And yet, I'd seen her for a reason. No coincidences in this universe. None, whatsoever.
I turned and peeked around the curtain. She was no longer in the room. Out to the main living area to seduce her lover and let him undress her? Why the undressing? She could have sauntered out naked. Planted herself on his lap and spilled her long red hair over his face as he kissed her…
But I wanted him to kiss me. To feel his mouth on mine, tendering slow, passionate kisses. And then devouring harder, deeper. Driving inside me, taking from me and giving, too. It had been a while since I'd been properly kissed. A woman couldn't do that for herself.
I realized that I cupped my breasts, and flung my hands to the floor in disgust. No, not disgust, disappointment. He had a lover. And I had been a fool not to expect as much. The man was handsome times ten. He was a Frenchman, which—in my fantasies—implied he would have lovers. Many of them. A woman here, a woman there. A woman across the street in the window.
A woman wishing she could erase what she had just seen.
Standing, I eyed the books scattered at the base of the bed. I'd had enough with Henri VIII tonight. There was another man who couldn't keep it in his pants. The Tudor king had taken a multitude of women, and had found despicable ways to dispose of them when he’d grown bored of their affairs. Was Monsieur Sexy an asshole after all?
I sighed and shook my head. Not quite willing to label him so harshly, but cut to the core at this stunning revelation.
Again, movement caught my eye. I didn't want to see that obnoxious red hair or those bouncing breasts.
I backed toward the window and thought I'd be able to pull the curtain closed without turning around.
"Just do it. You know you want to."
Compelled to look, my heart fluttered this time. He wandered into the bedroom, his eyes tracking the floor. He saw me and his smile grew to that easy natural curve I'd come to expect from him. He waved. Putting up one finger—wait a second—he then searched the bed, under the pillow and turned aside the comforter. His eyes wandered the floor, and then he dove, snagging something from under the bed.
He straightened, dangling a pair of pink panties. Waggling them toward me, he shrugged, then left the room.
I tugged the curtains closed.
"Asshole."
***
Work flew by like a wounded vulture bobbling over a barren landscape. It was only two when I'd looked at the clock on my computer’s control bar—for about the fourteenth time. After four hours of my eyes tracking page after page, I couldn't get in to online research anymore. It was a beautiful fall day. The sun was high. I'd spent the morning listing the various forms of marble used for sculptures in the fifteenth century.
Stone was boring. I needed…I needed…a respite.
Sitting upright, an idea for a field trip blinked above my head. I'd head to the Louvre for closeup inspection of the marble works. That would prove much easier on the eyeballs than screen strain. And afterward, a leisurely walk in the Tuileries would serve me the sunshine I craved. Strolling down the alleys of carved trees, the rocks crunching beneath our feet…
I sighed and caught my chin in palm. I'd made the mental slip of including another, nameless someone in my fantasy. Yet if I knew his name right now, I'd probably scribble it on a piece of paper, burn it, and offer the ashes to some demigod in exchange for singeing off his pubic hairs the next time his redhead went down on him.
Chuckling at my devious thoughts, I closed the laptop and reached for my purse. A lightweight purple scarf for around my neck—de rigueur when in Paris—and a small notebook to jot notes while at the museum. Skipping down to the lobby, I waved to the doorman and headed out toward the Seine. I avoided looking in windows as my rapid stroll moved me south. Was it because I didn't want to see the truth?
Or was I worrying too much? Creating scenarios that couldn't possibly be true. I'd worked with fiction writers so much my mind was beginning to spin and concoct fantasies just as theirs did. Always thinking. Thinking far too much.
He'd flashed the panties at me as if a pink banner he'd wanted me to salute. What man would do that unless he meant to send a message?
I beelined it toward the right bank and the Louvre. "Just a couple hours," I promised my reluctant work self. "And then escape."
***
Wandering from the Richelieu wing, where the majority of the marble statues were displayed, I made way back toward the Denon wing, planning one quick stop before my escape into the park. Once there, I'd do the tourist thing and buy a Nutella and banana crepe from a food stand, and not care that it had more calories than an entire week's allotment.
And I wouldn't give him another thought.
The museum was packed to the gills with tourists. All scattering about like ants seeking crumbs, none clear on their direction. I tuned out the bustle and managed to walk relatively unscathed through the thickly populated hallways.
It was difficult not thinking about someone who existed in a section of my brain designed to always bring him to the fore. Like a filing cabinet that, when opened, had one pesky file always popping up. No matter how many times I tried to stuff it back down, or fold back the corner, it kept popping up and would sometimes jam the drawer so it wouldn't close completely.
My brain was not completely closed. He'd jammed a corner into the drawer. I kept seeing him standing before the window, his palms pressed flat, his body with the impossible abs and ridged muscles. Hand on cock, he drew my admiration. Our eyes holding one another's. His were sky-gray. Had he noticed that mine were blue?
I wondered if I had jammed his drawer? Did he think about me while doing mundane things? Jabbing a fencing foil into defensive poses? Concentrating on business?
Or was he fucking the redhead right now?
He was usually home. Which meant that he must go to her place for an afternoon liaison when I was working and not paying attention to the comings and goings across the street. And why the hell had she been fencing with him? She didn't look the type to be interested in the sport. Not that I knew what type that was, just…she wasn't it. She was too top-heavy. How did she keep the proper balance required for perfect footwork and form?
I had no idea what fencing form was, or if big boobs helped or hindered the sport. Certainly though, she must require a special vest with a larger bust.
Big Red fenced because it was how she'd snagged him. I was sure of it. Now that she'd caught him, she'd slowly wean him off the fencing by offering more sex. And he, being a lusty Frenchman whose cock never seemed to be lax, would take anything she offered.
I caught my face in my palms and growled. "Stop doing this to yourself!"
I turned down a crowded hallway and forced myself to walk into the room that displayed the most popular painting here at the Louvre. The Mona Lisa. The crowd before the small portrait had to be thirty people deep, so I stepped to the left and stood before The Wedding Feast at Cana, my back to the curious bustle of gawkers.
I'd never had a tendency for choosing the wrong men. The bad men. My dating history had been filled with normal, polite, reasonable men. Yes, even Awkward Marriage Proposal Guy had been nice (when he’d not been eating out other women).
Ugg. Normal, polite, and reasonable. Didn't that sound sexy?
My eyes strayed around the massive wedding feast that had been painted in the sixteenth century by Paolo Veronese. The largest painting in the Louvre, I could lose time looking over the crowds of people on canvas. I bet the painter had been polite and reasonable.
Argh!
Who was I? Why couldn’t I be more like Melanie, jet-setting the world with a man in every port? Seducing with a red-lipsticked pout. I wasn't ugly. I could do pretty when I broke out the blush and mascara. I could have any man I set my sight on. Not that I needed a man. Men were nice accessories. But I simply needed to know that I had the power to captivate.
I needed to know that I could flip my hair over my shoulder, like the redhead had, and win my prize.
I'd been festering over this too long. I hadn't gone back to the window last night. And I had no intention of opening the curtains tonight. It was over. I couldn't do this with a man who—
With a man who what? A man with whom I hadn't spoken a single word? A man whose name I didn't even know? A man who had never agreed to window fuck me exclusively. A man, whom I had so much to learn about.
And I wanted to keep learning. I just…needed a breather. Yeah, that was it. A day or two to get the pink panties out of my mental file folder. I didn't care that his file kept jamming my drawer. I just wanted it to be because of his papers, and none of them pink.
It was clearly time for Nutella and bananas.
I turned, preparing to leave the room, when an aisle opened amongst the mass of people and I got a great view of the Mona Lisa. She smiled that knowing smirk at me. Winked even. She'd have window sex with a man first chance she got. She'd probably had sex with Leonardo da Vinci—
"Leonardo da Vinci," I breathed.
My heartbeats started to bust a move. I began to pant. I couldn't believe it. Could it be?
The symbol from Richard’s map. I'd seen it somewhere in my research. I'd compiled a few pages on Leonardo da Vinci last year for an author who had been writing a travel exposé on Milan, Italy. It had been a fascinating mental tour into fifteenth century Italy and the painter's life. Except he hadn't been simply a painter, but also a sculptor, designer, engineer, and…he'd made lots of sketches. Including a folio of knotwork designs.
I rushed out of the room and headed for the exit doors. I didn't care about the crepe anymore, or the sunshine. I had to find that book.
Chapter Ten
The next morning I raced into the map shop. "Richard?"
"Tea's on," he called from the back room. He startled when I rushed into the tiny room, elation panting my breaths. Teacup in hand, his bright eyes waited my revelation.
"How did you know?" I asked. "And do you really believe the map was drawn by Leonardo da Vinci?"
A grin curled into his eyes. And I noticed for the first time the sweater he wore daily matched his pale blue irises. I wanted to hug him, but that would be pressing it. He was more of a handshake kind of guy.
"I was at the Louvre yesterday afternoon," I said, as I set my purse in the old locker designated for employee items. "And I think Mona Lisa told me the answer to your riddle."
"La Joconde can be sneaky like that. An epiphany, eh?"
"I did some research on Leonardo for an author last year. I recalled seeing the symbol, so I dug out my notes. Sure enough, it matched. Leonardo was into knotwork because of the pun on his surname. Vinco translates as osiers. Osiers is roundabout related to wicker, and the knotwork involved with that. He had a period in the early 1500s where he sketched some folios featuring interlaced knotwork. But really? If this map is an original—do you know how valuable it would be?"
"Priceless." Richard leaned over the map. "I've put a call in to a private authenticator out of London. He verifies the historical significance and origins of lost artworks. He said without clear provenance that he’d need the map for at least a year. I told him I couldn't part with it for so long."
"Richard. But if it's real? How will you ever know? Why does he need it for so long?"
He shrugged. "Who knows? To take little pieces of it and test the age and ink and all that? They use radiocarbon dating on the paper. He also mentioned he’d have to send it to Switzerland for that. I know it's real.” He tapped his chest proudly. “Isn't that all that matters?"
"Well." Sure, if he wanted to hang the thing on his wall and be done with it. But the map could be worth millions. Or we could both be wrong, and it could be a copy done by one of Leonardo's students, or even a clever forgery.
"What would you do?" he posited.
"I'd have it tested."
"And then sell it if it was genuine?"
"Perhaps. Maybe not. I don't know. The maps you sell in the store are gorgeous, and they have so many tales to tell. Since taking the job here, I've begun collecting maps, but only those of Paris."
"Milan wouldn't be of interest to you."
"No, but a Leonardo da Vinci…" I sighed and crossed my arms, joining Richard's side as we stared at the possible masterpiece. "He did draw maps. There's a picture of one he made of southern Tuscany in the book I have at home. How could this have gotten lost and then suddenly resurfaced? Where did you get it, Richard?"
"From an old Scottish family. They'd inherited their great-grandfather's castle in Peterhead, and set to cleaning it to the bare walls so they could fix it up and sell it. They found the rolled map in a storage room filled with dusty old prints and newspapers. They hadn't any idea what they owned."
"But you did?"
He shrugged. "I wasn't sure. I thought I recognized the symbol, but I’m no expert on Leonardo da Vinci. I've been doing my own research though. Paid two thousand euros for this."
"Wow. That's a steal. If it's real."
"Indeed."
Out front someone knocked on the window. I checked my wristwatch. Five minutes after opening time. "I'll get that. And I'll spend the day considering ways to convince you to have it authenticated," I called as I walked into the front of the shop.
"You can certainly try!"
***
I'd walked home in the light rain, forgoing the Métro because the air smelled electric and fresh. I loved skipping through the rain, and by the time I got home, I had to wrap my hair in a towel to leech out the wet. I slipped on my robe, sans wet underthings.
The stereo had been playing Def Leppard since supper. I’d enjoyed a savory leek and carrot soup that I'd made at the end of winter and had frozen in a few ziplock bags to serve later. I could do the Martha Stewart thing when I wanted to. But my domestic bone was rarely eager for exercise so I employed it with caution.
Sipping a deep red wine, I strolled through the kitchen, putting away the silverware that had air-dried in the sink, and the single bowl and glass I'd used for supper.
Def Leppard's lead crooner asked me over and over, 'Have you ever needed someone so bad?'
I nodded. "Why yes. How did you know?"
It had been two days since I’d opened the bedroom curtains. Surely Monsieur Sexy had gotten over my absence and was now firmly ensconced in a happy, touch-filled relationship with the buxom redhead. Including sex.
Pressing my forehead to the fridge, I thudded it gently against the stainless steel. I know. I'd tried to stop angsting over this, and had been doing well until I glanced toward the living room window. Seriously, could I avoid windows for the rest of my life?
I was being silly. And really? I could handle this. I am a grown woman. I'd had a fun fling. I would move on. First item on tomorrow morning’s list? Shop for window blinds. Maybe something in black?
I didn't necessarily want to move on, though. Which is why I strode into the bedroom and over to the window. It was around nine in the evening and I could see the glow of his bedroom light through the sheers. I just…had to look at him one last time. To stare into his eyes and…know.
I pulled aside the curtain and stood there, drawing in a breath through my nose. Setting the wine glass on the night stand, I pressed my palms to the window and closed my eyes, concentrating on the coolness of glass marrying to skin. Even though it had hit the eighties today—unusual for Paris in autumn—the glass still felt cool. How quickly the shadows erased the muggy heat.
I wished they could erase what I had seen across the street two days earlier.
Opening my eyes, I observed. He sat on the bed, legs extended and back against a folded pillow, reading another computer textbook. The laptop sat open near his thigh. Those black, thick-rimmed glasses were so sexy. The man must do some kind of computer geek work. The appeal of a smart man ranked alongside chocolate and Louboutins.
I sighed.
When he finally noticed me, he jumped off the bed. Putting up both palms in a 'wait' gesture, he dashed to t
he nightstand for the notebook.
I sucked in another inhale, preparing myself. This was it. The big kiss-off.
Glasses tossed aside, he slammed the notebook to the glass. I didn't fuck her.
Or maybe it wasn't a kiss-off. He waited for me to meet his gaze, and so, I did. He shook his head fervently.
He flipped the page. Words had already been written. She's a student. I teach fencing part-time.
My shoulders relaxed. Heat coiled in my belly. For a moment I'd suspected he was a teacher. And then I'd started to think. Too much. Why had I let that first intuition slip away and become less important than imagining the worst, like him fucking her?
Crazy flirt, was the next message. He tapped his chest and shook his head. Not interested in her.
I chewed the corner of my lip. I'd moped for two days, only to find out that I'd let my imagination carry me away again. So foolish.
He flipped another page. Apparently he'd written this in preparation for when he might next see me. Had he waited both nights for me to show at the window?
I am an idiot.
I'm interested in you, I mouthed the next message.
I nodded and pointed from me to him to indicate agreement.
He flipped another page. We have something…
Page flip. Fun.
Flip. Intriguing.
A little odd.
Crazysexy.
He flipped another page. Amazing.
I caught my palms against the glass again. My eyes strained to fight tears. Heartbeats thundered. I didn't know what to say. It didn't matter what I said; he wouldn't hear it. A teardrop spilled down my cheek. I tasted salt at the corner of my mouth.
He turned the page, and this time picked up the sharpie and wrote. I swallowed, and swiped away another tear while his attention was on the paper.
I'm sorry.
I shook my head side to side. "No, I'm sorry."
The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin Page 9
