Blood Ties (14 page)

He turned up the heat and pulled out of the parking spot. The small triangle of bare skin below his throat was like a magnet. I wanted to touch
it and run my fingers down all that smooth skin – and lower.

“You’re very quiet tonight,” he said.

I began to pick at the seam of my jeans. Think Liz, think of something to say. “I guess I’m a little nervous. It’s not often I get a chance to visit an exhibit with a brilliant historian.” There, that wasn’t too bad. I’d found out he had written several books on the various art movements. When I had asked about them, he’d given me a signed copy of each.

“You’re too kind
. It’s not often I get a chance to be accompanied by a beautiful and intelligent woman.” I blinked. Had he just flirted with me, had I flirted with him? My God, were we flirting? My stomach did another one of those flips. He was giving me that “look.” God, I had to be imagining all of this. I cleared my throat and changed the subject.

“So
, have you restored any of Polenov’s works?” I was prepared. I’d read up on them on the internet like a good little student.

“No, not a one. However, I did get a chance to see them once a long time ago. I think you’ll enjoy them.
He was one of the first to capture the musical lyricism within nature.”

I nodded having no clue what he was talking about, going through the list in my head for another appropriate question. “So tell me about your restorations, have there been many?”

“Yes a few, mostly cleanings, and some repairs.” He reached to the dashboard, adjusting the heater. “Is this something you’re interested in?”

“I haven’t really given it
a thought.” I mused for a moment, looking out the window. “It would be fun to travel out of North America. I’m always up for an adventure. Would you tell me about where you grew up, the village that you mentioned? What was it like for you … you know, living there?” I was morbidly curious to see how close it would come to my dreams.

He looked over at me. “Please, call me Michael. Would it be alright if I called you Liz, or would you prefer Elizabeth?”

Hearing him say his name shot me through my heart.

The look on his face told me he thought he had asked for too much.

“Sure, you can call me Liz.” His face brightened, pleased with my response. Oh, what the hell, so was I.

He moved his gaze to the road in front of him. “I’m afraid
it wasn’t very exciting.”

I shrugged. “It can’t be any more boring than mine.”

He smiled as if he thought I was cute.

“
Well, I was born in a small village in central France, southeast of Paris outside Châtel-Censoir. At the time, it held perhaps less than a hundred or so.” He glanced at me and smiled. “It was a very small place, with very small opportunities. But it was a wonderful place.”

I
laughed and shifted in my seat to watch him at a better angle.

“I
was the eldest of six with three sisters, two brothers. My father was a Lutheran Minister and my mother was quite busy keeping us out of trouble.” A look of deep thought, almost wistful, crossed his face. “I suppose my childhood was probably much like any other. I hung out with friends trying to avoid any work my parents gave me. I was a bit of a wild child, frequently getting into trouble,” he chuckled, his eyes distant, remembering. “I had a mutt named Claude. I still miss him.”

I took a breath; I hadn’t realized
I’d been holding it. His answer was non-committal, generic, and a description of anyone’s childhood. I was disappointed but it would be awkward if I started quizzing him. I let it go.

“Where did you get your interest in art?”

“My father planned to have me enter the priesthood. He was never able to convince me it was my calling. I rebelled, my interests lay elsewhere.” He shrugged. “He sent me to stay with my aunt to study at a university in Paris. She had a friend who had a vast collection of art.”

He glanced up at the rear view mirror
and for a moment watched the road behind us.

“They noticed my interest and spent time with me, instilling an appreciation. I was fortunate. They saw my aptitude, my passion for great beauty. They convinced my parents I should master the trade.”

“So you paint?”

“Yes, I have several at my home. Would you like to see them sometime?”

I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing. He grinned. A soft chuckle slipped out of his throat.

“So … have you ever been married?”

I inwardly cringed. I couldn’t believe that had just come out of my mouth.

“No, never married. I was engaged once,” he said softly. He glanced at me briefly. He had a sad, almost painful look on his face. He turned his focus back to the road. “There was an accident. She died along with my family.”

I was mortified. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.” The thought of marriage, family and death together conjured up a mix of horror. Tears welled in my eyes. It was like a nightmare whispering at the back of my mind.

I gazed out the window. The
trees, illuminated briefly by our headlights, flew past us. A sickness squeezed my heart, deep and cloying.

He cleared his throat. “No, it’s fine. It happened long ago. Ancient history as they say.”

It was awkwardly silent for several miles. I glanced at him. He looked to be deep in thought. His hands seemed to be clutching the wheel a bit too tightly.

“
What’s it like to go around the world, working on priceless works of art?”

The distraction worked.
He began to tell me about a few works he’d restored, some of which I recognized. As he talked, he became animated, his thoughts completely focused, his voice symphonic, almost mesmerizing. I lost track of time. Before I realized it, we had pulled up to the art gallery. A life-size metal sculpture of a man, twisted and formless stood in the window melting like the Wicked Witch of the West.

“It looks closed,” I said. The street was quiet, no cars, no people. The other galleries up and down the street looked closed as well. Tension steadily rose. The little voice in my head started hissing something nasty.

“Not to worry,” he said, giving me a reassuring smile. “I have a key. The owner is a good friend of mine. I have unlimited access.” The hissing grew louder.

He unlocked the door and we stepped in. He flipped a couple of switches. Muted over-head lights shined down on a glossy coral pink floor and small spotlights illuminated brilliantly colored art on white walls.

He locked the door behind us, his dark hair obscuring his face. Those simple movements of him locking the door screamed “Trapped!” Then the voice in my head went silent. Adrenaline began to build, warming my frozen hands and feet.

Without looking up he seemed to feel my hesitation. “Please don’t worry
. You’re perfectly safe with me.” He sounded sincere. Yeah, well, if I didn’t show tomorrow, Jen knew where his office was. I let out a long breath and relaxed. For the moment anyway, it seemed I was safe. I did another long blink. Magic. How did he do that? One minute I was on the verge of panic and the next, relaxed as if it had been ridiculous to even think it would be a bad thing to be alone in a strange city, in a closed gallery, locked in with my boss, practically a stranger who I think might have flirted with me. Silly me.

He took the lead, moving through one sectioned room to the next, to finally one containing the exhibit. He led me around and pointed out the slight nuances and history of each painting, from their initial creation, to their current home in Russia. As if I were in the moment, time seem to slow. The way he would brush a stray lock of hair away from his face or
pull it behind one ear was a source of fascination. As he spoke, I committed to memory the planes of his face, the curve of his lips, and the sweep of lashes that graced his warm eyes. I wanted to reach out and run my fingers over his perfect pale skin, trace his lips –

I felt
a touch against my hand.

“May I?”

He moved behind me and as I half turned to see what he was doing, he stopped me with a hand upon my shoulder. I stiffened, my internal alarms going off. He slid his hand down my right arm and slowly grasped my hand placing his forefinger against mine. There was that faint buzzing sound in my head that said, “Breathe … breathe …”

I forced myself to take a breath
.

H
e gently raised my hand to the painting displayed in front of us, "An Olive-Tree in the Garden of Gethsemane". Using his hand around mine, he used my finger to trace its brushstrokes in the air.

He spoke softly, his breath against my ear.
“To some, Polenov is considered the father of ‘pleine-air’, or painting in the open air. His works greatly influenced Russian landscape painting. Here, you can see the weight of the silent poetry, one can almost feel the emotion, the agelessness …” He traced each line of the tree with small graceful movements and I closed my eyes, all of my senses attuned to the touch of his body, his scent, his voice, so deep, musical. I leaned back against him, my body humming, my hand enclosed by his, making graceful movements. It almost felt as if I were one with the painting – with him.

“Would you like a late dinner … or we could head back?”

I looked at him in confusion. He was watching me intently, an inviting smile on his lips. What had happened? It felt as if I had a lost a few minutes. The last thing I remembered was leaning back against him, his hand guiding me as we traced the painting. How long had he been trying to get my attention?

“Ah, dinner would be
wonderful.” I blushed. Great.

“Come,” he said, lightly touching the small of my back. A pleasant shiver traveled up my spine. “I know a little French café around the corner, very authentic.”

He locked the doors behind us. I watched him as we walked along, only half listening as he filled me in on the café and its write-ups in various newspapers. I wasn’t quite sure how I should take what happened in the gallery. I felt calm, not overly concerned he had pulled the “here, let me help you with your golf swing” trick. My mind should be screaming that it was too close to home to have Michel’s look-a-like so close, touching me. Over the last few weeks, I had successfully compartmentalized Dr. Marcheon. He was in the boss/professor box I took out to play with on a daily basis, no big deal as long as I pretended he wasn’t the hottest thing on campus. Michel, however, was in the back of the closet, in a box wrapped with ribbons that somehow liked to unravel at night. I was big into denial. It was the only way I could keep from going mad.

A few blocks later, not quite around the corner, we came to a street lined with shops and restaurants. Faux gas lamps cast soft shadows across the sidewalks. Like the gallery, they were all closed, except for one. A small café was nestled between two antique shops with a sign above it, “Goût de Ciel”, a Taste of Heaven
– I had on occasion watched the Food Network with my mom and had picked up a few “foodie” words. White painted flower boxes with blue and yellow pansies hung under the windows.

A bell dinged as we entered. A dozen tables covered in white tablecloths spread out across the small space. Faded yellow and white stucco covered the walls. The painted cement floors resembled variegated
stone. Michael called out to the back of the restaurant in rapid French.

Double-hinged doors
flung open and two men came out grinning. They had to be twins. They looked like fifty-year-old retired linebackers whose center of gravity had shifted to their midsections. They both had ruddy complexions and matching buzz cuts. Their salt and pepper eyebrows, matching the color of their hair, balanced out their broad smiles. Crisp white double aprons were wrapped tightly around their rotund bodies. They slapped him on the back and grabbed him up in a bear hug.

It was strange to see a perfect angel mauled by two heavy-set Frenchmen.

Rapid conversation in French fired between the three of them. I had no clue what they were talking about but it was as sexy as hell coming out of Michael’s mouth, the other two, not so much. I was definitely going to have to add a French class next semester. He reached out and touched the small of my back. The pleasure of it spread through me. It was a safe, almost protective touch.

He
introduced me to Amaury and Bruno, co-owners of the Goût de Ciel. “This is Miss Elizabeth Aldridge from the college. She’s my teaching assistant. We were just at a gallery reviewing a new exhibit and thought we’d stop in for a light dinner.”

They could ba
rely speak English. I got that they were pleased to meet me and hoped I’d enjoyed the exhibit. I talked slowly but didn’t go overboard and enunciate loudly. I’d been around enough foreigners to know they weren’t too fond of being deaf-talked.

They glanced at Michael, then back at
me. With impish grins on their faces, another quick burst of French spilled out of their mouths. I caught part of it. I knew what “belle jeune femme” meant. See – I wasn’t completely without language skills. God, they were acting as if this was a date or something. He said something back to them. I couldn’t tell if he was agreeing or telling them to shut up.

             
He guided me to a table that looked out onto the street. I looked at the menu. It was in French. No surprise.