The Art of Seduction (16 page)

Richard lightly scratched his head and said, “I've been having a jolly time.
Viva la France.
”

The audience roared.

Perplexed, Richard said, “Bloody hell…!”

Valentin smiled, and said, “I can see you're just too tough a subject for me. Please, take your seat.”

As he did, the audience continued to laugh. “What do they find so amusing?” Richard asked Mason.

“You made a fool out of the man,” she told him. “Come on, let's go.”

Outside on Rue Richer, he hailed a cab. Mason turned to him with smoldering eyes. “I want to go back to your hotel room.”

He looked surprised. “What brought this on?”

“Don't talk. Don't say anything. Just get me back there as fast as you can.”

He handed the driver a bill and told him he would double it if he made it to the Grand Hotel in five minutes. During the ride, Mason snuggled against him, smelling his distinctive fresh scent, saying to herself,
I've been such a fool. Such a suspicious fool!

The driver earned his bonus, and they were soon crossing the lobby of the Grand Hotel. “Just a moment,” he said, then left her to have a few words with the concierge, no doubt requesting privacy. She couldn't wait to get to his room. Once he'd ushered her into the elevator, she grabbed him and kissed him on the mouth long and hard. As the grill opened, she took him by the arm and pulled him down the hall.

There was an urgency mounting in her, a need to make up for all the lost time with one grand explosive coming together. At the door, she said in a hoarse voice, “I can't tell you how much I want you.”

He pulled her to him, kissing her hungrily. He quickly opened the door, then closed it behind them. Then he picked her up, carried her into the bedroom, and laid her on the bed. The room was dark, but the moonlight beaming through the window lent it a romantic enchantment.

His clothes seemed an affront to the necessity of the moment. She couldn't wait to get him out of them. She tore at his shirt, sending the buttons flying, then pushed it down his arms. She undid his trousers and helped him pull them off. The rest he did himself. Then he lay down beside her, completely naked, in a state of intense arousal.

Very slowly, he started to undress her. One by one her clothes came off and were tossed aside. She was so hungry, she couldn't wait and helped him, tugging at her corset, not caring if it ripped in the process.

And then she was as naked as he was. He came to her and she felt his body on hers, taut naked flesh on her delicate curves. He kissed her again, deeply, longingly, as if all the passion he'd pent up was suddenly unchained. His hands moved on her, stroking her, touching, cupping, gripping, as if as desperate to touch every inch of her as she was to touch him.

He rolled over, kissing her, so that she was on top of him, nuzzling her neck, her shoulders, finding the tight bud of her nipple with his mouth. She moaned, throwing back her head, relishing the moist suckling that was sending jolts of longing through her. She wanted to tell him, with her body if not her words, how sorry she was to have doubted him. To make up for all the suspicions, the avoidance, the maneuvering, the crude intrusions into his private world. To infuse him with her passion and her love for him, driving away the distance that had never had to be. Her desire was so great, so overpowering that it left her feeling stripped bare of everything save her need for him.

They'd never been completely naked together before, and she thrilled at the touch of his body against hers. The muscular sweep of his arms and shoulders. The crisp hair furring his granite chest. The junction of their hips coming together against a rigid erection. His mouth moved on her with devastating skill, kissing her everywhere, trailing his tongue down her arm, nuzzling the palm of her hand, taking her fingers, one by one, into his mouth, as if wanting to taste all the various fruits her body offered, setting her loins on fire with every masterful flick of his tongue.

Then he was rolling her onto her side, kissing the back of her shoulder, moving her onto her stomach with her face pressed into the bed as he traced the curve of her back with his mouth. Down her spine, igniting flicks of desire that seemed unbearable. Lower, lower, his hands cupping her buttocks, kneading gently, slipping underneath to find her juicy core. She gasped as he found her, already feeling ready to explode. Dear God, how she wanted him!

He moved on top of her from behind. But instead of entering her, he reached under the pillow. Suddenly, she felt something cold on her wrist, then heard a metallic click. She jerked around and realized he'd put a handcuff on her.

“What are you doing?” she gasped.

“It's over, Mason,” he said in a cold voice. “You've been caught.”

H
orrified, Mason grabbed hold of the bedspread and yanked it up to cover herself.

Richard reached over and turned on the lamp, looking down at her with cool indifference.

“You…miserable swine!” she spat out at him. “How could you?”

“It wasn't easy, I assure you.” He clamped her handcuff to the bedpost, then began to gather up his clothes.

“You're out of your mind.”

“The birthmark, Mason.” He grabbed her wrist and twisted her around so he could see her flank. “You forgot the birthmark. The damning proof.”

Jesus! She
had
forgotten it. It was in a place she never saw in the course of her day. But she'd put it in her own portrait because she'd been using mirrors to see herself from behind. She'd never thought of it again.

What a simpleton!

She thought quickly. “You fool. All the Caldwells have this birthmark.”

He was systematically dressing himself, making her feel more vulnerable in her nakedness. “Come now, Mason. The chance of two siblings having the exact same birthmark in the exact same spot is perhaps many billions to one.”

Again, she scrambled for an explanation. “Who said it was a self-portrait? Falconier gave it that title. It's actually Mason's painting of me. I just didn't tell you that because you seemed so attached to the idea of it being her that I didn't want to disillusion you. It's me.”

He couldn't help but smile. “My, but you
are
a worthy opponent. A marvelous defense tactic, I admit. But that's not the only way you slipped up. There were other little things. And one big one: your eyelashes. Everyone who knew Mason remembers her unusually long lashes. Which, I hasten to remind you, are prominent in the self-portrait. Amy's lashes, on the other hand, are quite short. But the oddest thing happened. During the time I've known you, they seemed to be growing. I thought it was my imagination at first. But then, quite suddenly, they were short again. Which had to mean only one thing. You were cutting them. Now, why would a woman go out of her way to sabotage something that adds to her allure?”

The man had the eyes of a microscope. But she wasn't about to give in. “Eyelashes are also a family trait. I just don't happen to like them. Have you ever thought of that, you smug bastard?”

Unfazed, Richard continued, “But it became even more apparent when you began to fight back. I realized you were on to me. Somehow you found out I was a Pinkerton man. Emma, no doubt. So you went looking for information to use against me. That felonious ape. Who else would have access to such a creature but someone whose best friend was a circus performer?”

“Why shouldn't I fight back and try to find the truth when I learn that everything you told me about yourself is a lie?”

“The monkey was clever, even imaginative,” he went on. “But the mesmerist—now, that was pathetic. Do you honestly think my mind is so undisciplined that I'd allow myself to fall under your power? It was all I could do to keep from laughing aloud.
Viva la France
, indeed. Did you take me for a complete amateur?”

She felt her heart sink even further. “Those things you said. They were just to trick me, to get me into your bed so you could see my birthmark.”

Fully dressed now, he pulled his pocket watch from his vest, glanced at it, and said, “Time to go.”

He stepped to the bed, unlocked the handcuff, and watched her get dressed. She was so hurt—so furious—she was cursing him as she did. “I'm going to sue you for this. You and the Pinkertons of Chicago, and anyone else who helped you. You're going to be so sorry.”

As they got to the door, he snapped the handcuffs on both her wrists and quipped, “Sorry about the restraints, but worthy opponents are not to be underestimated.”

“I'd gladly strangle you with them if I could.”

“Ah,” he smiled coldly, “hell hath no fury like a crook who's been caught.”

She reached around to kick him, but he sidestepped it and said, “I think we'll avoid the lobby tonight and take the back way out.”

They walked down the four flights of stairs and left by the back entrance. As they did, they ran into one of the bellboys, who jerked in surprise at the sight of the handcuffs. Mason had never felt more humiliated in all her life.

“Lovers' spat,” Garrett explained, nodding to him pleasantly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

She was surprised to find the coach waiting as they left the back entrance. “You were pretty sure of yourself,” she grumbled.

“I had the concierge make a few arrangements. You see, I've had this evening planned for some time.”

The coach headed down Avenue de l'Opéra in the direction of the Prefecture of Police. Mason sat as far away from him as she could, but she couldn't keep the fear from gripping her.

“Let's just say, for a moment, that you're able to convince the authorities that I'm masquerading as my sister. What do you think they'll do to me?”

“Hard to say. For the crime of fraud, I should estimate perhaps eight to ten years in the women's wing of Santé Prison. But the French, as you know, can be rather harsh in the meting out of their justice, and might be vengeful toward someone who'd made fools of so many important people. They might decide to make an example out of such a person, in which case the term could be…far greater.”

The reality of her predicament paralyzed her. She spent the rest of the journey down the avenue staring morosely out the window.

Soon they came to the Palais Royal. But instead of turning left on Rue de Rivoli toward the Prefecture, the carriage pulled up and stopped.

“We're here,” Richard said.

Mason looked around. “The Louvre?”

“Very perceptive. Get out.”

She did, feeling confused and slightly absurd being in shackles at the north entrance of the world's supreme sanctuary of art.

“Up the stairs, please.”

He gave her a nudge to get her started. It must have been midnight by now, but a guard was standing at the door. As they approached, he bowed slightly at Richard and opened it for him.

“What's going on?” she asked.

“Just keep walking.”

They started down a long corridor lined with paintings by Poussin, Boucher, and Fragonard that they could barely see in the moonlight shining through the curved glass ceiling. As they rounded the corner, another guard was standing sentry. Displaying no surprise at their presence, he handed Richard a key.

“Keep going, please,” Richard said to her.

They proceeded down another corridor, their footsteps echoing in the vast, empty temple of art. It was eerie being there at night. The hush seemed almost ghostly. The huge paintings, now by Renaissance artists, hung in the gloom like darkened windows to other impenetrable worlds.

“This is vicious,” she told him. “I demand that you tell me where we're going and why.”

“Oh, I'll do the demanding here.”

They took a left and started down a smaller corridor where a night maid curtsied to Richard and said, “Everything has been prepared, Monsieur.”

He tipped her and they kept walking.

Where could they be going? Mason couldn't think of anything that made any sense. Except, perhaps, that he'd arranged for Duval to meet them here, so she could be turned over to the police in a setting that would emphasize the particularly heinous nature of her crime to a nation that treasured art above all else. A perfect coda for a sanctimonious detective who prided himself in nailing defrauders of his sacred religion.

The darkness of the halls, the unearthly silence, the echo of their footsteps all served to increase Mason's trepidation.

They came to a closed door. Using the key the guard had provided, Richard opened it and then stepped back.

Inside, she saw an incredible sight. The large rococo chamber was lighted by dozens of white candles. To one side, two paintings were positioned on stands, facing a chaise lounge. An end table beside it was laid with a bottle of champagne and a couple of glasses.

As he locked the door behind them, she noticed that the smaller of the two paintings was Leonardo da Vinci's
Mona Lisa
. The other was her own self-portrait.

Mason was flabbergasted. She couldn't speak. She turned and looked at Richard numbly for some explanation. But he said nothing. Instead, he unlocked her handcuffs and let them fall to the carpeted floor.

“What is all this?” she managed.

He dropped his cold indifference and his eyes softened on her. “A celebration.”

“A celebration? Of what?”

“Of our coming together at last.”

Coming together? What was he saying? “You're not arresting me?”

“I'm arresting you, but not in the way you think.”

“But…I don't understand.”

“Don't you see? This is my way of showing you how much I love you. How much I admire you.”

Her legs buckled. He caught her and guided her to the lounge where he gently sat her down.

“I must be dreaming.”

He took a seat beside her. “I
wanted
it to be like a dream. I wanted to create a moment that was not of this world. You see, I've never told a woman I loved her before, and I wanted it to be…magical.”

“This has to be a trick.”

“We're through with tricks. This is real.”

She looked up at him. “You
love
me?”

“I think I've loved you since the moment I first saw your painting.”

“You love a woman you think is a fraud?”

“You're no fraud. You're everything I thought you were, and more.”

“More?”

He took her hand in his. “You're a woman after my own heart. A woman who's not afraid to spit in the face of fate and create her own destiny.”

“But all your talk about purity and honesty…”

“The purity I admire is the purity of your painting. The honesty I admire is your devotion to do whatever it takes to give that purity to the world.
Whatever
it takes.”

“You admire what I've done?”

“More than you'll ever know. The world couldn't see the brilliance of what you were doing. So when chance placed a unique opportunity in your path, you took it, fearlessly, risking everything. I did what I did tonight to show you what could have happened, to show you how courageous your sacrifice really was. As a way of honoring the risk you took.”

She was beginning to believe it. “You honored me by scaring me to death?”

He dropped her hand. “I'm doing this badly. I told you how I figured out you were Mason from the standpoint of a detective. But it wasn't the truth. Not the real truth.”

He rose and went to stand before her portrait. “That first day in Falconier's,” he said softly, “I stood before this very painting and fell in love. I saw in your work something that touched me on such a deep level it rocked the very foundations of my soul. It utterly seduced me. It was as if I hadn't lived until that moment. But on the heels of this revelation came sadness. All I could think was, if only I'd known her. If only I'd been here to help her, love her, while she was still alive. Maybe I could have saved her.”

He turned to her. “And then I looked at you, the sister. And I wanted you. I wasn't even sure why. And when we made love in the coach…It was so much more fulfilling than anything I'd ever experienced. It shook me as deeply and almost in the same way as when I saw your portrait. I couldn't understand it. I thought perhaps I wanted you as a way of being close to Mason, so I tried to stay away. But I couldn't. It was driving me out of my mind. Then I saw the paint on your hands in Auvers. And I thought, could it be? I didn't even dare to hope. But I set out to discover the truth—not to bring you to some false justice, but because I wanted,
needed
it to be true.”

He came back and sat down beside her once again. “I think I knew it in my heart all along. But I couldn't be sure. And I couldn't confront you, couldn't risk scaring you away. So it became a game between us. I actually enjoyed the game. In a way, it was a form of making love with you. Back and forth, give and take. It was exciting to watch you try and best me. Truly you
were
a worthy opponent. And so imaginative!” He laughed. “Who but you could come up with such entertaining maneuvers?” He took her hand, growing serious once more. “I knew tonight was the night. I planned everything carefully in advance. But there was still an unanswered question in my mind. Something I needed to know before confessing everything to you.”

“What was that?”

“I didn't know how you felt about me. I didn't know if the discoveries you'd made about me had spoiled any hope that you might love me. So I told you the truth when you thought I was hypnotized. I told you I loved you. To see your reaction. To see if, underneath your sense of betrayal, your anger, there might be some spark of feeling for me. Some reason to hope that this wasn't all for nothing.”