Kitabı oku: «Naughty Paris»

Jina Bacarr
NAUGHTY PARIS

www.Spice-Books.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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To my husband, Len LaBrae, an artist in his own right.

Acknowledgments

My love affair with Paris began years ago when I visited the City of Light as a struggling art student and fell in love with everything Parisian, including the world of the Impressionists. I visited the Louvre, the art studios, the cafés where the Impressionists had hung out and an idea began to form in my mind: what if I could travel back in time and become part of their world? Now that idea has become a novel, but not without the hard work and perseverance of three special and dedicated women.

I wish to thank my editor, Susan Pezzack, whose artistic sensibilities helped me fine-tune my manuscript; Leslie Wainger, the editor who opened the door for me, and my friend and agent, Roberta Brown, who loved this story from the first time she read it and never gave up on me. Merci.

I loved the film Moulin Rouge about Paris and La Belle Époque and wondered what it would be like to be slim and gorgeous like Nicole Kidman, fall in love with a handsome hunk, and sing on key when I’m having an orgasm. I thought about it at lunch when I dieted on herb quiche with low-fat cheese and gulped down latte without whipped cream. I thought about it when I showed commercial properties to boring old men with lust in their eyes and soft putty in their pants. I thought about it when I got jilted at the altar and went to Paris for my honeymoon sans the groom.

Then I didn’t have to think about it anymore because it happened. To me. Autumn Maguire.

It all started with:

Désir (Desire)

I am not a woman—I am a world.

My garments only have to fall

and on my body you will find

a whole series of secrets.

—Gustave Flaubert

(1821-1880)

CHAPTER ONE

Paris Today—An Art Studio in the Marais District

The Model

“You want me to take off my T-shirt?”

“Yes, mademoiselle.”

“And my yoga pants?

He nods. “Yes, mademoiselle.”

“Hold on a Paris minute,” I protest, glancing over at the old artist with a Gauloise cigarette hanging out of his mouth like a limp penis. He takes a drag without taking his eyes off my wet T-shirt sticking to me like a Post-it. “I ducked in here to get out of the rain, not sign up for strip aerobics.”

Husky voice, low in the back of my throat. Jeez, is that me? Got to be nerves.

I had the same catch in my throat when I swallowed the mint in my mouth after David, my ex-fiancé, insisted I give lousy BJs and he couldn’t go through with our wedding because he had issues with us.

The jerk.

As if flunking a postgraduate course in blow jobs is a top-ten reason to send me into therapy and sic my mother on me for the prepaid, nonrefundable honeymoon to Paris. But here I am, wandering around the Right Bank in the rain like Jean Valjean in squishy Nikes. Jilted and miserable.

And wondering how I let silver-tongued David—a guy who knows how to use that tongue to trigger my starter button—talk me into charging everything on my credit card. I’ve worked my ass off climbing the corporate ladder since college, putting my dream of opening my own art gallery on hold. Now I’m not only groomless but I had to dip into my 401-k account to pay for twelve bridesmaids’ dresses with matching dyed Jimmy-what’s-his-name stilettos, not to mention more than two hundred pounds of prime rib. Rare.

After I cut up my maxed-out credit card, I guzzled down the last bottle of champagne then tossed my white satin Vera Wang knock-off into the closest trashcan. The next morning I took off for the birthplace of Godiva chocolates to sweeten the bad taste in my mouth. And I don’t mean spending time on my knees sucking on a guy wearing a raspberry-flava condom. I mean something dramatic and wonderful, heart-stopping and sizzling with pent-up energy. I want to feel alive, desired.

Who am I kidding? I want to be a drop-dead-gorgeous sex goddess.

Youth and a fab bod aren’t everything, you know.

Ha! David thinks so. That’s why I’m not all snuggly and warm with him between the sheets in my Paris hotel instead of sneaking through the city like a rat in an underground sewer.

You’re not young anymore, kiddo, and you are, oh, so not thin. That’s why you lost David to that Aphrodite, an insipid skinny-as-a-toothpick, not-old-enough-to-drink-yet blonde. Your assistant, yet. How could you be so dumb?

Dumb? I was stupid, insane, a complete idiot for letting that bitch take David away from me. I got punked.

Zap! As if agreeing with me, lightning rips through the long multipaned window, hitting me in the eye like a redlight camera, illuminating the faint light in the studio and diluting the smoky atmos.

I blink, then blink again. A B horror film mentality creeps me out, making me shiver. It can’t get any worse. Storm clouds hide the afternoon sun. A rush of rain falls outside, banging against the windowpanes shimmering with a wet sheen. Thunder cracks like a boombox bursting with outta control volume. The old building shakes. I cringe. Do I really want to go back outside into that stormy mess? That’s why I don’t protest when the old artist hustles me toward the platform in the back of the art studio.

“Hurry, mademoiselle, we’re losing the light.”

A pungent whiff of burnt tobacco shoots up my nose. Who is this putz? For sure, he’s no panting Adonis who can seduce a woman to take off her clothes with a smile. He’s short, balding, sporting a little paunch and he smokes too much.

“Watch those hands, monsieur. I know karate.” I’m bluffing, but it works with the geek corporate types I deal with every day who think a physical workout is something you do by yourself with one hand.

By the way, did you notice the old artist was impressed when I said kah-rah-tay with the accent on the tay? I may give lousy blow jobs, but I’m not Gallic challenged. I got an A in French in college. I can rattle off enough swear words to impress the surliest taxi driver, from calling him a salaud, bastard, to a quel casse-couilles, pain in the ass.

“You made a mistake, monsieur,” I continue, now that I’ve got his attention. “I wouldn’t look as soggy as over-cooked lasagna if I owned an umbrella, which I don’t. Nobody from the O.C. does. It ruins our image, not to mention Nielsen ratings.”

He makes a face. Silly me. As if he understands my pop-culture rhetoric to explain why he doesn’t want to see me naked, why I slap on phony tanning stuff rather than sport a citrus-yellow bikini on a SoCal beach. I don’t tell him cellulite and I are as tight as sorority sisters. Not to mention my stomach is upset and I feel like I’m going to pass gas from the greasy pommes frites I gulped down at the flea market.

“Then you’re not a model, mademoiselle?” The old artist gestures with his two hands like he’s feeling up melons in the supermarché.

I shake my head emphatically. “No.”

“Pity.” He coughs, tosses his cigarette into an empty saucer, then does a mental strip search of my bod from the top of my red Angels baseball cap to my DKNY white cotton T-shirt, mauve yoga pants with a white stripe running up the side, and comfy walking shoes. “I’d still like to draw you.”

I tilt my head to one side, thinking. What’s holding me back? Posing in my bra and panties isn’t any different from sporting a bikini at a pool party, right? So why not go for the win?

I nod. “Okay. It’ll be a fun souvenir to take home.”

He smiles, then drops the bombshell. Right into my lap.

“Bon. Good. You must pose in the nude.”

“Are you sure Madonna started like this?” I ask, holding on to my panties, pulling on the elastic waistband until it snaps against my bare skin. Ouch. I’ve already taken off my wet clothes and left them hanging on the tall black screen standing in the corner, along with my waist pack with my money and passport.

“Mademoiselle?”

“You know, the pop star? ‘Like a Virgin’?” I sway my hips like the superstar diva. Somehow it doesn’t have the same effect. The old artist shrugs.

“I don’t care if you’re a virgin—”

I’m not, but I smile anyway.

“—I wish to sketch you, mademoiselle, not make love to you.”

That did it. Can my ego get any flatter? Ever seen a used condom?

Well, here goes.

I wiggle my peppermint pink panties down over my thighs and let them drop onto the small platform. There. I’ve done it. I’m nude. No turning back, even if I haven’t shaved below my bikini line.

Vive la nue me.

I glance over at the old artist wiping down his posterboard with a damp cloth. The look on my face says, What do I do next?

He coughs, wipes beads of perspiration off his forehead, then points to my feet. I look down. I’m up to my ankles in pink nylon. I shift my weight from one foot to the other. The wooden platform creaks. Loudly. Urging me to hurry. Okay, okay. I scoot my panties off the platform with my bare toes. Wearing nothing but my sweat, I grin.

The old artist nods, picks up a Conté carré dessin, drawing charcoal, and waits for me to get into position. I hold my hand over my crotch. What a silly thing to do. I must relax. Relax. Keep up my courage. A chill slithers up the back of my neck, making my nipples harden and point straight out. I know now how guys feel when they get a hard-on in the middle of a heated business meeting. They can hide it behind this week’s market stats report. Me? I’m as naked as a low-carb burger going solo.

I know you’re sitting there all comfy in your sweats, shaking your head, pinching your thighs, wondering how a thirty-something woman could even think about taking her clothes off in front of anybody but her gyno. Brace yourself. It ain’t pretty. Here’s the skinny, which I’m not, so it’s even more outrageous.

I’m desperate for excitement, a cheap thrill, and if it cost me a new pair of La Perla panties, then let them fall. Nothing exciting ever happens in corporate real estate sales, though I keep hoping I’ll run into Donald Trump between bankruptcies and wives.

Unfortunately, time is running out for this apprentice wannabe. I’m thirty-four with more than a little tummy since David took off with my heart and my willpower stuffed into his back pocket. The idea of posing nude evokes a sexual charge in me, an irresistible allure of the forbidden without putting myself in danger or jeopardizing my corporate reputation, a unique twist to my personality I never dared explore.

Until now. This moment. My world is so frustratingly normal, so conservative in every way, that although I’m shocked at the artist’s request, I’m also terribly intrigued. It’s my nature.

Besides, I want to show my ex-fiancé I’m still hot stuff.

I grind my teeth. Just thinking about David makes me cringe. When I discovered he used me to get info on a major land development deal in Wyoming, I should have broken up with him then. But he was so convincing in his “I’m doing this for us” speech, I put aside my fears and didn’t protest when he proceeded to slide my panties down between my thighs and do more with his sexy mouth than give me spin.

Even my mother warned me about David, said he was looking for a hot body with a trust account, but I didn’t listen. She oughta know. My mother and her talking mirror just divorced their third husband.

I’m not in the mood for advice so I clicked off my cell phone. Mother drives me insane with her text messages that resemble the bottom-of-the-screen news headlines on CNN. Don’t get me wrong. I love my mother, even if she collects marriage licenses like some women clip grocery coupons.

For your information, I left her blissfully engaged in bringing down the French national debt single-handedly on the fashionable rue Saint-Honoré while I wandered around the Marais district. I was looking for a poster or painting to take home to add to my collection of lowbrow work by undiscovered artists, or to put it bluntly, cheap, when a summer storm hit. A refreshingly cool rain blew in from the west, twirling over the blue-tiled rooftops and pelting down the narrow alleyways. The raindrops fell in bunches and splatted on the stone streets like water balloons. I got drenched. Not a pretty sight. I took refuge in an art studio with faded lettering over the arched entryway: House of Morand.

House of Wax is more like it.

Looking around the studio, the place looks like something out of a scary movie. Dirtballs fill every corner, mustard-yellow newspapers sit piled up on chairs, and a bookcase filled with art books stands alongside a tall, ebony pearl-inlaid screen. A hotplate with dirty red pots sits atop a Chinese coffee table alongside paint brushes sitting in trays in a liquid that smells like turpentine.

I hear the old artist clear his throat.

“Are you ready, mademoiselle?”

I nod.

Wetness drips down the insides of my thighs, a wetness which makes me twitch when I see him smoking and humming to himself, waiting for me. I can’t back out now. I exhale deeply. This is it. My destiny on canvas. I’m hot, sweaty and perspiring.

I strike a pose.

Who knew standing still for twenty minutes would be so difficult, especially since I was trying hard not to concentrate my energy on my throbbing pubic area? Okay, my pussy. Yes, I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I got turned on posing nude. No, the old artist didn’t come on to me. He’s very professional.

It’s me.

I’m sexually frustrated, and not even a stiff neck—oh, for the delights of a stiff dick instead!—and achy back can stop me from daydreaming about moving my body in a brisk rhythm, my lover licking my clitoris, then the lips of my pussy, digging his tongue into me, and then back on my clit. Back and forth until I’m buzzing down there with an undulating energy that never stops…never stops…

Mmm…keep dreaming.

I take a break behind the screen to soothe my sore muscles and wipe off the sweat between my legs. That’s what it is, isn’t it? I smile, then sniff. Maybe not. Letting go of a sigh and a little gas—I couldn’t help it—I grab a faded smock off a coat hook. Gray-tinged and splattered with dried paint, it looks like it’s been hanging there since Paris was liberated but it’s dry. My clothes are still wet. Drip, drip. I tiptoe through puddles of water on the wooden floor. Or is there a leak in the roof?

I look up. Unlike the rest of the studio, the ceiling is a square skylight. High over my head rain beats down against square glass panes framed with lead, blocking out what little gray daylight can slide through the pelting drops. I shiver. It’s creepy back here. I wonder what the old artist is hiding under the black velvet drape covering the wall? Dorian Gray in his jockeys?

Before I can pull back the curtain to find out, I see an object that intrigues me. It’s about a foot high, battered bronze, and grimy looking: a statue wearing a feathered crown, carrying a flail, and with his erection protruding straight out in front of him.

Did I say erection? As in penis? A dick? Oh, yes, I did.

This is way better than any hotel souvenir. Oozing with curiosity, I reach down and wrap my fingers around the statue’s penis and continue to hold on to it. I have no idea why, I just can’t let it go. I smile. It’s been a while since I’ve held such a hard penis in my hand.

I peek over the screen and ask the old artist about the statue.

“You’re holding la gaule, the erection, of the Egyptian god Min,” he says, tapping his cigarette pack. It’s empty.

“He should be the poster boy for Viagra,” I say, trying to make light of my awkwardness. The statue’s kinda cute, if you dig a walking Egyptian with spiked hair.

“Min is the god of fertility, mademoiselle. His symbol is the thunderbolt.”

Thunder cracks. How apropos.

The old artist never misses a beat, as if he’s told this story a hundred times. “He has the power to grant youth and sexuality—” he pauses, then lowers his voice “—if you’re willing to pay the price.”

“Price, monsieur?”

“You must sell your soul, mademoiselle.”

I cock an eyebrow at him. “Sell my soul?”

“Yes. You’ll be young and beautiful—”

“Get out!” He’s kidding, isn’t he?

“—but you can never fall in love.”

No chance of that happening. Not after David.

I ask, “What happens if I do fall in love?”

“You change back to the way you were.”

In other words, middle-aged and overweight. Thinking, I run my fingers over the statue’s, um, dick. The statue is for sale, according to the old artist. It’s tempting. No more vanity sizing? A flat stomach? Perky breasts? What a fascinating idea, a tantalizing, sexual black magic. FX to the max. But is it worth braving an airport security search? I shake my head. I still have not-so-fond memories of smirks and pat-downs when my ex-assistant—yes, she and David are now a twosome—sneaked a lipstick vibrator into my carry-on bag when I flew up to San Francisco last month. I don’t want to go through that again.

Smiling, I tell the old artist I’ll think about it. He shrugs, then disappears to get another pack of cigarettes. I look around to see what other goodies I can find. Nothing here. Cracked vases, old books, a Tiffany lamp and a charcoal-tinged red pot emitting a weird odor. Not unpleasant, just weird. I take a sniff. Coriander, wine…and is that ginger I smell?

Within seconds dizziness muddles my mind as if the wine gremlins have invaded my head and are using my brain for a grape mosh pit. Is it the bottle of Pinot Noir I washed down those fries with? Or the smelly stuff in the pot? The bile in my stomach crosses paths with frying grease and adds fruity alcohol to the mix, flipping out my equilibrium. Whatever, my knees go weak, as if I’m moving in slo-mo. I try to focus, but everything looks blurry. What if I pass out? Go into a coma? Without a prince to wake me up with a French kiss? No frickin’ way! I sink to my knees, but I refuse to succumb to the sleepytime trolls dancing in my head. I grab on to the black velvet drape to steady myself when—

Swwooosh!

My hands fly up as a heavy thump of velvet comes down on top of my head, suffocating me. Gasping, I struggle to wipe the soft darkness from my eyes, free myself from the giant bat cape covering me from head to toe. Loud breaths, husky, panicky, invade my ears, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I hold my breath and listen. Who is it?

I let out my breath. Damn, it’s me. Panting like a porn star having a fake orgasm in cyberspace.

Okay, so now I can relax. I’m not trapped in here with some spine-tingling apparition chatting me up with nocturnal moans, but I can’t get this velvet drape off my head. Every time I pull one way, the drape goes the other, making me queasy. I gotta shake this nausea. Breathe in then out. Two, three times. I’ll never dip greasy French fries into red wine again. What was I thinking? Then…

…over my rapid breathing comes another sound. Laughter. Laughter? Is the old artist back? I have the odd feeling he’s choking on his ciggie sans filtre, enjoying this. I’ll give him something to laugh about when I unravel this velvet mess and—

—ooohhh, wait. That’s not him. The laughter is low and sexy and so close to my ear a chill slithers up and down my vertebrae knocking together like Lego pieces that don’t fit. Something creepy is going on here. Drops of perspiration form between my breasts, wiggle down my ribcage, then drip down my thighs as I pull and tug on the black velvet drape. I can’t thrash loose. My breath becomes sharper. The back of my neck is damp. Finally, I rip the heavy fabric off my face and—

—I see him. Staring at me with his eyes. Dark blue eyes that intrigue me.

A life-size painting of a man over six feet tall.

I grin, relaxing the tenseness in my face. So that’s what the drape was hiding. A superstud. Arms crossed, feet spread apart, and wearing tighter-than-tight pants that outline his impressive cock and he’s—

Laughing?

Creepy bumps pop up on my bare arms. The more I think about what I heard, the more I believe I must have imagined it. Hearing the man’s sexy laughter stirred carnal desire so dormant in my female psyche that I can’t tell what’s real or in my head. Well, look at him, will ya. He’s a painting, dammit! Touch him, no, not there. There. On his hand. Cold. See? He’s not human, so get off this goth kick and get the hell outta here. Oh, I forgot. I can’t. I’m naked.

So, girlfriend? He can’t see you.

I smile. Yeah.

So why not have a little fun and flirt with him?

With my eyes still on the man in the painting, I trace the fullness of my breasts with my fingers, cupping them in my hands. Playfully, I rub my nipples, hard and brown and pointy, licking my lips again, then as I become more comfortable with my teasing game, I move my fingers down to my belly, then between my legs. I sway my body gracefully, in a classy manner. This is art.

Art? C’mon, a lifetime of Cosmo signals to me loud and clear this is sex, pure and simple. My juices flow and the fullness in my groin swells as I hear the old artist scuffling out front.

He’s back.

I hear him strike a wooden match. He’s lighting another stubby Gauloise cigarette. A wavy swirl of smoke snakes over the screen. Smoke has no effect on the man in the painting. He’s still smiling. Me? I cough.

Not taking my eyes off this macho pin-up, I call out from behind the screen in what I hope is an I’m-just-curious voice, “I found a painting I like.”

“Mademoiselle?”

“The good-looking guy in tight pants under the black velvet drape.” I wet my lips. Ooh la-la.

“Ah, you found Paul Borquet.”

“Who is he?”

“He was considered a genius in his time, mademoiselle. The painting is a self-portrait he did in his studio in Montmartre.”

“I never heard of him.”

“After his strange disappearance in 1889, the art world forgot about him. I covered him up years ago.”

“Covered him up? Why?” I lean my hip against this lost artist. So close our thighs touch. I tingle. He has an electric charisma that transcends three-dimensional space. Or am I just horny?

“The models spend too much time looking at him—” the old artist laughs “—and arousing themselves.”

Even in the murky light, I can see why. The man is dark, dangerous looking, with a raw aura of lust about him that makes my skin crawl with ideas of back alley cafés, strong liqueur and sweat-drenched nights of passion. An erotic hero.

My eyes travel down to the big bulge between his legs, confirming my suspicions. No doubt he has an ego to match. He’s handsome with chiseled, though slightly misaligned features, giving him a cocky air. He stands with his legs apart, his longish dark hair swirling around his open collar and contrasting with the musculature of his chest, visible under his white ruffled shirt.

Looking at him starts a slow burn down in the unexplored area below my phony tan line. He makes me squirm. I remind myself he’s just a painting. Then a sneaky thought hits me. How would it feel to make love to him? Why not? After David gave me the heave-ho, a girl’s got to rev up her mojo even if he is a two-dimensional hunk in tight pants.

I drape the black velvet curtain around my shoulders in a provocative swirl, letting it slide down my bare back, and wiggle my butt. I wonder what it would feel like to run my fingers over his chest, touch his hot flesh, then grab on to the mauve-colored scarf wound around his neck in a graceful swirl and pull him close to me. So close I can inhale his musky scent, then lean my cheek against the deep satin blackness of his cape slung over one shoulder.

I feel my inhibitions rise up and escape from me like someone sucked the breath out of me with a long, deep kiss. French kissing. I can’t get the desire of wishing for a deep kiss from him out of my mind.

I shudder. Sweat trickles down my neck. What am I doing? Making love to an artist who died over a hundred years ago? I am losing it. I should run out into the rain and let a good soaking clear my head.

Flash! Lightning dances over the varnished ebony screen, making the surface shimmer. I flinch, turn my back to the painting. I won’t look at him. I won’t. Thunder echoes in my ears, as if Paul Borquet is daring me to look.

I ask, “Was he an Impressionist?”

“Paul Borquet was among the best, mademoiselle,” says the old artist. “Monet, Renoir, Toulouse-Lautrec, they all admired the young artist’s work. And his bravery.”

I cock my head and sneak a peek at Paul Borquet. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself.

“Bravery?” I ask. Okay, so he was a real alpha male. Interesting. Very interesting and just what I don’t need. Another stud who pops steroids like they’re purple M&Ms.

“He died in a fire, mademoiselle, trying to save the woman he loved.”

That’s cool, but I’ve had my fill of macho overkill. So why can’t I stop looking at Paul Borquet? I’ll tell you why. No cosmetic effect of darkness at play here. I know art. His work has energy. Vibration. He really understands color. His use of paint becomes a vehicle for the perception of light. He seems suspended, shimmering and vivacious within the frame of the portrait. There’s a snapshot quality to the work, a sense of immediacy and spontaneity as if he were here now in front of me, alive.

“Paul Borquet,” I mumble, putting my thumb to my lips and sucking on it, wondering if he was as good in bed as he was with a paintbrush. A sexual hunger awakens inside me and makes me reach down into myself, way down.

Wetting my lips, I imagine him naked. I slide the heated palms of my hands over my thighs, imagining the sticky, dewy liquid dripping from his penis, glistening. I savor this moment. The artist’s use of bold brushstrokes and harsh lines suggests a mad aggressiveness about his personality that excites me. Gives me chills, then makes me hot. Very hot.

I keep my eyes riveted on the painting as I wiggle my hips, dreaming about how it would feel to have the paintbrush of this lost Impressionist sliding down over my belly, down between my thighs, then tickling me with its soft bristles. Running his fingers up and down my torso, lingering here and there, taking his time. Then licking me with his tongue, drawing his finger in and out of my pussy. In and out. In and out.

I sway, shake, moan, barely keeping my urges under control. The strong smell of oil paint mixes with the sweet smell of my own desire as I move in time to music in my head. I swear Paul Borquet winks at me. I take one step backward, then a second. His eyes seem to follow me. A tremulous hunger swells up in me, aching to be satisfied.

I bend forward, touching my breasts, squeezing my nipples, swaying my shoulders back and forth. Then I rub my pussy slowly, daring the man in the portrait to kiss me. I pretend I’m kneeling astride the lost artist, locking my legs slowly around his neck, his longish dark hair tickling the insides of my thighs as I press my soft mound on his mouth, brushing my body back and forth across his lips. A tingling vibrates between my legs. Melty, sweaty heat wiggles deliciously down to my pussy and a subtle, yet burning sensation flows through me as he tickles the sensitive button of my clitoris with his tongue.

I squeeze my pubic muscles together. My pussy is tight and hot, though I haven’t come. I want him to fuck me. I want to clamp down on his cock as if it were deep inside me. I want to keep it there forever. My mouth is dry. I lick my pink glossed lips, then give out a low moan.

Can I push the limits? Can I climax in my fantasy?

I smile. No one can see me behind the screen. No one but Paul Borquet with his broad shoulders, bulging biceps, narrow waist and hard lean thighs. And, oh yes, his squeezable butt.

My heart is pounding, pounding in my ears. I abandon all my sensibilities, grabbing the statue of the Egyptian god Min and holding it between my nude breasts, its firm erection nesting in my cleavage as I climax wildly, warm sweetness oozing in my cunt as melodic waves of pleasure hum through me, a seamless tapestry of buzzing and purring and sighs and moans weaving through the air, some breathy in tone, others louder, still others painfully ecstatic.

All of these sounds only make my climax more intense, more lasting than anything I’ve known in a long time. I don’t close my eyes, but continue staring at Paul Borquet, wishing I could feel his arms around me, his lips kissing me, his body pressed against mine.

“You wouldn’t stand a chance, monsieur, if I were young and beautiful,” I whisper in French, shifting my weight from side to side. The wooden platform bends, squeaking under my wet bare feet. Lightning flashes overhead through the skylight, stinging my eyes like a thousand-watt lightbulb slashing through the air. “I’d make you fall in love with me—”

I cry out when electricity jolts the bronze sculpture I’m holding between my breasts, sending a hot current through me and vibrating through my brain, raising the hair on my arms, and making my eyeballs bulge out.

Somewhere in the back of my mind I hear the old artist calling out that he’s going for help, but I can’t answer, can’t focus. All the muscles in my body tighten and I feel myself lifted up off my feet and zooming through space, as if something is flinging me skyward. An unexplained chill settles in me as if I’m in a swirling vortex as electricity flashes over my skin, racing in and out of my bod faster than I can blink.

What’s happening to me?

This isn’t my normal world. I want things dry and safe. Not wild and crazy. The electricity dances a choreography of darkness and light all over me, tracing the path of my sweat. I’m breathless and more than a little bewildered. Mix in bewitched and my trip to Paris is turning into the Rocky Horror Picture Show with French subtitles. This can’t be happening!

Thunder claps in my ears with a loud boom then—the lights go out.

Darkness. The humid air suddenly reeks of a strong musky scent. Male.

Coming closer…closer…yes…I hear that sexy laughter again as someone blows hot air into my ear, making me shiver. I twist my fingers on the statue until they burn, then my nipples harden into pointy peaks as if someone pinched them. Becoming aroused again, I let out a sigh when someone squeezes my breast and sucks on it, then moans. Who? Where is he? I can’t open my eyes, swallow or talk, or move my legs or hands, touch him, anything.

I can’t do more than make a desperate breathing sound as I lie—

Where?

Where am I?

CHAPTER TWO

Paris 1889

The Artist

I can’t paint, I can’t move. Alors, I can’t believe what I saw. A moment ago I swear the night was slashed open by a strange light and I saw a redhead stripped naked, teasing me, flirting with me, her bare shoulders swaying and dipping provocatively.

I continue to stare into the gauzy-thin darkness veiling a corner of the room, a rapturous chill shooting up the side of my face, then wiggling down my spine and meeting head-on with the slow burn pulsating in my groin. Ready to explode. No. I must be going mad. Delirious. What occurred stunned me, like lightning flashing through my body.

Exhaling slowly, blinking, trying to ease the strange headache that came upon him—brought on by too much absinthe, or so he wanted to believe—he regained control of himself. Barely. He tapped the tip of his cane against his leg, keeping time to a strange rhythm in his soul only he could feel. He gripped his cane tighter, trying to hold on to the moment. How was such a thing possible? No candle or lamp illuminated the corner where he’d seen the redhead, no moonlight drizzled through the open window. He’d heard no one enter through the thick wooden door. The only sound in his ears was a soft whisper.

“I’d make you fall in love with me,” she said, taunting him. A sensual giggle escaped her tinted lips, no pretense of innocence shading the moaning sounds coming from her throat. Then she slumped to the floor, the life gone from her, like the morning sunlight dissipating over the stacks of hay in the wheat fields, leaving behind only deep shadows. Cold. Lonely.

He moaned.

Tonight, working in his studio, he had the unnerving feeling someone had been watching him. Lusting after him. Undressing him. He grinned. It was the redhead. A familiar tingling inside him made him squirm with frenzied energy as if thousands of carmine-red lips, wet lips, her lips, kissed and sucked the long shaft of his penis. Up and down, circling around it with her tongue.

A spasm of anticipation within him caused his hard cock to press against his tight pants. He was excited, stimulated by this redhead. He felt his penis bulging and swollen with a great need he couldn’t conceal.

But first he must find out if she was real.

Paul Borquet approached the dark corner with fear in his heart. Fear of discovering she was but an illusion. What else could she be? The whisper he’d heard in his ear came from a long way off, fading so slowly, like the long sigh of a young girl as she peaked during her first sexual climax.

He drew in a long, deep breath.

The beautiful girl lay on the floor, not moving. She was flesh and blood.

And she was nude. The pale sheen of her skin enchanted him, her face bewitched him, her breasts thrust forward with one hand lying lightly between her thighs, as if daring him to peek and savor her pussy. Her slim hips, long legs, all delighted his artist eye with a sensual harmony so perfect he could do nothing but stare at her.

Strangely, as if in the grip of an unseen hand, he couldn’t concentrate on anything but the redhead. Not the model waiting for him in the small studio upstairs, not his unfinished drawing, not his need for more absinthe. He’d raced down to the study to indulge his thirst for the green liqueur when a sudden lightning shower drew him to this room. Then he’d seen her.

And nothing else mattered.

He breathed in deeply, and the shadow of her erotic perfume descended over him, holding him in a sensual moment so real his hand shook when he felt for a pulse on the side of her neck. His dark blue eyes widened. Yes, blood beat in her veins, but her skin was hot, as if a fiery flame danced over her body without burning it. He couldn’t stop himself from reaching out to touch her face, her lips. Her breasts. The desire to twist the pointed nubs of her breasts with his eager fingers heated his groin. He yearned to lick them with his red-hot tongue, then nibble on them. He moaned, wishing he could bury his face in her creamy white flesh and smell the aroma of her female sex. Sweet and pungent. Erotic.

He must paint her. He must.

He closed his eyes in ecstatic torture. Touching the beautiful redhead raised him out of his deep depressive mood. He had been melancholy earlier, sitting silent and withdrawn in his studio, his head sunken to his chest, his hair hanging in his face as he drank absinthe. Night after night he sat, condemning the art world for not recognizing his genius.

In the late afternoon he had roused himself out of his drunken stupor and gone to the Louvre to study the works of Delacroix, Poussin and the Dutch masters of the seventeenth century. It provided him with the perfect release when the headaches and dreams crowded his brain with such pain he could no longer hold his brush steady.

Then he had come to his small studio in the Marais district in the town home of la comtesse, his one-time mistress, and prepared his paints, but nothing happened. Nothing. His creative urges were stalled. He could no longer reach into the most remote parts of his mind and explore the vast universe of his imagination, that mystique of sensation he knew he could achieve, allowing him to put his feelings into art. Yet he wouldn’t give up. Couldn’t.

He drew in his breath, a sudden longing for the smell of paint under his nose and the sound of short, quick brushstrokes whispering in his ears. With a haunting clarity, he conjured up in his mind a dazzling painting of this redhead, already seeing his bold colors on canvas. Red. Blue. Yellow. Shocking colors, passionate colors. Colors that lived, that captured the moment.

His heart raced faster, a thin veil descending over his sense of reasoning, the veil of madness that was often a companion to his art. Always striving to sell just enough of his work to buy more paints, while at the same time he struggled to express a feeling, a thought, a human need in his painting.

Could not hope be expressed by a star in the heavens? The hunger of a soul looking for love by the brilliance of a sunset? The beauty of all women by the luminous eyes of one woman?

He was certain the redhead was that woman.

How had she come to him? She was here in the room with him, this seductive creature of the night. And if so, she must be skilled in black magic and a follower of the occult. He exulted in the idea she would be a fitting partner to join him in his ongoing journey of mystic and sexual exploration into the Paris underworld of hedonism and excess, where women danced naked, titillating the madly decadent men.

He called it his cirque érotique, where beautiful, young mesdemoiselles rode from room to room in sumptuous private mansions on bicycles sans pantaloons, naked below the waist, giving the gentlemen an exquisite view of their nude buttocks; or where women offered themselves as love slaves, willingly partaking of strong intoxicants to increase their pleasure as they did their masters’ bidding; or where they engaged in salacious threesomes, making certain the gentleman always had twice the fun.

He embraced this world, watching women performing and arousing, seducing and being seduced. A world where there was magic in every kiss and every kiss was magic, a world he found strangely evocative and compelling.

The world of the Black Arts.

The girl moaned. She was stirring.

“Oooh…” She crossed her arm over her chest, her hand pushing together the luscious swell of her breasts. He gasped. The sight of her white flesh delighted his eye, but his mind told him to cover her, lest she catch a chill. He was acquainted with the wardrobe of the mistress of the house in an intimate manner, so it didn’t take him long to retrieve a long, hooded red velvet cloak from the garderobe. He placed the cloak over the girl’s nude body, then picked her up in his arms, reveling in the lightness of her slim body when—

—her other hand opened and the object she’d been holding dropped onto the carpeted floor.

His throat tightened. No, it couldn’t be. But it was. His small statue of the Egyptian god Min. Had the girl sneaked into the town house to steal it? What other treasures did she seek? Jewels? Gold louis? Silks? Was she but a thief of the night and not a goddess as he believed?

He should toss her out into the street, be done with her. Such women, he knew, were sensual creatures who plied their trade with kisses and promises of forbidden sex. Naked young women in the throes of passion, kissing, sucking, restraining the man with silken bonds, blindfolds and cock rings to keep his erection until he satisfied each girl and she cried out in orgasmic bliss.

Was she such a girl? He looked down at her lovely face, the fullness and beauty of her breasts, the elegant curve of her heaving rib cage so white and pure against the lushness of the red velvet cape. He’d go mad if he couldn’t paint her, and so he would keep her. But he would be very careful with his feelings. Very.

He placed her upon a rose-colored meridienne, putting a red silk pillow under her head, then stroked her cheek, her straight nose, her full lips, her breasts. Then his fingers traveled down her sleek midriff to her flat belly and the insides of her thighs before tugging on the curly reddish hairs covering her mound. His dream was in his arms, an enchanting mademoiselle, but one thing still puzzled him. Why had she stolen his statue of Min? Why? Did she know its power?

Did she?

He did.

He became interested in the occult when the owner of the red velvet cloak, a beautiful and wealthy comtesse, presented him with the small statue as payment not only for his portrait of her, but for his performance in her boudoir. La comtesse claimed the statue was discovered in the pyramid of a powerful pharaoh known for his sexual prowess. The statue had magical, sensual powers she was only too happy to teach him as she lay upon the bed, waiting for him. He held her face between his hands, then lowered his mouth to kiss her deeply until she wrapped her legs around him and gripped him tightly around the waist, her ankles crossed above his back. Then he ground his hips, pushing his cock into her in slow rhythmic thrusts, then faster and faster until she climaxed with so many orgasms she lost consciousness.

Bedding the countess wasn’t the only game he indulged in. From time to time, sexual orgies occurred in the grand houses here in the Marais district and he eagerly took part, wearing only a long red cape over his nude muscular body. He hid his identity behind a fox mask, though many young women claimed to recognize him by what he couldn’t hide. His cock. Long, hard and perfectly shaped.

His favorite trick was making his cane disappear, then inviting the eager young women to duck under the wings of his cape and search for the missing cane in between his legs. They ran their fingers, their lips, even their melons, large breasts, all over his body until his penis found them, filling their connasses, cunts, between their legs with his magic.

“Hélas, tu es bien monté,” the women whispered, telling him he was well hung. Then he would sweep through the bevy of naked girls, pushing up against them, pumping, thrusting forward his cock, huge and fully aroused. He kept his handsome face hidden, his piercing, dark blue eyes watching the eager women through the holes in his mask, women all vying to be pleasured by him.

Not tonight. Passion for his art triggered a reflex action in his fingers, making him open, then close his fist. Slowly. A stimulating flash of inner heat, as though he’d reached through the arc of what was real now and what could be real beyond this moment, surged up in him.

Tonight he must paint.

Her. The redhead.

But first…he must get rid of the blonde.

“Do I not please you, monsieur?” a feminine voice asked, emphasizing the world please with a pretty lip pout. It had no effect on him.

“I’ve changed my mind, Lillie.” He buttoned the deep blue, paint-splashed jacket he wore and tightened his flowing neck scarf, the color of a velvety plum. It was his trademark, his style, and he guarded it carefully. Then he forced his eyes to look at the model, a pretty girl from Madame Chapet’s maison tolerée, brothel. Lillie de Pontier was the prettiest of all the girls at the House on rue des Moulins. He picked her out of three girls simulating sexual encounters with each other, writhing all over a large four-poster with abandon, touching, caressing, kissing and sucking on each other’s breasts.

She seemed pleased when he chose her, snuggling up to him, blowing in his ear, rubbing her firm derrière back and forth across his crotch, making gestures about the firmness of his buttocks. But he no longer needed her services. He was nervous. Edgy. The redhead would be conscious soon. He must sneak Lillie out the back way without the two girls seeing each other. He was frantic. He didn’t have much time.

“I will show you for free, monsieur, what all Paris would pay to see.” Lillie pulled off her tight black garter and her rose-colored silk stocking slithered down her creamy thigh in a slow, serpentine crawl.

“Put your stocking back on, Lillie.”

The girl ignored him and leaned toward him. He noticed beads of sweat between her nude breasts. For a moment he couldn’t take his eyes off her. She wore only a corset in peacock-blue satin, tightly laced around her tiny waist and pushing up her exposed breasts. Her ample bosom swelled out in all directions in delicious curves, pleasing him. Full, bulbous cups of white flesh seduced his eye with the promise of delights to come. A crinkly pink ribbon tied in a neat bow around her neck completed the effect.

He reached out to untie the bow when—

He stopped, his hand raised in midair. A sound from downstairs caught his ear. Was that a moan he heard? The redhead?

“Your private show is about to begin, monsieur,” Lillie said in a husky voice, curling her lower lip and hissing the phrase with a deliberate purr. Her long white fingers pinched the end of her pink stocking as she pulled it off, then she wiggled her naked toes playfully before slowly spreading her legs to expose a gentleman’s peek at the yellow-gold triangle of pubic hair between her perfect thighs. Sa chatte. Her pussy. Well-groomed and beckoning him. He had not expected this. She tilted her head toward him, her eyes asking, What do you think?

“You tempt me, Lillie, but I—”

Did he hear someone moving about downstairs? Opening drawers? Banging them shut?

“I’m the best at Madame Chapet’s at chevaucher.” Lillie chewed on the end of her fingernail then touched the inside of her thigh, running her fingers up and down, ever so lightly, coming closer and closer to her soft pussy. “I can ride the stallion for as long as the gentleman desires.”

She slapped the air with an imaginary riding crop, and for a moment he was tempted. Very tempted. He was in need of release from the pent-up passion throbbing within him. He could imagine himself sitting on a chair with Lillie spread out over his lap, his cane sliding up and down her toned calves, her thighs. Then, slapping her firm, naked buttocks ever so lightly before turning her over, he would take her, her mouth wide open, his tongue licking her lips, his hands grabbing her all over, her breasts, her waist, her thighs, everywhere.

He ignored the bold desire in her eyes, eyes telling him what she wanted. Baiser. Make love. To her. Tonight. He shook his head. No, he couldn’t, though she was beautiful. Her angel-pale skin gleamed white with rice powder from China with skillfully applied brown pencil arching her brows. Deep blue shadows flowed across her eyelids and over her temples, enhancing the size and luminosity of her eyes. He could see where she had dabbed the color of a pink dawn over her cheeks with a hare’s foot, the lobes of her ears and her chin. The touch of artificial gold rinsed her hair. Garish but effective.

La belle fille possessed all the skills of a woman schooled in the art of illusion. And that was why she could never be his perfect model, why he could never paint her with the vigor of reality, because everything about her was an illusion.

Mais non, it was someone else who held him in rapture, someone more provocative, more alluring, more sexually exciting.

“I have no need of you tonight, Lillie,” he said, dismissing her. He should have known a woman with Lillie’s skills would not give up so easily.

“Watch me, monsieur,” she whispered, twisting her pubic hairs then inserting her fingers inside her pussy, “as I wind up my music box to play a tune that will please you.”

He wasn’t surprised when she began moaning, quite convincingly. He had no doubt she’d had much practice, but he had no time for love. It was a foolish emotion he refused to give in to; it drained his energy, his passion to paint. Art was his mistress. He could never love a woman as much as his art.

Never.

He ran his fingers over the ebony handle of his cane carved into the shape of a couple making love. His own penis was also hard, unbending, like the unique design of the male figurine hovering over the woman, lowering his erect outil, tool, into her. Lillie, moaning louder, also noticed his hard cock. She kept repeating what a strong, muscular body he had, and how she would find such delicious pleasure burying her face between his hard thighs, sucking on him. He tried to ignore her obvious overtures. He must get rid of her. He must. But how? Sweat slicked his grip as he slid his hand up and down the cane. Why was he so tormented, so affected by his passion to paint the redhead?

He knew why. She was the seductress chosen by the gods to be the perfect model for his masterpiece upon which he could stamp his art with an impulse of his true feelings, the inner emotion of his soul. He never would have believed it possible such a woman existed in his world.

A different urge settled in his groin. Primitive. Lusting. He couldn’t wait any longer.

“Put on your clothes, Lillie,” he ordered. “I can paint no more tonight.”

Her chemise lay on the floor, crumpled into a thousand fine little wrinkles, with one rose-colored stocking strewn carelessly on top, along with her violet two-piece taffeta dress and petticoats, violet button shoes and tiny matching hat with its long, curling veil.

“Pardon, monsieur?” she asked.

“You’re leaving.”

“But we haven’t played the game—”

“I have no time for games. I have another engagement.”

“At five o’clock in the morning?”

“Do as I order or Madame Chapet will hear about your insolence.”

“That old garce? Bitch. She cares only about making money, and I make plenty for her.” Lillie threw on her petticoats, then her shoes, though she didn’t button them.

A door slammed. Downstairs.

She laughed. “I believe your other engagement couldn’t wait, monsieur.”

He panicked. “No! She can’t leave. She can’t!”

Paul grabbed his cane, then his voluminous black cape and swirled it about himself like a creature of darkness about to take flight on the cloud of a dream. He raced downstairs, flung open the door, then ran outside, blending into the landscape of mendicants scouring the boulevards of Marais, their baskets on their backs but no names on their souls. The clean, dry air was still.

Where had the girl gone?

He stopped a poor chiffonnier, ragpicker, and asked her if she’d seen a young girl in a red velvet cape running from the townhouse. The old woman held out her hand and, after he folded a bank note into her palm, she pointed toward rue Saint-Merri. Joy raced through him, sharpening his eye to see the truth. Then she wasn’t an illusion. She was out there somewhere. But where?

Gripping his cane, twirling his cape, he raced out into the night with a quickening sense that he had no choice but to find her.

No matter what he had to do.