The Art of Seduction (17 page)

“You wanted to know if I love you?”

Mason could see a flicker of doubt, of vulnerability in the dark recesses of Richard's eyes. “Yes.”

She just stared at him for a moment. There was no doubt in her mind that the hope she read in his eyes was real. She turned to him fully and put both hands on his face. “With all my heart and soul, Richard. With everything I have.”

In a savage move, he yanked her to him, holding her close. She could feel the thundering of his heart. “Thank God,” he whispered.

Feeling his love pouring into her, she clutched him to her, tears of gratitude welling in her eyes.

“Now we can start over,” he murmured. “All barriers down between us.”

She eased away. She didn't want to spoil the moment, but she had the presence of mind to say, “My barriers are down. But what about yours? There's so much about you I don't know.”

“You know I love you.”

“That's all I know. What about your past?”

He blinked. “My…past?”

“Before you became the pride of the Pinkerton Detective Agency.”

“Oh. You mean, what did I do?”

“For starters, yes.”

“You really want to know?”

“Of course I do.”

“I warn you, it's something rather shocking.”

“More shocking than finding myself in a candlelit room with the
Mona Lisa
?”

Richard chuckled, then stood up. Looking down on her, he gave a mischievous smile. “I was a thief.”

“You were not!”

“I was. An art thief. Actually, one of the world's foremost art thieves. I could try to impress you with tales of my exploits, but as accomplished as I was, in the end I was caught. I was given the choice of a long jail sentence or joining the agency and using my skill and experience to serve the other side of the law. It wasn't a difficult choice.”

Mason sat there somberly for a moment, taking it all in. Then, suddenly, she threw her head back and laughed. She laughed so hard her sides began to ache.

“And to think,” she finally gasped, “I was terrified you'd find out
I'd
done something dishonest!”

He saw the humor and laughed with her. It was so funny, so wonderful, the two of them, outlaws, masters of deception. She jumped up and threw her arms around him, hugging him joyously. “I adore you!”

She'd never seen him look so happy. He hugged her again, lifting her off her feet.

But when he put her down, she looked around her at the room, the candles, the paintings. “You must have had to grease a few palms in the Ministry of Culture to pull
this
off.”

“Let's just say it helps to know where a few bodies are buried along the Seine.”

“But…the
Mona Lisa
…What does
that
mean?”

“It means I think your self-portrait is the equal of Leonardo's masterpiece. And I believe, Mason or Amy, it's your destiny to be one of the most important painters in the history of Western art.”

Mason had to catch her breath. “You mean…You want everything to go on as before? Our mission to make Mason—me—famous?”

“That's exactly what I'm saying.”

“But…Mason can't very well just suddenly come to life, can she?”

“I'm afraid not. Her legend demands a martyr. Nobody planned that, it just happened. But the myth that's coming out of it has a power and a will of its own and we can't stand in its way.”

“Then I have to stay dead. I have to be Amy.”

“But when you paint, you'll be Mason.”

She paused a moment to let that sink in.

“If you feel you can't do it, I shall understand. But if you choose to rejoin me in this quest, I promise I shall give everything I have to it…to you.”

He said this with a sincerity that made her dizzy. In one evening, this man was telling her he loved her, he forgave—no, celebrated—her fraud, and he wanted to dedicate his life to her. What woman could resist that?

She had no intention of resisting.

She reached up, took his face in her hands, and gave him the deepest, most heartfelt, most surrendering kiss she'd ever bestowed in her life.

“Are you sure the door's locked?” she asked.

He smiled and held up the key. “We're shut off from the world. The three of us here. You, me, and
La Gioconda
.”

“Good.”

Mason reached behind her and unbuttoned the back of her gown, then let it drop to the floor. Her petticoats followed, then her shoes, her stockings, her corset. Until she was standing before him, completely nude. “I've never been so exposed before. I never dreamed it could be so liberating.”

Richard came to her and slowly turned her so her back was to him. He kissed her shoulders. Then he left a trail of stirring kisses along her back, moving lower, dropping to his knees. He glanced over at her self-portrait, looked at the heart-shaped birthmark, then at its inspiration on her flank. He kissed it, tenderly, reverently, worshipfully.

The intimacy of this devotion sent a jolt of excitement through Mason. She turned around and said, “Take off your clothes. I want to see you as naked as I am. I want us to be like Adam and Eve, here in our own Garden of Eden.”

He stood again and began to undress. She'd only caught a brief glimpse of his naked body for the first time earlier that night. But at the time, she'd been so angry she hadn't been able to appreciate its exhilarating contours. Now she sat back on the softly padded lounge and watched as, bit by bit, it was revealed to her gaze. A strong body, powerful and wholly masculine, a chest of iron, massive, sumptuously sculpted, with dark hair that made her want to run her fingers through it. Lean waist, trim but muscled thighs. Every inch of him ruggedly beautiful, like a stallion in the wild. And his cock—bold, tumescent, but quickly rising to the occasion. So perfectly formed that Apollo himself would be envious.

He joined her on the chaise. “Take a moment and feel the spirit of this place,” he murmured. “All the history these walls have seen. The energy possessed in all these glorious works of art concentrated in one contained space. Energy we love, energy that has always called out to us, that speaks to us so clearly and powerfully. Let it come into us, let it possess us, let it give us strength for what's to come. Let it merge us into one.”

She felt his words seep into her soul. She felt that energy, the essence of all these great masters, all their pain and suffering and genius, permeating the spirit of this grand palace of beauty, pouring into her, giving her a confidence, a certainty, a mandate the gods were telling her she could, and should, merge with him.

She took him into her mouth and felt him swell and fill the vacant hollow. Filling, too, the hollow she'd carried in her heart for too many years to count. The feeling that took hold of her was beyond bliss. It was as if she were being carried off to some higher plane of existence. As he slid in and out of her mouth, she lost all track of time, of who she was, of what tomorrow or next week or next month might bring. She felt a satisfaction and gratification and exquisite oneness that was beyond anything she might have imagined, and that she never wanted to end.

Finally, however, he withdrew from her, leaned her back, and knelt before her. “I'm going to devour you,” he said. Then he buried his face between her legs.

His tongue was like a hot flame. As it found her tender clit and skillfully set to work, she was transported to that place where she'd been moments before, where time was meaningless, where there was only pleasure. Pleasure that built…and built…and built…until all of her—body, mind, and soul—opened to him, rejoicing in the spirals of ecstasy, erupting on his tongue, spilling her juices into his mouth.

He was on her even before the delicious spasms ended, plunging into her, carrying her again to a world of sheer delight. As he pounded into her, she rising up to meet him, they held each other so close it was hard to tell where one began and the other left off.

“Go deeper,” he commanded, his mouth at her ear. “Deeper…deeper…deeper than you've ever been before…don't hold back…leave the earth behind…deeper…
deeper
…”

He gasped and his head jerked back. As he poured into her, she felt herself transported, transformed, merging with him…merging…merging…She couldn't contain herself. She screamed, her cry echoing through the vast citadel.
Oh God…oh God…ohhhhh God…

And when it was over, she lay clutched in his arms in an afterglow of divine rapture. Dreamily, she looked over at Leonardo's masterpiece.

The mystery of the ages was solved.

She knew why
La Gioconda
was smiling.

I
t was a miracle! In the wake of all the worry, suspicion, and fear that had consumed her since Emma had revealed Richard's true identity, everything had fallen into place for Mason as if some fairy godmother had waved her wand and made all her dreams come true. Everything. The work, the recognition, the support and love of a man who truly knew and appreciated her. The caveat of having to continue her masquerade to the outside world seemed a small price to pay for such total fulfillment. And now she no longer had the burden of having to lie to the man she loved so dearly. She didn't care who the rest of the world thought she was, as long as she could be herself with him.

The two days since the Louvre had been a time of increasing intimacy. They'd returned to Richard's suite and made love again and again, taking their meals in bed, not bothering to get dressed. Richard seemed a different man, completely relaxed, witty and amusing, boyishly playful one minute, insatiably amorous the next. By an unspoken agreement, they didn't talk of anything that had gone on before or was going on outside their walls, intent on sustaining the magic of their experience at the Louvre as long as possible. It was as if they were the only two people in the world. Even the appearance of a bellboy delivering their meals or a maid coming in to tidy the room seemed an intrusion on their sanctuary.

But on the third night, she was startled out of sleep by Richard's voice crying out. He shot up in bed, breathing erratically, bathed in sweat. Alarmed, Mason rolled over, and asked, “What is it?”

“Nothing.” His voice sounded strained. “Just a bad dream.”

She put her arms around him. “You're trembling.”

“I'll be all right in a minute. Just hold me.”

He held on to her so tightly she could barely breathe. “What did you dream?”

He was still shuddering in her arms. “Nothing specific,” he whispered. “Just a nightmare. I have them from time to time. Probably, it's just my body's way of telling me it's time for us to get back to work.” He turned on the lamp, flooding the room with light. “Let me just hold you a minute and I'll be fine.”

She cradled him in her arms, feeling his heart hammering in his chest. Gradually, it returned to a normal rhythm and he drifted off to sleep. She left the light on, not wanting to disturb his peace by stretching over him and extinguishing it.

The next morning when Mason woke up, Richard was already awake. He greeted her with a smile and said, “I have to go to Rome.”

“Rome? What's in Rome?”

“Signore Alberto Lugini.”

“Lugini? The critic?”

“Not just a critic, the most esteemed art scholar and historian in Europe.”

It gave Mason a wistful stab to see him focused on something besides her. She'd been spoiled these last few days, when the world had seemed so far away. “Surely you don't have to go now. We're having such fun. Stay here with me.”

She leaned over and kissed him enticingly.

“Unfortunately, I must. The twenty-first of June is coming quickly and we don't have anywhere near the critical support I'd hoped to have by now. Morrel, Wolfe, and the other important French critics have been resistant to us, no matter what I've tried. We need to outflank them, and fast.”

“Outflank? What do you mean?”

“If a man with Lugini's prestige were to see your paintings and lose his head over them, the rest of the critics would have to fall in line. He carries that much weight.”

“But he's even more of a traditionalist than Morrel and the others.”

“True. But I'm hoping to make him see the light.”

“And how are you going to do that?”

He grinned. “Let's just say I know where some bodies are buried along the Tiber as well.”

“Are there
any
rivers in Europe whose secrets are safe from you?”

He kissed her on the nose. “Damn few.” He smiled.

“I don't know what I'm going to do without you,” she grumbled.

“You can get some painting done. That should occupy you nicely.”

“A pale substitute for being here with you.”

“One more thing. Who else knows you're really Mason?”

“Only Lisette.”

“Is she trustworthy?”

“She's the most trustworthy person I've ever known in my life.”

He still seemed uneasy but said, “Very well. But let's make certain the secret stays between the three of us. The fewer people that know, the better.”

As he rose and slipped a robe over his magnificent naked body, Mason slumped down in the bed and gave him a mock pout.

That afternoon, at Gare de Lyon, they stood on the platform drawing out their good-byes as the train was about to depart. Mason did her best to present a good face, but all she really wanted to do was beg him not to leave.

The train whistle blew. “I have to go,” he said.

“How long will you be gone?”

“About a week, or as long as it takes to make our case to the man.” In a rush of sudden passion, as if realizing how much he'd miss her, he hooked his arm about her waist and yanked her to him, giving her a blinding kiss.

“Oh, dear,” she murmured against his lips. “If you kiss me like that, I won't let you go.”

“Don't forget, your job while I'm gone is to get some painting done. Close yourself off and get some focus and concentration. Try to return to the frame of mind you had when you did the self-portrait. Don't think about anything else.”

“I'll try.”

He kissed her again and headed for the train. But suddenly, he stopped, turned to look at her, then hurried back for one last kiss. “Remember. We're in this together.” Then he was gone.

Mason watched the train until it disappeared, then started back to her hotel, already feeling lonely. A whole week without Richard. How could she stand it? But she remembered what he'd said. Close yourself off…paint…she'd do it for him. She could already see the reunion in her mind. Showing him the new paintings. The pleasure on his face when he saw them. Taking her into his arms and rewarding her for her toil. The image heartened her.

It had been days since she'd been back to her own rooms. When she entered the lobby and approached the reception desk, the clerk gave her an alarmed look. “Mademoiselle Caldwell, we were growing concerned.”

“I should have told you. I was staying with friends.”

“The police were here yesterday looking for you.”

“Police?” The word brought her crashing back to reality.

“They left a message.” The clerk looked under the counter. “Now, where
is
it?” Finally, he pulled out an envelope with the name Amy Caldwell on it.

She tore it open and unfolded the single page, a request for her to appear at the office of Inspector Duval at her earliest possible convenience.

The prospect frightened her. But if she put it off, it would only grow in her mind. Without going to her room, she went out and hailed a cab, willing herself to remain calm and find out what was going on.

Duval's office, on the second floor of the massive Prefecture of Police building on Ile de la Cité, looked across a square at the Cathedral of Notre Dame. Duval came out to the waiting room to greet her, walked her inside, sat her down, then stood over her, watching her closely. He said nothing for several moments. It seemed so hot in the office that she had to resist the urge to wipe her brow.

Finally, he spoke. “As you may recall, Mademoiselle, certain aspects of your sister's suicide have troubled me.” He paused.

“Yes, I recall.”

“Since our last meeting, I have continued to look into the matter. And my inquiry has turned up several other irregularities.” Again, he paused.

“Irregularities?” She pressed her palms together.

“I must now inform you that I believe it is more than possible that a crime has been committed in connection with this incident.”

A crime.
Dear God, what does he know?

“What kind of crime?”

“At this point, I prefer not to say.”

“What evidence do you have to support this conclusion?”

“Again, I am not prepared to divulge that information.”

His gaze never once left her face.
Don't let him see your fear.

Carefully, she asked, “Then why did you summon me here, Inspector?”

“To officially inform you that the Sûreté is launching a full investigation of the matter. And to request that you not leave the country until the investigation is concluded. May I assure myself of your cooperation?”

“Of course. If there are any doubts about my sister's death, I want them to be satisfied before I go home.”

She stood to leave.

“One thing more, Mademoiselle.”

Mason froze. “Yes, Inspector?”

“You have been seen frequently in the company of a British gentleman, Richard Garrett. May I ask the nature of your relationship?”

She forced herself to look innocent and surprised. “Why, we're friends. He's a great admirer of my sister's work and has been helping me settle her affairs.”

“Was he a friend of your sister?”

“No, they never met. It was only in the wake of her death that he learned of her work.”

“What do you know about this man? His background?”

“I know that he's a well-connected and well-respected figure in the art world.”

“I see. Very well, you may go.”

Dully, she walked out of the office and down the stairs. As she left the building, two policemen were carrying a woman kicking and screaming through the entrance. Mason had no idea what her crime was, but the woman was respectably dressed and her terror was palpable. Was that Mason's future? She choked on her own panic as she left the Prefecture and started back across the Pont au Change toward the Right Bank.

Irregularities in the death of Mason Caldwell.

A crime has been committed.

A full-scale investigation by the Sûreté.

What do you know about the background of this man Richard Garrett?

But what exactly did Duval know? If he knew everything, surely he would have arrested her on the spot. So he was fishing, trying to rattle her and see what she might give away. She thought back on their conversation. Had she let anything slip? She didn't think so, but who knew what an expert like Duval would pick up from her responses?

Her first impulse was to send a wire to Rome and tell Richard, warn him what was happening. But what if Duval was having her watched? He could intercept the telegram. And if he
was
watching, how could she possibly do the new paintings? She couldn't very well work in her hotel room, or even rent a studio here in Paris. He'd know in an instant what she was doing.

She felt physically ill.

Just that morning she'd been so happy. Now this. The truth was, she didn't feel like doing any painting, she didn't want Richard to go to Rome, and this quest to make her into an artistic immortal suddenly just didn't seem worth the risk.

Stop it! I can't let this get to me.

She looked down into the Seine to try and calm herself.

This was exactly what Duval wanted, for her to go to pieces and give herself away. She had to think. What was it Richard had said? Focus. Concentration. Forget about everything else.

But how could she do that now?

Auvers.

She would go back to Auvers.

Go to Lisette and ask her to come along.

Get away from all of this in the serenity of the country.

The canvases and paints were still there. She'd lose herself in the work, as she always had. Away from Duval's prying eyes.

Don't think. Don't lose your nerve.

When Richard returned, he'd know what to do.

Just keep calm.

And don't do anything stupid.