The Art of Seduction (8 page)

She stepped to the rail and looked out on the view of the Champ de Mars below her and the dome of Les Invalides to her left. It was completely dark now and stars were beginning to sparkle in the sky. She felt positively wicked being here. Then the thought hit her.

Could I go even higher?

She looked around until she saw the entrance to the next level of stairs. This was a narrower spiral staircase that wound almost straight up. Feeling even more wicked, she began to ascend the staircase. Higher, higher, higher…She was breathing hard now, but it was strangely fulfilling. She lost all track of time, until finally she emerged on the second observation level. She went to the rail and beheld the same view, but from this height, it was even more spectacular. She'd never seen anything more stunning. The gaslights had come on, and Paris was spread out below her in its nocturnal magnificence.

It suddenly struck her just how much she loved this city. Twenty years before, it had been in ruins from the disastrous Franco-Prussian War and the civil strife that had followed it. But it had risen from the ashes to once again become the first city of the world. This fair was the showcase of that resurrection, and this spectacular tower was its symbol. Tears of pride came to her eyes as she thought of it. She was filled with a surge of appreciation, power, and possibility.

Why not go all the way? To hell with the Prince of Wales. Who better to be the first to scale the Tower than someone like me?

Once again, Mason began to climb. The stairs grew steeper, narrower. She lost herself in the rhythm of her footsteps clanging on the metal. Up…up…into the very sky. Panting now. Climbing, climbing, climbing. Her calves began to ache, but she didn't care. A cold wind began to hit her, but she found it bracing. The sensation was almost sexual. She couldn't stop herself now if she wanted to. Higher, higher, higher…

Until the stairs ended. She was at the summit: 919 feet high, 1, 665 steps!

She leaned against the rail, trying to catch her breath, which was burning her lungs. It was pitch-black around her, but the lights of the city formed a carpet at her feet. Looking down on it gave her a swell of exhilaration.

Truly, anything was possible.

“Young woman!” A male voice behind her startled her. She whirled to find a bearded man holding a lamp. He'd just come out of the small enclosure at the pinnacle. “What on earth are you doing here?”

Caught up in her sense of accomplishment, she said, “I might ask the same of you.”

“I'm Gustave Eiffel, and I built this tower you are trespassing upon. And who, may I ask, are you?”

Who was she?

Time to decide.

Holding out her hand to him, she said, “My name is Amy.”

A
week later, at a center table in the opulent dining room of the Grand Hotel, Mason and Richard were entertaining a balding, heavyset man in his late forties wearing pincenez glasses perched on a bulbous red nose. They'd just finished a five-course meal of the finest French cuisine, during which they'd been served by a small army of waiters. Now they sat back in sated contentment with coffee and brandy before them.

Their guest was Stuart Cuthbert, the Paris correspondent for the
London Times
and a long-time acquaintance of Richard's. The single topic of conversation through the sumptuous meal had been Mason Caldwell. Mason, since making her decision, had embraced her deception and was rather enjoying it—the refined surroundings, her new lace-trimmed evening gown, the hushed tribute Richard was paying the late, tragic painter whose reputation he'd dedicated himself to build. His sense of mission radiated off him like rays of the sun.

Though she and Richard had spoken several times over the past week, it had been only briefly, long enough to cement their partnership and solidify their plans. He'd been busy petitioning the stubborn Exhibition officials and other bureaucratic powers of the Parisian municipal government who weren't keen to allow a previously unknown American painter—and a woman at that—to have her own extravagant showcase in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower. As he moved around Paris like a man on fire, there had been no time or opportunity for anything personal. Now, she was savoring the luxury of watching him and being in his relaxed, assured presence.

For most of the meal, Richard had monopolized the conversation, giving the journalist what amounted to an extravagant sales pitch. But now, with the instinct of a skilled negotiator, he realized it was time to sit back and let the other man have his say.

Cuthbert took a sip of coffee and swallowed. “There is one point you've neglected to mention. The riot in the gallery.”

Richard raised his brandy snifter and studied the amber lights as he swirled it with deceptive casualness. “Oh, that. I assumed you'd read about it in the local press. People seemed to lose their heads. It wasn't pretty, but it shows the fanatical devotion her paintings inspire. Even so, I'd hate for you to make that the focus of your article.”

Cuthbert peered at him through his spectacles with the defensiveness of a professional being told his business. “What
should
be the focus of my article?” he asked stiffly.

“What I've been telling you. Her amazing work and her martyred life. Do you know what they're calling her? Joan of Art.”

He jotted it down, but shook his head doubtfully. “I don't know, Richard. Every year some dabbler or other comes to the surface that everyone is excited about, and six months later, no one can remember their names. How can we know she's the genuine article?”

“You've known me for a while, old man. Have you ever heard me talk about
anyone
this way? I'm more sure of this than I've ever been about anything in my life. I would stake my reputation on her paintings alone. But what we have here is more than just a body of sublime work. In living the way she did, and in taking her life, Mason Caldwell has created a saga the likes of which we've never seen.”

Cuthbert turned to Mason. “Why do you think your sister took her life?”

Richard answered for Mason. “I believe she took her art to its absolute limit. And when she reached that point, there was nowhere else to go. The suicide was a deliberate act of self-martyrdom, a statement to a cruel world that doesn't appreciate the sensitive and the vulnerable. The only possible conclusion of a life lived solely for artistic expression.”

Cuthbert took a few notes, then looked up at Mason. “Miss Caldwell, what can you tell me about your family?”

In the last week, she'd prepared herself for this, but it was still an agonizing subject. Her family wound was an open sore, and she had no intention of venturing beyond a few half-truths. “There's not much to tell, really. My father was a casualty of America's civil war. My mother had a small inheritance that we lived on. After she passed away five years ago, Mason and I split that inheritance. She used her half to come to Paris.”

“Were you and your sister close?”

“When we were young, but our interests were different, and when she moved to Paris, we lost contact. She did, however, write me about a year ago asking me if I would store some of her paintings.”

“What do you speculate made your sister dedicate herself to art? What gave her that tremendous drive to express herself?”

It was a deeper question than she'd expected. She glanced at Richard to find that he was watching her as if he, too, was interested in hearing the answer.

“Our mother was an amateur painter, mostly landscapes. Her great desire was to bring a little beauty into the world. But that ambition was frustrated. No one understood. Our father never approved and thought she was wasting her time, and the people in the community thought she was odd, even un-Christian, and scorned her from their society. Finally, it broke her heart.” Her voice cracked a little. She hadn't meant to reveal so much truth. She took a steadying breath and added quickly, “I suppose Mason was trying to vindicate our mother….”

She paused, hoping the subject would be changed by another question. But Cuthbert said, “Then the figure in the paintings is her mother. And the backgrounds represent the narrow forces that cast her out.”

“I suppose,” Mason answered. The analysis was making her uncomfortable.

Cuthbert thought a minute, then shook his head. “It's compelling, I admit. But the question remains: Will the woman be more than just a flash in the pan?”

“Surely you can see it.” Richard's voice was husky with emotion. “The story of Mason Caldwell touches a chord of human existence that is potent and elemental. In attempting to validate and exonerate her mother, she has personally assumed that rejection and humiliation in a way that's almost Christlike. And in the end, she suffered more than her mother ever had. It's a sacrifice we all can feel in our souls. Who of us hasn't known, at some time or other, such isolation and despair? Who hasn't felt what it's like to be alone in a hostile world with nowhere to turn, no one to talk to, no one to listen to our troubles? No one to love. Never hearing the sound of another voice. Never having someone beside us to say the simple words, ‘I understand?' Everyone who stands before her paintings will feel her loneliness and her pain and see their own suffering in it. But what they will feel even more strongly is the transcendent power with which she transformed that loneliness and pain into the healing, uplifting glory of her art. No painter of our century has the potential to have
that
kind of impact on people.”

A profound stillness settled on the table.

Shifting in his chair, the journalist cleared his throat and asked, “Then what exactly is your plan for presenting the paintings?”

Richard wrapped an arm around the back of his chair, once again assuming a more composed demeanor. “Basically, what we hope to do is to take the eighteen paintings now at the Falconier Gallery and add to them another dozen or so that Amy has stored back in the States. There are also a number of paintings that Mason gave away or exchanged for food over the years. We'll try to acquire these as well. So, ultimately, we hope to have the entire Caldwell Collection in one place, exhibited in its own pavilion at the fair. Naturally, this will all take some time. The exhibition officials are making it difficult. But I'm confident we'll prevail. And knowing your way with words, I'm certain your article will go a long way toward changing their minds.”

Cuthbert chuckled at the presumption. “But the fair opens in a month. How can you possibly get the paintings and build the pavilion in that short time?”

“We can't make the opening, obviously. But the fair will go on for months, and its spiritual opening won't come until the fourteenth of July. That's when the real excitement begins. They'll be celebrating the Republic's hundredth birthday with special exhibits, a reenactment of the storming of the Bastille, and a pyrotechnical display so spectacular that they're having to import boatloads of fireworks from all over the world. We hope to be up and running some time before that monumental moment. My target date is the twenty-first of June, the summer equinox.”

“And then what? Where will the paintings go from there?”

“That's up to Amy. As Mason's only living relative, they belong to her. Naturally, I hope they will ultimately find their way not into the hands of speculators or private collectors, but to an institution that will honor them and share them with the world.”

“What about the French government? You know, of course, that their law entitles them to match any outside offer for a French painting so the best works stay in the country.”

“I know. But even though they were painted in France, the Caldwell paintings are by an American artist.”

“That may be, but these French…they're odd bits about such things. They may have a different idea about that.”

Mason had never heard about this. “You mean…even if someone buys one of the paintings, the French can match the offer and keep it here?”

“Only if the painting is French,” Richard assured her. “There's no precedent for seizing a painting by an American artist, even a longtime resident.”

The waiter presented the bill, which Richard signed and handed back as Cuthbert jotted a few lines in his notebook. Cuthbert closed the notebook and smiled. “I have to admit it, Richard, this is quite a story.”

“I thought you might find it so. Naturally, I wanted you to have it first. When do you think it might run, old chap?”

“I can't say. We shall have to see what my London editors make of the story.” He turned to Mason. “It's been a pleasure meeting you, Miss Caldwell. I must say, you make a gracious representative for your sister.”

Richard, his eyes shining with pride, said, “Doesn't she, though?”

 

Mason stood in the lobby, watching as Richard walked Cuthbert out. She was trembling. She hadn't revealed much, but she'd spilled enough of her family secrets to feel vulnerable and exposed. Her mother. Why had she told them about her? Couldn't she have made up some story that didn't cut so close to the bone? The empty hollow inside her had opened up a crack, the same hollow she'd thought all this would fill. She hugged herself, trying to quell the shaking. She had to get hold of herself before Richard returned. If he saw her like this he'd ask questions she didn't want to—couldn't—answer.

But he was walking toward her, a grin softening the flinty contours of his mouth. Taking her shoulders in both hands, he said, “You were magnificent.”

“Was I?”

“You gave him—and me—precisely what we needed.”

Mason avoided his gaze, shutting out the pride beaming in his eyes. “You made Mason sound like some kind of saint.”

“Well…Wasn't she?”

She tried to swallow the lump in her throat. “I don't think she wanted to be thought of that way.”

“That's what makes saints. Their humility. In any case, the night was a success. We're a formidable team, you and I.”

She looked up into his eyes, saw the spark of desire, and realized the process of manipulating the hardened journalist had excited him.

“You're shivering.”

She hadn't realized she was still trembling. “I'm cold,” she lied.

His hands tightened on her shoulders. “Come upstairs with me,” he invited softly. “Let me warm you up.”

She wanted suddenly to be held…to be reassured…to be loved. To have the hole inside her once again filled with the warmth of his appreciation.

She nodded and went with him to the grill elevator. As it ascended, he took her hand and traced the palm with his finger. She felt her body leap to life.

Suddenly, she couldn't wait. The memory of their passion in the coach flooded through her and her feeling of emptiness transmitted itself into a longing of the flesh. He saw the simmering hunger in her eyes and leaned toward her, bringing his mouth a mere inch from hers. He didn't kiss her, and the fact that he didn't made her want him to all the more. The nearness of him, the clean masculine scent aroused her, anticipation turning to liquid heat. He took her hand and placed it on his groin. She felt him, hard and coiled, in her palm. His desire washed over her, banishing the memories and unwanted despair.

“I can't wait to have you in my arms,” he whispered.

His words were like music soothing her soul. She, too, was impatient now. The whir of the elevator grated on her nerves. Too slow…too slow…

At last it stopped. Holding hands, they rushed down the wide, empty hall. The colors flashed before her eyes, the red, black, gold, and green of the thick carpet, the emerald hues of the walls. The gleaming rich mahogany of the double doors to his rooms as he turned the key in the lock. The muted golds of the vast, dim sitting room, lighted only by a single lamp. This room alone was larger than her entire suite, sumptuous with Second Empire furnishings, sometime haven of princes and kings.