Mona Lisa's Room

by Vonnie Davis

  No one had ever talked to her like this. How had this man, this stranger, zeroed in on her secret desire? She shrugged. “I’ve ignored my sketching and painting for years. I’m so rusty.”

  “Would you give me the honor of looking at your drawings?” He trailed a finger across her knuckles.

  That sexual awareness she was just beginning to recognize flooded in, causing her blood to hum a low, sultry tune. Their eyes locked.

  “Aly?”

  Lord, she loved how he said her name with his accent. It was as if her name came from someplace deep and passionate. Surely she was imagining it. Get a grip. He’s ten years younger.

  “If you’d really like to see my sketches, sure.” Tugging her sketch pad from her shoulder bag, she handed it to him. She pushed her food around on her plate, trying not to watch him peruse her drawings. Her palms were damp with nerves and she wiped them on her napkin. What if he found them lacking? Of course he would; how could he find them anything else?

  “You’ve got talent, an eye for capturing emotion. This one,” he tapped the page with his forefinger, “of the elderly woman lighting a candle in the Saint German-des-Prés Church touches me. Her lined face holds more pain than happiness. Something about her reminds me of my Italian grandmother who lost her husband in World War Two.” He tilted his head and studied the drawing some more. “I wonder what her story is?” He flipped to the next page and smiled. “Ah, mon amour! The young couple kissing on a bench.”

  Alyson knew which drawing he was referring to. The girl, early twenties, straddled the young man’s lap. Her long, dark hair created a curtain as she bent her head to her boyfriend’s. They blocked out the world with a long kiss. Seeing them so engrossed in each other was a bittersweet sight.

  She was a few heartbeats away from forty and yet she’d never experienced such overwhelming passion. The sad thing was, at her age, she doubted she ever would. Of course, there was Niko’s kiss earlier along the street. Something else she best forget. “I’m glad you like the sketch. I call it ‘Youthful Passion.’”

  “Passion knows no age. It only knows extremes—highs and lows. You’re very talented. Don’t ignore it. When God gives you a gift, you shouldn’t throw it away. Embrace it. Never, never belittle it.”

  “Are you like this with everyone?” No man had ever encouraged her like this. Or made her as angry or as aware of her sexuality as he. Niko Reynard was a man who elicited emotions in others; not everyone had that ability.

  “Like what?” He emptied his wine. Mercy, but he was gorgeous when he gave her that look with one eyebrow arched.

  “Well, for starters, you pushed me back at the hotel, I think just to see if you could make me angry.” She saw the corners of his mouth twitch and the usual hard edge of his gaze soften. “You were, weren’t you? What was that about?”

  The waiter set a plate of assorted cheeses on their table before taking away their dinner plates.

  Niko gave that French arrogant I-know-what-I’m-doing shrug. “I like seeing the anger and passion spark in your eyes.”

  “Passion?” Mercy, did she even have passion anymore? “You all but made love to my legs at the shoe store. Was that about passion, too?” He quirked that eyebrow again in mute concurrence. “Then you kissed me senseless on a public street. Of course, it didn’t faze you at all…”

  “You think not?” He lifted her hand and turned it so he could press his warm lips to her palm.

  A jolt of heat went straight from her palm to her groin.

  “My first priority is to keep you safe, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel things. You’re a very appealing woman.”

  Okay, so what should she to say to that? Was he attracted to her? Surely not. Frenchmen merely enjoyed women. She was one of millions. Besides, in a few days, she’d be on her way home.

  A young girl sashayed by in a short black leather skirt one could hardly call decent, wearing high-heeled black boots that went above her knees. His eyes pivoted to the girl and then quickly ricocheted back onto Alyson. She shifted in her seat, uncomfortable under his close scrutiny.

  “Every French meal seems to end with an assortment of cheese.” She winced. Now there was an inane remark if ever she uttered one. But, really, it was the best she could do with his chocolate eyes melting all over her.

  Niko laughed and sliced off a morsel. “So, you’ve noticed one of our loves. Charles de Gaul once asked how one could possibly govern a group of people who had over four hundred types of cheese, or fromage as we say in French. This is Comté. It has a strong, slightly sweet flavor.”

  “Four hundred?” She opened her mouth when he held the morsel to her lips. No wonder the French seemed so cranky at times. They were probably bound up from all this cheese. Her gaze flickered to his. Thank goodness he couldn’t read minds. “Hmm, very good.”

  He held out another piece. “Try this. It’s my maman’s favorite. Camembert. It’s from Normandy.”

  After their meal, they walked down a narrow crowded alley. Alyson was beginning to realize there were no alleys in Paris, only narrow streets or rues, as the French called them.

  Niko had his arm slung over her shoulders as they meandered, his attentions on the alert, eyes always scanning the crowds. “This is rue de la Hucette. One of the oldest streets in Paris. That is why it’s so narrow, too narrow for traffic. You can still see the chariot wheel grooves permanently worn into the cobblestones by the Romans centuries ago. Now it’s a tourist mecca.”

  There were tiny shops selling T-shirts, iced fruit drinks and sandwiches made with meat shaved off whatever animal they had roasting on a rotating spit. Music danced out onto the crowded street from various shops, their doors hanging open. The atmosphere reminded her of carnivals and fairs back home.

  Her protector removed his cell from his jacket pocket. “Pardon me while I call a police investigator. I’ve just identified a runaway I saw on a handbill this morning. Our unit is trying to improve relations with the local authorities. There’s been a bit of a turf war between our divisions. So we try to help without seeming intrusive. Office politics, you know.”

  Alyson stopped to spin a rack of scarves positioned at the opened doorway of a tiny souvenir shop while he made his call. She chose scarves for Gwen and a few friends. They were kitschy enough to be cute, covered with pictures of Parisian landmarks.

  An annoyed expression on his face, Niko held the cell away from his mouth, placed a warm hand over hers and shook his head. “No! Aly, they’re disgusting.”

  Just to prove to him his opinion didn’t matter, she plucked another one off the rack for herself and stepped inside the miniscule shop to pay.

  Niko was still relaying information to the investigator when she exited the store. A couple of teens throwing a Frisbee ran by, jostling her. When she stumbled, a band of steel wrapped around her waist, drawing her back against a very hard chest. She was relieved when she recognized the charcoal coat sleeve.

  “You okay?” Niko whispered in her ear, feathering her hair and making her insides flutter.

  “Yes, I’m fine. Thanks.” She stepped away, missing at once his warmth and security. When he wrapped his arm around her waist and drew her back to him, she was both surprised and oddly settled. Being close to him felt good. She rolled her eyes. Wouldn’t Gwen just love hearing that? Gwen who was probably telling everyone back home about the new man, ten years younger, in her sister’s life.

  This was not going well. Not going well at all. A handsome, warm man was holding her close and, Lord, but he smelled like a dream. She wanted to put her nose against his throat and inhale his expensive cologne until she removed the scent from his neck and lined her lungs with it. She wanted to crawl up his leg and purr like a cat in heat. Nope, this wasn’t going well at all. She was in the arms of a man she met less than ten hours ago. A man who had his hands on her legs and his tongue down her throat. Much as she hated to admit it, she still hummed with a tinge of desire. Just how did one spell hussy in French?
r />   Chapter Six

  Shakespeare and Company was a small bookstore on Left Bank’s rue Bucherie that paralleled the Seine. After reading a book about a writer who spent some time staying at the bookstore, Alyson dreamed of visiting the unique, famed establishment.

  “I knew the bookstore was close to the Notre Dame, but I had no clue it was just a stone’s throw away, as we say in America.” Alyson turned away from the view of the Seine and the huge cathedral on the opposite side of the river to turn and gaze once more at Shakespeare and Company.

  “Yes. ‘A stone’s throw.’ I remember that expression from my time in the States.” Niko ran a hand up her back, and her body responded as it usually did to his touch. She’d soon have to make a decision about him. Either tell him to stop touching her or make the nine-hour flight home as one super-aroused woman.

  She cast him a sidelong glance. How totally unexpected it was to find herself in such a situation. For the last ten or eleven years, she was barely touched by a man, namely her husband, and now she was in the company of one charming drop-dead-gorgeous hunk who touched her at every opportunity. Had to be the thong. No, more than likely, it was Niko’s innate nature. He was probably touchy-feely with every woman he was around. She was the one with the real problem—she was loving it.

  One of her stilettos got stuck in the crevice between two of the cobblestones lining the walkway and she momentarily lost her balance. Niko’s arm snaked around her.

  “Easy, Aly. I’ve got you,” he purred, making her insides do that female happy dance they’d been doing all afternoon and evening.

  Lord, but he’d make an awesome James Bond. Maybe that was the attraction; she was a James Bond fanatic, owning every movie and book about the British government agent. Maybe something in his cavalier attitude reminded her of 007. Maybe I’m just hunting for excuses.

  “Thanks, I’m fine.” Needing some distance from his touch and magnetic appeal, she stepped away. They were standing in the small courtyard in front of the forest green storefront with school bus yellow trim. Its windows displayed rare books, all written in English as were all the books in stock at this Paris institution.

  She thought the bookstore would be bigger. But as she was discovering, so many things in France were smaller than back home: hotel rooms, cars, portion sizes in restaurants and stores. The charm of small neighborhood shops stirred something in her soul—a feeling of wanting to belong, which was ludicrous. Maybe she needed to relocate to an area where she could walk everywhere like she did here. An area with little shops and eateries. She’d have to think about that idea and do some online research. Where would she look? What state?

  Niko turned to regard the two men behind them, and she turned, too. The men, engaged in conversation, stood against the wrought iron fence around an area of shrubbery and flowers at the opposite side of the small courtyard. When the two shook hands and took off in different directions, Niko’s attention reverted to her.

  “Do you think we’re still being followed?” Her eyes darted around for anyone who looked suspicious or had a tattoo like Niko described earlier. She thought her danger over, but if her protector was still eyeing everyone around her, maybe it wasn’t.

  “Just being cautious, which never hurts. Don’t forget, you promised me you’d relegate the worrying detail to me. I’m always aware of our surroundings.” He trailed the pad of his index finger across her upper lip. Her tongue came out to wipe away the effects of his touch. “Yeah, well, look where being aware got me.” She was interrogated for hours, pursued by terrorists and protected by a very fascinating man. Frankly, she was having the time of her life, and it surprised her to admit that. A slow smile blossomed. Boring Alyson was having an adventure.

  She pulled her camera from her bag and held it out to Niko. “Would you take a couple pictures of me standing in front of the store? Wait, you’ll need the flash on since it’s starting to get dark.” She pressed a button and handed the camera to him.

  “I’ll do my tumbleweed impersonation.” For over fifty years George Whitman, the American owner of this Parisian bookstore, offered free food and a bed to penniless artists and writers. In exchange, those persons, referred to by Whitman as “tumbleweeds,” had to read a book every day and work two hours daily at Shakespeare and Company.

  Stepping over to the doorway, she turned and struck a pose. “How does one look like a starving writer or artist after the meal we just had?” In a moment of whimsy, she sucked in her cheeks and crossed her eyes.

  Niko shook his head and laughed before taking her picture. “Now, move to the bench in front of the store and sit down. I’ll take a couple of you there.”

  “Okay.” She moved to sit, noticing the initials and hearts crudely carved into the bench. A young man, dressed totally in black, his long straw-colored hair sporting a streak of cherry-red in the front, sat at the opposite end of the wooden seat. He was drawing on a sketchpad, his feet propped on a beat-up saxophone case. Tipping his head once in acknowledgement, he spared her a smile before returning to his sketching. A worn backpack with a sleeping bag tied to its bottom rested at his elbow. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched his movements. Her heart rate kicked up a notch. Did he mean her harm? Was he part of the terrorist ring? What was in the music case? A gun? Goodness, she was seeing evil everywhere.

  After taking a couple pictures, Niko sat next to her. He nodded to the young man and spoke to him in German. The stranger responded in German also. How did Niko know?

  The kid stood and came over, extending his hand. “Derrek Schuyler.”

  Niko rose, shook Derrek’s hand and asked if he spoke English. Derrek nodded and her protector continued the conversation in her tongue, obviously so she’d feel included. A kindness she appreciated. He introduced her to Derrek, who seemed very personable.

  “Are you from America, Alyson?”

  “Yes, North Carolina.”

  “A university buddy and I went to America the summer after we graduated. We hiked the Appalachian Trial. We rode horses down into the Grand Canyon. So utterly cool. Laid in the sun like Greek Gods on a California Beach.” He rolled his eyes. “The things we saw!”

  “No doubt.” Alyson laughed at his animated way of talking. He seemed like a nice kid.

  “Would you mind taking a picture of the two of us?” Niko extended her camera to Derrek and then sat, laying his arm across her shoulders. “When he’s done, we’ll go inside.” He tugged at a strand of her hair. “Do you know you’re sitting on his bed?”

  Her head spun in his direction. “What?”

  Niko jerked his chin toward Derrek. “He’s a starving artist from Berlin, hoping to get a bed inside eventually. Until he does, he sleeps out here or under the bridges over the Seine, or ponts, as we call them in France.”

  “Really? Will he be safe, do you think? Tell me, how did you know he was German?”

  “His boots are the style very popular in Germany right now. Plus he has a German flag on his backpack. Also, the word in his tattoo is German.”

  “You’re very good at seeing details, aren’t you?” She wondered what he saw when he looked at her. Did he only see the surface things? No, she sensed he could see more, much more.

  “It’s my job.”

  “How many languages do you speak?”

  He shrugged in that way he had. “French, Italian, German, English, Arabic, Korean and a smattering of Chinese. I seem to have a penchant for learning languages.” His eyes sparkled and a sly smile curved. “Now, lean closer and kiss me.”

  “What? No! I’m serious. Look, no more kissing.” Just because she was away from home did not mean she could or would throw away her principles. Would she allow a man to kiss or fondle her on a first date? No. Then why should this situation be any different? Older woman looked to handsome young stranger for a little comfort; sounded rather sad and sordid. Frankly, the whole idea gave her the creeps.

  He pulled her into an embrace. “Why not? We’ll e-mail the picture to Gwen
tonight.” He tilted his head to the side much as Simone had. “Don’t you enjoy kissing? Come closer,” he whispered. His head dipped.

  Oh, God.

  If she didn’t stop this dark-haired, sexual freight train, she was headed for a brief affair. How pathetic was that? It was pathetic, right?

  She was going home in a few days. Once she boarded the plane, she’d never see or hear from Niko Reynard again. Was she capable of giving herself so easily and quickly to a stranger? No, she wasn’t. No matter what her traitorous, raging hormones screamed—and, God help here, they were screaming…and moaning…and panting. Still, she couldn’t have a casual affair.

  She slapped her hand against his chest and pushed him away. “Stop it. Stop it!”

  His forehead wrinkled and he wiped her tears away with the pads of his thumbs. Tears she didn’t know she was shedding. “Aly, why are you crying? What have I done?”

  “What have you done? Since we’ve met, you’ve been touching me nonstop. We’re strangers, you and I. Back off. That kiss this afternoon, when you thought we were being followed, was one thing. Although I doubt it was really called for. You could have simply looked over your shoulder.”

  One dark eyebrow rose and a smile played briefly at his lips. “Perhaps.”

  “Well, perhaps, you better show me some respect. No more kissing.”

  His dark eyes narrowed and a muscle bunched in his jaw. “I do respect you. Very much.”

  “Then treat me as if you do. Treat me like a woman you’ve just met. Stop trying to turn me into some nubile nymphomaniac and keep your hands to yourself.” She stood and turned to tell him one more thing. “Look, I understand your job is to protect me, but I insist you keep your hands off me while you do it. This foolishness has got to stop right now. Between the terrorists and you, my nerves are ready to snap. I can’t take anymore.”

  She hurried inside the bookstore, even as part of her heart remained outside with the man whose espresso eyes and warm fingers made her tingle. A man who stirred such yearnings in her body and soul, yearnings so strong and unfamiliar she simply didn’t know how to deal with them. These feelings were too much, too soon, and they frightened her.