Читать книгу The Art Of Seduction - Katherine O' Neal - Страница 8

As the show was about to open to the public, Mason was faced with an important decision. Falconier had already unbolted the doors and people were beginning to stream in. Halting the sale at this point wouldn’t just be a major inconvenience for everyone involved, it would be considered an affront, particularly inconsiderate in light of the false start-and-stop Falconier had already endured. And yet…What if this Garrett was right? She had no way of knowing. Stopping the sale, as he suggested, required a cheeky daring that certainly appealed to her, but it also called for a confidence in the popularity of her work that, up to now, was completely unwarranted.

What to do?

She scrutinized Garrett. “You really believe there will be that kind of demand for these paintings?”

Without hesitation, he answered, “I do.”

She glanced back at the dealer, who was ushering in the waiting crowd. “Falconier will have an apoplexy.”

Garrett arched a brow. She detected a challenge lurking in his amused smile. “Would you like me to do it for you?”

There was something hidden in the smoky depths of his eyes that captivated her, beckoned her, told her she could…What? Trust him?

In that moment she made her decision. “Thank you. I’ll do it myself.”

She swiveled on her feet, marched over to Falconier, and announced, “I’m stopping the sale.”

He wheeled in alarm. “Stopping the sale!”

“Just until we can better assess the real value of the paintings. There’s just more interest here than I know how to deal with.”

“Mais c’est impossible! It cannot be done, Mademoiselle! As you see—”

“I know. But think about it. If we wait, and the interest continues to build, you might end up with three or four times the commission you’d get today.”

A thoughtful look crossed the dealer’s pasty face. “It would be unprecedented, to be sure, and yet…They are your paintings now, so…” He gave a Gallic shrug. “So I suppose I must do as you wish.” He lowered his voice and shook his head in appreciation. “You Americans. So shrewd at business, n’est pas?”

He clicked his heels together and gave a crisp clap of his hands. “Messieurs et mesdames,” he called. “Gentlemen and ladies, you are welcome to view the paintings, but for the time being, they are no longer for sale.”

The announcement was met by a roar of protest.

“Not for sale! I’ve been waiting in line for three hours!”

“But this is an outrage!”

“How can this be? The paintings are not for sale?”

In that instant, Dargelos the gangster stepped forward. “You can do what you wish with the rest of them, but I am purchasing these three pictures. Here is your money.” His henchmen clustered around him to make the point.

Lisette stormed to Dargelos and grabbed hold of the paintings, pulling them away. “You stupid oaf! These are not for you!”

“But, sugarplum, who should own them but he who loves you with all his heart?”

Someone else called out in a maligned tone, “So you bow to ruffians but deny the decent citizens of Paris!”

Another called, “You close the door on the public so the speculators can move in and make money off the dead woman, eh?”

This seemed to strike a chord in the crowd and instigated a chain reaction of pushing and shoving as people rushed to the walls, took possession of the nearest painting, and began to form a queue behind the gangster with billfolds in hand.

Falconier gulped, screwed up his courage, and called over the noise, “Monsieur Dargelos, I respectfully remind you this is Rue Lafitte, not Belleville. If you do not put down those paintings at once, I will summon the police.”

“Police?”

The word was picked up by others and echoed through the incredulous crowd.

“That goes for everyone here,” Falconier declared.

Instead of quieting what was becoming a mob, it enraged those already inside and panicked those who were coming in the doors. Afraid they might be locked out, they began to push their way in. Within moments, there were so many people that there was no room to move or even breathe. More people, caught up in the agitation, were bolting over others in an effort to squeeze inside.

By now Falconier was shrieking for order. But the horde was not to be dissuaded. Mason looked about her at the ensuing bedlam. But instead of feeling fear or trepidation, her face was aglow with an amazed, delighted grin.

They’re fighting over my paintings!

Outside, the sharp sound of a police whistle pierced the air. Obviously, some of Falconier’s staff had run for help. This only added to the chaos.

This is getting better and better!

Mason turned in a semicircle, taking it all in, relishing every rousing moment. She had to battle the impulse to laugh out loud. Never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined such a spectacle, and all on account of her paintings!

But then she noticed a different sort of upheaval before her. The crowd began to part in a channel that was rapidly moving her way from the direction of her self-portrait. And then she saw Richard Garrett towering above the throng, coming toward her with a determined gleam in his eyes.

What is he doing?

As he drew closer, she could see that he was firmly and resolutely taking the arm of each person who stood in his way and moving them aside to create a path for himself. His actions were decisive, even aggressive, but he kept up a litany of polite salutations, uttering each with a wry twinkle in his eyes. “Excuse me. Thank you very much. Lovely hat, Madam. We’ll move you just there, shall we?”

Until at last he’d brushed away the bystanders that separated them, scooped Mason up into his arms, and swept her through the multitude toward the front door and safety. Large, magnetic eyes with a touch of irony in them crinkled in amusement as he spoke. “I don’t always get this chummy on first acquaintance. You’ll forgive me, I hope.”

Before she could reply, the police swarmed inside, whistles blaring, pushing their way through. As they did, the wall of people surged like an angry sea, teeming in alarm, nearly knocking Garrett off his feet. He swerved her around, and as he did she was nearly pitched from his hold.

She felt herself tumbling. But then, like an athlete, he righted himself and his arms tightened about her, catching her fall. He heaved her up and into his embrace so powerfully that she had to throw her arms about his neck. And then, like a whirlwind, he swung her around, knocking others out of his way, and swooped her through the melee.

She kept hold of him dizzily, feeling the bump of bodies strewn in their path, feeling the rigid, corded muscles of his arms anchoring her to his chest. His shoulders were so wide they seemed like the rampart of some medieval fortress protecting her.

Before she knew it, he’d stormed out the door and up the sunlit street, away from the gallery, from the racket, from the crush of human bodies and greed.

As he set her down, she swayed on her feet. The whole experience had left her feeling breathless and exhilarated. She’d never experienced anything like this in her life. It was extraordinary enough to don a disguise and watch as people went berserk for her work, but on top of that, to be appreciated, understood, by such an incredible man who’d literally swept her off her feet…She couldn’t believe it.

As they strolled toward the Boulevard Haussmann, Mason stared up at Richard Garrett with dazed fascination. But then it occurred to her that she was being ridiculously transparent. One look and he would read her dazzled feelings in her eyes. She lowered her newly trimmed lashes, trying to get her bearings and think of something to say that wouldn’t sound as giddy and girlish as she felt inside.

Garret saved her the trouble. Grinning, he said, “We appear to have caused something of a commotion.”

She smiled at the understatement of it—so charmingly British—and replied, “I hope I did the right thing.”

His gaze flicked over her. “What can I do to persuade you?”

The gleam in his eyes was warm and vaguely suggestive. It curled her toes. She swallowed hard and said, “You understand, Mr. Garrett, that I don’t know much about the business of art.” A slightly disingenuous statement, but basically true.

“My name is Richard. And it just so happens I know quite a bit about this peculiar business. I’d be happy to be your guide. If you’d permit me, of course.”

Again, his gaze swept over her, promising all sorts of delicious possibilities. Clearly an overture, but what sort: business, pleasure, or both?

“My guide,” she repeated, liking the sound of it. “That’s very kind of you. I’m sure there’s a great deal you can teach me.” Looking at the breadth of his shoulders, she felt a shiver race up her spine. “About art,” she added, then almost kicked herself.

“Splendid. We’ll start right here then, shall we?”

He stopped in front of a picture window displaying large canvases in gaudy frames. “This is the Onfray Gallery, the most successful in Paris. Tell me. What do you see here?”

She forced her attention away from him to try and focus on the paintings in the window. What would Amy Caldwell—who knew nothing about art—say about them? “Well, they’re not very colorful, are they? All brown and grey. And they all seem to be pictures of…historical events…mythological scenes…pompous businessmen straining to look successful…”

“Precisely. This is what we call academic art. It’s what gets displayed in the Salon every year—that’s the government-sponsored art show. It’s also what the critics rave over and well-heeled patrons buy. Let’s walk on, shall we?”

They continued down half a block until they came to what Mason well knew was the Durand-Ruel Gallery. This window was filled with vibrant canvases by Monet, Degas, Pissarro. “But twenty years ago,” he told her, “there was a revolution in painting.”

“Impressionism.”

“Yes, this gallery is one of the few that handle Impressionist paintings. What do you think of it?”

“After what we just saw, they’re like a breath of fresh air.”

He gave her a pleased smile. “With new, brighter pigments available in collapsible tubes and trains to take them out of town and into nature, artists were no longer bound to their studios. En plien air, they discovered they could capture the fleeting color and light of the scenes before them with a realism and beauty that had never been known before.”

She’d never heard anyone who wasn’t a painter speak on the subject with such enthusiasm. “You like Impressionism, don’t you?”

“I love everything about it. Its color, its beauty, its celebration of everyday life. It seduced me, and I believe it’s destined to seduce the entire world. To become to our descendants what the art of the Italian Renaissance is to us today. But, I’m sorry to say, that’s a minority opinion. And twenty years after it first startled the Parisian art world, it still hasn’t broken into the mainstream.”

“To my eye, Mason’s work doesn’t seem to have much in common with these Impressionists in the window.”

“You’re right. The new generation of avant-garde artists have absorbed Impressionism into their sensibility and are going beyond it. Experimenting with the psychological aspects of color. Exploring the symbolism inherent in nature. The critics call these new artists Neo-Impressionists. Their work is even less appreciated than the Impressionists. The only place you can see their paintings displayed is in the back rooms of a few Montmartre cafés.”

“Is that what Mason was—a Neo-Impressionist?”

“Technically, yes. But that hardly sums up the impact she might well end up having.”

“Impact?”

“She might be what the Age of Impressionism has always needed and never had.”

“And what’s that?”

“A larger-than-life figure. You see, one of the reasons Impressionism has never caught on is because it’s never produced an artist who has captured the world’s imagination with the force of a Michelangelo or a Leonardo. But something in Mason’s life seems to appeal to people on this profound and personal level. Maybe your sister will be the artist Impressionism has been waiting for.”

Mason was so staggered that she stopped short. “You can’t be serious!”

“I’m deadly serious.”

It was too much. His intoxicating words—his assurance—surged through her veins like an aphrodisiac. Suddenly all of it—what had happened at the gallery, his praise and approval, his vision of her potential—came crashing together to create in her a single overriding feeling, a desire she’d never come close to experiencing before.

I want this man…

I want him now!

She looked up and watched as the corner of his mouth slowly crooked into a smile. A devilish smile, as if he’d read her mind and knew exactly what she was thinking.

She felt herself redden and turned away. His effect on her was irresistible, this shamelessly handsome man, erudite, witty, with a voice that could melt chocolate and an animal magnetism that oozed from his pores despite the veneer of cultured sophistication. Her desire for him was so intense that she was having trouble catching her breath.

“But tell me,” he said. “What are your plans?”

“Plans?” She couldn’t seem to figure out what he was asking.

“For the future,” he elaborated. “Falconier will pull back the paintings for a bit, quadruple the prices, and no doubt sell them in a matter of minutes. Which will leave you with a valise full of francs. What then?”

“I don’t know. I suppose I’ll go back to America.”

And Mason will miraculously reappear.

“A pity, that. I was hoping you’d stay for a while.”

His voice had taken on a husky timbre, hushed, intimate. Was she imagining it, or was he looking at her the way a hunter looked at his prey?

“Why would I want to do that?” She hadn’t intended it to be a tease, but the breathiness with which she’d uttered it gave it a sassy quality.

“It occurs to me that we have a great deal in common. I should like to…deepen our acquaintance.”

His tone was deceptively casual yet edged with determination—the polite vanguard of a will not to be denied.

“Deepen?”

Oh, God, did I really say that? It sounded like the invitation of some Pigalle tart.

“You don’t object, I hope? Because the truth is, I find myself in the throes of a most peculiar urge.”

“What sort of urge?” she gulped.

The dark eyes, hooded and penetrating, seemed to bore a hole in her. “The urge to do whatever it takes to keep you in Paris.”

“Whatever…it takes?”

What am I doing?

She knew where this was leading, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself.

He leaned toward her, close enough that she could almost feel his lips with hers, and repeated firmly, “Whatever it takes.”