J.C. and the Bijoux Jolis: The Rousseaus #3 (The Blueberry Lane Series Book 14) (16 page)

“Oh, yes.
Jean-Christian
already told me.”

“Delilah, you are a delight!” he said in a thicker-than-usual French accent. He finally slid his gaze to Libitz after he’d fawned sufficiently over the older woman. “
Bonsoir
, Mademoiselle Feingold.”

“
Bonsoir,
Monsieur Rousseau,” she answered, drinking him in with her eyes.

But he didn’t hold her gaze as she’d become accustomed to. In fact, he dropped it rather quickly, turning back to Mrs. Carnegie. “I’m taking Libitz to the Met tonight.”

“To the Met! How lovely! The opera?”

“The museum,” he clarified. “We’re on a bit of a treasure hunt.”

“Is that right?”

He nodded. “
Oui
. We found an old painting, and we’re both dying to know its history.”

“
Que c’est excitant
!
”
exclaimed Mrs. Carnegie, leaning toward Jean-Christian conspiratorially. “Ah, to be young and in love again.”

Libitz, who had been filling out the last of the paperwork, jerked her head up in surprise, her eyes slamming into Jean-Christian’s at Mrs. Carnegie’s inadvertently awkward mention of the
L
word. His face froze for only an instant before his eyes cooled to amusement, and he looked away from Libitz to smile at the older lady.

“Libitz and I share a love of art, not each other,” he said smoothly.

Much to her dismay, Libitz gasped almost inaudibly at his comment, staring at his profile for a moment before returning her attention to the paperwork at hand. Though neither J.C. nor Mrs. Carnegie appeared to have noticed that her heart lay slain on the table, inside she ached.

Not each other.

Not each other.

Not each other.

The words circled in her head as she finished writing in Mrs. Carnegie’s contact information, forcing herself to remain composed.

Why had he said such a thing?
They’d so recently shared their feelings for each other, both using the words “crazy about you.”
Why would he make such a bold point about there being no love between them?
Even if there wasn’t, it seemed a very cold thing to say.
And why, dear God, did it hurt so goddamn much?
She blinked her eyes, horrified to realize that they were burning with unshed tears.

When she raised her head, she carefully avoided Jean-Christian’s eyes, though she felt them boring into the side of her head.

“I need your signature here, please. And here,” said Libitz, sliding the contract to her client. “And your card, please.” Mrs. Carnegie handed her a credit card, and Libitz slid it through the Square reader.

Chancing a glance at Jean-Christian, she found him staring at the table, his face pinched, his lips pursed, his jaw clenched. He looked as upset as she felt, which was baffling, since he’d said the words so easily, as though they hadn’t cost him a thing.

“Your signature once more, please,” she murmured, handing Mrs. Carnegie a stylus and positioning the iPad before her. Subtly reaching for her belt, she pressed the button for Duane. It wasn’t normal practice for her to let her assistant finalize details on a big sale unless there was another client waiting to see her, but she simply didn’t trust herself right now. She blinked again, trying to swallow over the lump in her throat. She needed to get away from Jean-Christian before she embarrassed herself.

When Duane arrived, she nodded in thanks for his efficiency. “Please walk Mrs. Carnegie through the delivery process tomorrow. There’s a call I must take.” She held out her hand to the older lady. “Thank you very much. I hope you are very happy with the painting.”

“I’m sure I will be,” said Mrs. Carnegie, searching Libitz’s face for a moment before turning to Duane. “Can we do this on the way to my car? I have somewhere I need to be.”

Duane helped her with her chair, holding an umbrella as he held the door for her and walked her half a block to her waiting chauffeur.

Libitz pushed the signed papers into the file folder and picked up the iPad, clutching both to her breasts, unsure of what to say to J.C., who still sat motionless in his chair, staring down at the slick, black tabletop. She didn’t want to go to the Met with him. She didn’t want to go anywhere with him. The sweet but fragile connection they’d built suddenly felt flimsy and silly, and she felt embarrassed and foolish for trusting it.

“I don’t feel very well,” she said, reaching for the forgotten stylus. “If you’ll forgive me, I think I’ll just—”

His fingers shot up, wrapping around her wrist with an unyielding grip and forcing her to stay, though he didn’t look up at her.

“Stop,” he growled.

She didn’t know what to say or do, so she stopped pulling away and stood still, waiting for him to say something else.

“I’m sorry,” he finally muttered, his voice tight and gravelly.

“For what?” she asked, hating the way her voice broke. “We never promised each other anything.”

Slowly, so slowly, he raised his head to look at her, and his eyes were shattered. Crushed. Panicked even. “Wait. What does
that
mean?”

“I get it. You’re not into this anymore, so we can just—”

“I
am
into it,” he said, standing up but still holding tightly to her wrist as though it was a lifeline, and he’d drift out to sea if he wasn’t holding on for dear life.

“Then what?” she whispered, staring into his eyes as she lowered the file and iPad back to the table.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he said harshly, moving around the curve of the table to pull her closer. “I don’t know how to feel comfortable with it.”

“But you want it?” she asked, wishing she could quell the wild uncertainties in his eyes.

He nodded once, covering his heart with his free hand. “I want
you
.”

She turned away from him, pulling him toward the back of the gallery where they could be alone. He followed her, sliding his fingers from her wrist to her hand.

In the dim, quiet light of the hallway, she turned to face him, backing him against the wall. “Are you freaking out? Is that what this is?”

The severe expression on his face softened and he nodded.

She exhaled, breathing a sigh of relief and cocking her head to the side as she glared up at him. “Are you sure that’s all it is? Because I’m planning to make a
major
life change tomorrow and if you’re not into this—”

His lips crashed down on hers with a groan of gut-wrenching need, his hands landing on her hips to pull her between his legs as he leaned against the hallway wall, positioning her firmly against his body.

“I’m into it. I need you, Libitz. I want you. I’m crazy about you, baby,” he murmured, his lips trailing down the column of her neck as he whispered his truth in a husky, emotional voice. “I’m sorry for saying that before. I didn’t mean it.”

She flattened her hands on his chest and leaned away to look up at him.

“Oh. So we
do
share a love of each other?” she asked, desperately trying to keep a straight face, since she suspected this question would make him extremely uncomfortable. She didn’t care. After what he pulled back there, he deserved it. She raised her eyebrows and waited.

His eyes widened and he cleared his throat. “Well, um—I’m not sure that we need to, well, um—”

Her trembling shoulders gave her away, and he sighed, his whole body relaxing as he realized she was teasing him. She giggled softly, reaching up to cup his face. “There’s no reason to freak out, Jean-Christian.”

“
Though she be but little, she is fierce.
”
He sighed, kissing her sweetly. “This is new for me. All of it.”

I’m falling in love with you
, she thought for the second time that afternoon, gazing up into his beautiful dark eyes.

“For me too.”

***

Libitz rested her head on his shoulder on the cab ride up to the Met, and J.C. marveled over the fact that he had somehow sidestepped a meltdown. By her strength. By her grace. By her understanding and wisdom. In the space of a few hours, two of the most terrifying words in the world—“ring” and “love”—had been introduced into his life, and he hadn’t spontaneously combusted or had an impromptu heart attack. In fact, he thought, resting his lips on the crown of her head, he was feeling…okay. Because of her. Because when he’d said that asinine comment about them not loving each other, her gasp of breath and the sudden flash of pain in her eyes were enough to make him want to die. He never, ever wanted to see that look on her face again. Never.

Leaning away from her just a bit, he tilted her chin up and kissed her. Though she didn’t know it, it was a promise to her, and to himself, that he wouldn’t hurt her again—that if she gave him her trust, he would prove himself worthy of it.

“What was that for?” she asked as the cab pulled up to the curb of the Met and he drew away.

“For being you,” he answered, dragging his wallet out of his pocket and paying the cabbie.

“Little and fierce?” she asked.

He nodded.
Little and fierce…and mine.

She was waiting for him on the sidewalk when he exited, and he took her hand as they walked up the grand steps together.

“Who are we meeting again?” she asked.

“Niles Harkin. Doctor. Professor. He taught at Princeton, and I audited some of his classes. We kept in touch.”

“And he just happens to work at the Met?”

J.C. nodded. “He’s the head of Painting Conservation.”

“People in high places,” she said.

“He had
Les Bijoux Jolis
picked up from my hotel earlier. We’ll see what he has to say.”

After receiving special passes at the front desk, a docent led them to the Sherman Fairchild Paintings Conservation Center, an eighteen-thousand-square foot space where Dr. Harkin and his team worked to research, repair, and restore the paintings of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The docent led them straight to Dr. Harkin’s desk, where they found
Les Bijoux Jolis
propped up on a wooden easel, with Dr. Harkin sitting on a stool before it.

“J.C., ma boy!” he greeted his former student, his slight British accent welcome in J.C.’s ears.

“Professor Harkin,” he said, shaking the older man’s hand. “It’s good to see you, sir. This is Libitz Feingold. She owns a gallery on Fifth.”

“Miss Feingold,” said Dr. Harkin, taking her hand. “Charmed.” He narrowed his eyes at her, pulling his glasses from his forehead onto the bridge of his nose and looking at her face closely. “You bear an uncanny resemblance to the model in the portrait.”

She smiled. “Yes, I know. We’re hoping you can tell us more about her.”

Dr. Harkin dropped her hand and turned back to the portrait, sighing deeply. “I can tell you a little, though Pierre Montferrat wasn’t, I’m afraid, very well known, so there isn’t much documentation about his works or models.”

“What about the signature, Professor?” asked J.C. as they all stepped closer to the painting.

“It’s the Hebrew word
L’chaim
,” said Dr. Harkin, and Libitz’s sharp elbow landed in his side.

“I thought it was
pi
,” mumbled J.C.

“No, no. I’m quite sure it’s
L’chaim
, because when I cut off this brown paper on the back…” They followed him around the canvas. “You see here? It says ‘
Ayez une bonne vie
.’”

“Have a good life,” translated J.C.

“
L’chaim tovim
,” murmured Libitz.

Professor Harkin nodded. “Yes. I don’t believe that inscription is a coincidence. ‘Have a good life’ on the back.
L’chaim
on the front.” He looked from the painting to the couple. “I believe the model was Jewish…as you may have already figured out.”

“
Some
of us have,” said Libitz, giving J.C. a look.

“She’s dark-haired and dark-eyed,” continued Professor Harkin, squinting at the painting as he gestured to her features. “Judging from the portrait, even in its state of some disrepair, her skin appears olive-toned, not pink. Plus, as you may or may not know, in 1939 when this portrait was painted, the largest community of Eastern European Jews in Western Europe was living in Marseille. Aside from the portrait markings, time and place support her being Jewish.”

“I knew it,” said Libitz looking up at J.C. in victory.

“However, history also supports the likelihood that she…” Professor Harkin cleared his throat, his voice taking on a somber tone. “A young Jewish woman living in Marseille in 1939 probably wouldn’t have…I mean to say…”

“Survived,” said Libitz quietly, taking a step back from the painting. “She wouldn’t have survived.”

J.C. put his arm around her, but her shoulders remained rigid under his touch.