Ashley nodded. He thinks that now. “I wanted to do only one thing in Paris—”
Landon was quiet, giving her the space to talk. He kept his arm around her but shifted some, drawing up his good leg.
“Paint.” She gazed up at the sky. “I wanted to live life on my own and paint.” With that, the story began to tumble from her heart. “Before I left, I made arrangements to work at an art gallery. . . .”
The gallery had been located in the heart of Montmartre, a part of Paris known for its artists. One of Ashley’s instructors in Indiana had worked out the details.
As her departure for Paris neared, Ashley packed more than her clothes. She brought a second suitcase full of her four best paintings.
The day after she arrived in Montmartre, she dressed in a simple black skirt and jacket, wrapped up some art pieces, and reported for duty. “When the gallery director saw my work, she patted my arm and told me to keep my projects off the premises.” Ashley rolled her eyes. “Like they were trash or something! Like they’d bring down the quality of the gallery if she so much as looked at them.”
Landon winced.
“Yeah.” A single sad laugh came from Ashley. “That’s how I felt.”
Ashley continued the story. She’d been told that most galleries allowed aspiring artists to work in one of their back rooms or studios. But clearly they wanted Ashley answering phones and greeting the English-speaking tourists rather than painting. When she wasn’t working, the manager wanted her off the property.
But that changed the first weekend, when the gallery opened an art show featuring one of the area’s most exciting new artists, Jean-Claude Pierre. The man was a modern-day Impressionist with a groundswell of interest in his work. People were already talking about him as though he were a legend.
Ashley had seen his work and his photograph. Both left her breathless. She was thrilled just for the chance to meet him.
Of course she was able to attend only because she was on the clock. Her job was to walk the floor looking for English-speaking customers and answering whatever questions she could. Someone else would handle the local clientele.
She didn’t mind. She would have walked on the ceiling for a chance to meet Jean-Claude Pierre.
The gallery had hired a classical ensemble and catered in champagne and foie gras for the event. The evening was about to get under way when a man in his late thirties breezed through the door. Ashley took one look at him and felt the force of his presence like a physical blow. In that moment, he seemed everything she’d ever wanted in a man—dark looks, mystery, and an unbelievable gift of placing on canvas that which grew within him.
There was only one problem. On his left hand he wore a wedding ring. And attached to his arm was a petite blonde, about his age. Even from across the room, Ashley could see that Jean-Claude was bored with the woman, but there was no question, she was his wife. Her diamond ring lit up the gallery.
Jean-Claude had been there only a few moments when he spotted Ashley. He was chatting with his companion, gesturing to the manager about the display, when suddenly his eyes met Ashley’s from across the room. For the briefest instant, he paused in midsentence and simply stared at her. Then the corners of his lips rose slightly, and he gave her a polite nod.
Ashley did the same and turned away. Her cheeks burned from the fact that he’d caught her staring, watching him with a look that could not possibly have hidden the attraction she felt for him.
The rest of the evening passed without the two of them speaking. Jean-Claude and his wife made their rounds, visiting with all the right people and graciously speaking with buyers who had written checks and were taking home pieces of his work that night. At ten o’clock the guests began to leave, and from the corner of her eye Ashley watched Jean-Claude kiss his wife on the cheek. Then he motioned to a driver outside and bid his wife good night.
Ten minutes later, Ashley was adding the evening’s receipts when he came up beside her. “You are new, yes?”
She spun around and found herself trapped in his gaze. Stop, Ashley. Walk away. He’s married. Everything her parents had taught her screamed at her to be polite but distant. Nothing good could come from falling for a married man. Instead, she locked eyes with him and smiled. “Yes. From the States.”
“I knew it.” His voice was soft, sensual, with a touch of humor. “I like American girls,” he said. “So bold, yet so . . . unspoiled. I hope you are happy here.” He took her hand with a grace and elegance Ashley had only dreamed of and lifted it to his lips. The tips of his fingers played lightly on her palm as he left a velvet kiss near her wrist.
The gallery manager was in the back office, and they were alone on the floor. Ashley didn’t know what to say. Jean-Claude’s English wasn’t perfect, and neither was her French. But there was no mistaking his intentions when he brought his face near hers, his voice a whisper. “You must come with me, chérie. I want to show you my city.”
* * *
Ashley leaned back, staring at the blanket of stars that had spread across the sky. “If only I’d told him no.”
“You went out with him?” Landon’s tone was curious, nothing more.
“Yes.” She glanced at Landon and saw he was listening intently, but with open eyes. If the story was making him jealous or angry, he wasn’t showing it.
Give him time, Ashley thought. This is only the beginning.
She drew a calming breath and narrowed her eyes as the memories returned once more. “I didn’t get home until two in the morning. . . .”
Jean-Claude had taken her to a dozen famous spots that night, places where they shared coffee and conversation and finally cognac. Ashley and her art friends drank on occasion back in Bloomington. But the effect had been nothing like French cognac warming her insides in the presence of a man as exciting as Jean-Claude Pierre.
When he took her back to her small rented flat, he walked her to the door and kissed her—first slowly, then with more passion, until she was crazy with desire. She was about to invite him inside when he kissed her ear and whispered, “Tomorrow, chérie?”
Ashley was helpless to say anything but what he wanted to hear. “Yes . . . tomorrow.”
And so began a routine. After spending the days apart, they would meet at the gallery and share the evening. On their fifth night, Ashley studied Jean-Claude over a glass of wine. “You’re married.”
It wasn’t a question or an accusation, merely an observation. A fact Ashley wanted him to know she was aware of.
“Yes.” He raised one shoulder. “My Gabrielle, she does not like the nightlife so much.”
Ashley wanted to ask Jean-Claude if his wife liked his spending time with another woman—a woman half her age. When the words wouldn’t come, Jean-Claude reached across the table and lifted her chin. “France is different from the States.”
“Different?”
“Men”—he painted invisible strokes in the air, searching for the right words—“men are allowed to . . . how do you say it? . . . express themselves.” He took her hands in his. “Passion is not a bad thing.” He smiled, and Ashley was struck by the toll it took on her heart. “How else could I paint if I could not express myself? My wife, she understands this. She wants me to do good work.”
Ashley felt dazed the rest of that evening, her body physically assaulted by his nearness, by the spell he’d cast on her. What was she doing? She asked herself the question again and again as the hours wore on. But when he walked her up the stairs that night, she had no doubt what would happen.
Or that she wanted it to.
She opened the door and let him in. And there, on her foldout futon, in the arms of a married artist twice her age, Ashley put to death a lifetime of conviction.
Even as a rebellious teenager, she had somehow managed to hold on to what her parents had taught her about waiting until marriage. But this was Paris, and she was smitten. She didn’t want to wait.
That night, Jean-Claude touched her in a way that
completely silenced her conscience and left her hungry for more.
When they said good-bye, the sun was coming up.
* * *
Ashley paused. She hadn’t voiced all the details to Landon. They would only hurt him, hurt them both. She rested her forehead on her knees. “This is harder than I thought.”
“You were young, Ashley. All alone in a foreign country.” Landon eased his grip on her shoulders and ran a finger down the side of her face.
“Wait.” Ashley shook her head. “There’s more.”
She’d gone this far with the story, she might as well finish. Then it would all be laid out in the open. Whatever happened after this, at least they would have no more secrets between them.
Ashley lifted her head and let it fall against Landon’s shoulder. No matter what he thought of her when she was finished, she needed his support. Needed to know he wouldn’t jump up and run off, leaving her in the mucky mire of her own memories. She closed her eyes briefly and continued.
After her first night with Jean-Claude Pierre, Ashley had known there would be others. It wasn’t something they talked about. It was something that simply was. She had found a connection so physically addicting that there was no turning back. For nearly a month they were together every night.
Then one evening he showed up at her flat with a friend.
“Angelo is an artist also,” Jean-Claude explained. “He wants you to sit for him.”
Even now, Ashley remembered the butterflies that swarmed in her belly as the men stood there, staring at her.
“Now?” Ashley stepped back, puzzled.
Jean-Claude and his friend laughed. “No, chérie, not now. Tomorrow.”
“Why . . . why’s he here now?”
“He wants to see you.”
“See me?” Something in Jean-Claude’s smile turned Ashley’s stomach.
“Yes, chérie. All of you.”
Ashley took another step back. “No!” She searched Jean-Claude’s face, desperate for any sign of humor. There was none. And she felt every inch the provincial, unsophisticated American she was desperate not to be.
Disappointed, Jean-Claude and the man left. After that, the visits from Jean-Claude came less often.
Then one night he showed up at her gallery around closing time. He barely spoke to her, merely assumed she would go with him. And she did. They walked the streets of Paris for an hour or so. And afterward he took her someplace he’d never taken her before—to his private art studio.
It was a beautiful place, with high ceilings and skylights from one end to the other. Jean-Claude’s paintings hung on the walls and leaned in the corners. Ashley could hardly believe he’d brought her there.
“I thought he might ask me to paint with him, maybe share some technique with me.” Ashley shrugged, and her eyes met Landon’s. “I should’ve known better.”
Instead, Jean-Claude pointed to an area near the window where an easel stood a few feet from a leather sofa. “Take off your clothes.”
Ashley blinked. Was he joking? “What?”
“Take off your clothes, and lie on my sofa.” Jean-Claude touched her chin, but his eyes were far from gentle. “I want to paint you.”
Ashley didn’t move. “I’m an artist.” She managed a smile. “Not a model, Jean-Claude.”
Tears pooled in Ashley’s eyes at the memory of what happened next. She shifted her gaze, unable to look at Landon for this next part. “And then he . . . he laughed at me. He . . . he told me he’d seen my work and it was . . . worthless. Worthless . . . American . . . trash.”
Beside her, Landon moaned. “Oh, Ashley, he’s wrong. You didn’t believe him, did you?”
She lifted her eyes to his once more, her voice tinged with a rejection that had never quite died. “What was I supposed to think? He was the expert.” She sniffed, and her voice fell quiet again. “He told me the only thing artistic about me was . . . my body.” Her voice dropped a notch. “He told me that’s why I needed to . . . to sit for him. Because my flesh was the most beautiful form of art.”
Anger flashed in Landon’s eyes. “He never saw your heart . . . or the way you involve it in your work.” Landon reached behind him and grabbed a corner of the blanket. He used it to wipe the tears from Ashley’s cheeks.
“Thanks.” Shame all but suffocated her. She sniffed again, wrapped her arms around her knees, and somehow found the strength to go on. “I wanted to run, leave him there with his easel. But I was like a helpless schoolgirl.”
She met Landon’s eyes. “I even asked him if he loved me.” A sad chuckle mingled with her sobs. “Isn’t that crazy?”
Landon said nothing, just made circles along the small of her back. His silent support gave her the strength to go on.
“He laughed at me and told me no, of course he didn’t love me. He said I was a diversion, a way for him to ‘explore his passions.’ So there I was. Humiliated as an artist, as a woman. And I stayed. I could’ve walked away and never looked back, but I didn’t.”
Again Landon was quiet, encouraging her with his presence.
She drew a shaky breath. “He had me . . . take off my clothes and pose on that sofa. He took some photos—said they were prep work. He got out a new canvas and sketched for a while. Then he came over to me and . . .”
Ashley couldn’t finish. Years of pent-up anguish broke free and shook her until her teeth rattled. “I felt . . . so dirty, Landon. He didn’t care about me at all. But I still couldn’t walk away.”
The sobs were slowing now. She sniffed and shook her head.
“He didn’t even take me home that night. I had to take the Metro. And all I could think of, all the way back, was my family . . . and you . . . and God.” She struggled to catch her breath. “How . . . I’d let you all down. And how”—her voice took on a bitter tinge—“I’d still go back to his studio if he asked me.”
“Ashley.” Landon circled his arms around her and held her close, stroking her back.
Minutes passed while she tried to get hold of her emotions. She didn’t deserve Landon’s understanding, but he was giving it anyway. Why wasn’t he running? How could he sit here with her now that he knew the truth?
When her sobs eased some, she finished the story. “And I did go back. Whenever Jean-Claude asked, I was there—no matter what he wanted. And then . . .” Her voice settled into a monotone. “. . . I found out I was pregnant.”
The next time Jean-Claude came into the art gallery, Ashley told him they needed to talk. Jean-Claude seemed irritated. He had plans for the night, he said. But he led her to a private studio in the back of the gallery.
“What is it you wish to say?” Gone was the sweet-talking romantic.
Ashley fidgeted with her fingers. Where was the attraction she’d felt for him before? Now she felt cheap, dirty, used. “I’m . . .” She couldn’t meet his impatient gaze.
“Don’t act as a child.” Jean-Claude glanced at his watch. “I am here now. Say it.”
Panic choked out her ability to think. Without waiting another moment, she drew a quick breath and closed her eyes. “I took a test. I’m . . . pregnant.”
The minute Ashley opened her eyes, she knew it was over. The look on Jean-Claude’s face told her that would be the last conversation she’d ever have with him.
She still remembered his reaction. The news worked its way across his features in a matter of seconds. Then Jean-Claude backed up a step and shook his finger at her. “This is your trouble, chérie. Not mine.” A bitter chuckle eased from his throat. “When you play, you must use caution.”
He turned to leave, and Ashley shouted, “Wait!” She lurched toward him, grabbing his sleeve. “I’ll sit for you again. I’ll do anything, Jean-Claude. Just stay with me. Help me. . . .”
With a jerk of his arm he pulled away. “Get back. Your child is not mine.” He lifted his chin and cast her a haughty look, a look that made her feel like last week’s leftovers. “I am a married man.” Before he left, he tossed
her one last barb. “There is a clinic down the street. Maybe they will know the answer.”
Two nights later, Ashley was leaving the art gallery when she spotted Jean-Claude arm in arm with a slender young man. Stunned, Ashley watched them cross the street and head into a café—the same place he’d taken her back when their relationship first began.
That’s when it hit Ashley.
She hadn’t had a relationship with Jean-Claude. She hadn’t even had an affair. He was a married man with enough charm to get whatever woman—or man—he wanted. Girls like Ashley were merely entertainment for Jean-Claude, a form of entertainment even his wife found acceptable.
Ashley had been devastated by the realization. She went back to her small flat and vomited throughout the night. In the morning she went to the clinic Jean-Claude had mentioned.
A kind woman at the front desk assured her that abortions were confidential and quick. A fifteen-minute wait at the most.
Good, Ashley had thought. In an hour I’ll be rid of everything that could ever remind me of Jean-Claude Pierre.
* * *
Ashley hung her head again and began to shake.
“Hey, it’s all right.” Landon tightened his embrace, sheltering her the way he might if she were a little girl. “Everything’s okay.”
She still shook, but the warmth of his body permeated her soul. What was this feeling, this longing for a man she’d worked so hard to avoid? And how could she fall for him now, when the truth was bound to change his feelings for her?
“Obviously, you didn’t go through with it.” Landon’s voice was gentle against her cheek.
“No.” She dabbed at an errant tear. “The whole time I was waiting, I thought about my parents and everything they’d taught me. If I went ahead with the abortion, there’d be no turning back. And . . . and . . .”
Her voice broke, and she shuddered. How close she’d come to losing Cole. “I kept thinking, even though I wouldn’t be a very good mother . . . it wasn’t the baby’s fault.”
Landon stroked her back again. Once more, his touch gave her the strength to go on.
“When they called my name, I turned around and ran. As fast and hard and far away as I could get.” A few quiet sobs shook her shoulders again. “I came home a few months later and . . . and I couldn’t tell anyone what happened. It was too awful.”
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