eyed Susans. Still holding hands, they picked their way across the uneven ground until they reached the top of a large swell. From there they could look out over the entire abbey grounds. They were high enough that Piper could make out the shape of the old building in the ruined rock.
Frederic sat down, then tugged on her wrist so she would join him. They sat back on their elbows, legs stretched out in front of them.
“When I was studying the mural, I would take my lunch in this spot,” he told her.
“It’s beautiful.” Taking out her phone, she snapped a picture. She was going to want to remember this day when she returned to Boston in a couple months.
She was going to want to remember a lot of things.
Off to their left, she spotted a roped-off section where the ground appeared dotted with markers. “Wonder what is going on other there?” she said, pointing.
“Archaeological research, no doubt. Before the abbey, this was a pagan ritual site.”
“No way.”
“It’s the reason the abbey was built here in the first place. They would have painted Saint Michael as a way of discouraging rituals and protecting the land from evil.”
“He does look scary. Wonder if it worked.”
“You’ll have to ask the pagans. From what I understand, there are some who come every solstice.”
Kicking off her sandals, Piper wiggled her bare toes, enjoying the feel of the sun on her skin. The air was quiet but for the birds and buzzing bugs. Now that she thought about it, there was a kind of mystical feel to the air. Although she was certain it had more to do with her companion.
She turned and snapped a photo of him. His attention on the view, Frederic didn’t notice.
When he was studying something very closely, his focus would grow intense, with all his energy directed at his target. It was more than simply trying to see; it was as if he was trying to see into whatever it was he was looking at. Piper had felt that intensity directed at her more than once. Each time, she’d melted under its strength.
This time she saw a sadness to his stare. She brushed the hair from his face to bring him back. “Trying to find a pagan?” she teased. Seeing the enthusiasm fading from his face had made her heart ache. “You’re a million miles away.”
“Sorry,” he said, giving her a half a smile. “I don’t know when I will be back here, so I was trying to memorize the view.”
Piper was about to tell him that wasn’t necessary because she’d taken pictures when she realized what he was really saying.
“I wasn’t thinking,” she said softly.
“I have read theories that if you stare at something long enough, the image will become ingrained in your memory. I don’t know if blind people can see their memories or not, but in case they can...”
“Is that why you are always looking at the Eiffel Tower?” And at her?
“One of the reasons.”
The full force of what lay in his future hit her. It was easy to forget with his matter-of-factness, but there would come a day when he couldn’t see the sun or the grass. Not even his own hand. She couldn’t imagine. A man who loved visual beauty as much as he did. Who saw beauty in ugly art.
“What are you going to do?” she asked him. “I mean, when...” A sob threatened, and she pushed it back along with the rest of her question.
“Carry on, of course. What else can I do?”
“Nothing, I suppose.”
She watched as he plucked at the grass between them. Tugging blade after blade, only to discard each one atop a small pile of clippings. “Tell you what I won’t do,” he said. “I won’t turn myself into a victim, making the whole world bow to my disability.”
Like his father? That was what he meant, wasn’t it? He did call his father needy last night.
“I asked him once,” Frederic said, switching gears, “when I first learned I might have the disease, what it was like to be blind.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me it was awful, and that I would find out for myself soon enough.”
“That’s it?” No reassurance, no advice? Surely the man wouldn’t be so self-involved as to leave his son to face the unknown without some kind of support?
But then parents could be selfish. Hadn’t her mother been more interested in everything other than Piper?
“Saying more would require him dealing with his own blindness. My father was more interested in wallowing. And in his cocktails,” he added, swiping at the grass clippings. “Did you know I could make the perfect soixante-quinze when I was eight years old? That is gin and champagne, if you were wondering.”
Piper wasn’t. The little boy forced to make them was far more interesting. She wished she could tell him she understood what that was like, that she’d been in his shoes. Oddly enough, however, alcohol abuse wasn’t one of her mother’s many crimes.
“I can still picture him. Proving you can memorize an image,” he added with a toneless laugh. “He had this giant easy chair where he would sit and listen to the stereo. All day long. Every day. He only left the house if my mother took him. I was so relieved when they decided to send me to boarding school, because it meant I wouldn’t have to see him in that chair anymore.”
Relieved, but guilty, too. Piper could hear the regret in his voice. He’d escaped to school, but his mother had stayed behind.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “He must have been in a lot of pain.”
“What he was, was a selfish bastard who never should have married my mother in the first place. He knew he was going blind. A real man wouldn’t have asked her to stay.”
No, he would have lived in the present and made no promises for tomorrow. A chill swept through Piper. “How do you know your mother didn’t want to stay?” She already knew his answer from last night; Frederic believed his mother stayed out of guilt.
“How would she know that life would stop the moment my father lost his sight. If you’re trying to defend him, you’re wasting your time. I lived it. I watched day in a
nd day out while she took care of him. Waited on him, walked with him. She cut his meat, for God’s sake, while I...”
Stayed out of the way and made cocktails. No wonder his mother sent him away finally. Just imagining what it had been like for him made Piper’s heart ache.
Frederic looked up. “Sometimes I wonder why they ever had a child.”
Because once upon a time, they were in love and believed in the future. At least his mother had. Piper longed to tell him that it was okay. That it was okay for him to want more than a moment in the present.
You mean to want you. Tears burning the back of her throat, she rolled onto her side. “I’m glad your father was selfish,” she told him. “Because if he hadn’t been, we never would have met.”
“Then he did something good after all.”
The back of his hand caressed her cheekbone. Piper grabbed it and kissed his knuckles. It was her time to memorize for the future. “Thank you for showing me your ugly mural,” she said.
“It’s not my ugly mural. It belongs to Great Britain.”
As far as she was concerned, the painting belonged to him, and she would be forever grateful that he chose her to share it with. Frederic would never know how special being here made her feel. She was beginning to understand the joy the monks must have felt when creating their art. Her heart was suddenly so full she feared it would burst.
She wanted to tell him. But how could she explain without sounding like a lovesick idiot that his sharing this part of himself—that these past few moments of vulnerability—meant everything to her?
There were words, three very huge words that summed up everything in her heart, but she wasn’t ready to say them out loud. The feelings were too new, too fresh; now wasn’t the time to say them. Piper wasn’t sure there would ever be a time.
“I don’t care who owns this place,” she said. “There’s still no place in England I would rather be.”
Damn his sunglasses for blocking his eyes. She couldn’t tell if he was happy or frightened by her admission. Halfway committed, there was nothing to do but keep going. “Or anyone else I’d rather be with.”
Beauty & Her Billionaire Boss Page 11
