French Blue (10 page)

“Trained? What does that mean?”

Olivier had started to tackle his steak, and when he’d swallowed, he replied, “It does sound weird, but you can’t just pick up a paddle or cane and thrash someone.”

“Oh no, of course not. But
how
…” She shifted in her chair, aroused yet again.

“By giving and receiving, naturally. We had a long list of subs desperate to be disciplined by Gisela. She’s a very sought-after Domme, and the best way of training us to know exactly what a sub feels like was to be on the receiving end ourselves. A few carefully selected would-be Doms like myself had to practise our techniques under her watchful eye, and if a sub complained, our technique was corrected in front of them by Gisela.” He plunged his knife into the steak. “On the offending Dom, of course.”

Lisa dropped her knife on her plate. “Oh my God. Did you
enjoy
it?”

He threw her a sexy glare. “What do you want me to say? Which would turn you on more?”

Would it turn her on to see him flogged? Or to wield the paddle herself? Both scenarios were blowing her mind. “I…couldn’t say…”

“Then, perhaps we’ll have to experiment. To answer your question, I suppose I was excited the first time. Gisela was beautiful and sexy, and, as you know, your first taste of discipline comes with the thrill of the unknown.”
And how.
Lisa forced her steak down. Olivier had presented scenarios to her she hadn’t even known she found sexy. He went on. “After three months of weekly canings and floggings, however, I’d had more than enough. I didn’t want to be a switch, but I am glad I experienced it. It taught me more than I could ever have known about discipline and domination.”

Lisa licked her lips, trying not to grind her sore nether regions into the chair. Boy, was she glad of the cushion. “Did you…um…pass the training course?”

“Yes. In fact, Gisela offered me free membership of the club if I would be her—to abuse a hunting phrase—whipper-in-chief. Now, aren’t you going to eat your steak before it goes cold?”

“Oh yes. Of course.” Lisa cut into her steak. It was seared to perfection on the surface, coral pink in the centre with ruby juices oozing onto her plate. The filet almost melted in her mouth, and the complex flavours burst onto her tongue. Olivier’s confession about his days at the BDSM club was all she could focus on.
Whipper-in-chief?
Was he teasing her? Tantalising her? Trying to intimidate her? All of those?

He refilled her glass and skilfully switched the subject to more mundane topics while they ate their meal. They chatted about the gallery launch, a new Monet exhibition, a restaurant that had opened near her home—anything other than his skills as a Dom. When their plates had been cleared, he emptied the rest of the wine into their glasses and pulled his chair away from the table.

“You asked me about the BDSM club and why I don’t do the scene anymore. It’s because I hate the rules and conventions. I don’t want to conform to them, and I don’t want my women to conform to any rules,” he said.

“But your own,” she corrected.

“Exactly. All that ‘oh, do you let your sub do x and y’, and ‘I wouldn’t allow that’. It’s like talking about a pet or a naughty child. I want to do things my way, change the rules and break them.”

Lisa sipped her wine. The effects had made her limbs feel heavy. “But we
do
have a safe word. That’s a rule.”

“True, but you won’t need to use it.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ll have failed if you do.”

Despite the heat still pouring off the brick walls, she shivered. Making Olivier fail felt like Lisa would have failed herself, and she didn’t want to do that. She wouldn’t use the safe word—hey, had he just manipulated her into feeling she wanted to please him?

“Dessert?” he asked. “It’s chocolate mousse.”

“I don’t normally, but I am very hungry. I wonder why?” she teased.

He laughed. “I can’t possibly imagine.”

After they’d finished the mousses, Olivier brought out coffee and a cognac bottle. Lisa decided the time was ripe to try to find out more about his normal life.

“So you own the Gallerie St Pierre, but Mimi said you’re an artist too. Are you working on anything at the moment?”

“If Mimi has told you I’m an artist, she’ll also have told you that I’m not working these days. I haven’t painted or sculpted for almost two years.”

“She didn’t say that, actually…but I don’t know why you’ve stopped painting. I saw some of your older pieces on a website, and I thought they were incredible.”

“
Incredible?
Well, I certainly can’t imagine how I produced them now.”

“Why not?”

He rubbed his eyes. He looked weary for the first time since she’d met him. “Thanks for your concern, but please accept that I’ve had enough of my brother and friends trying to get me to start work again. The gallery takes up all of my time, and it will only waste both our time to discuss my lack of productivity. I’d be happy to talk about
your
work if you like, and tell you about the gallery, but I’d prefer it if we didn’t pursue this further.”

“Will you punish me if I do?”

“
Bordel
! Non!” His cup clattered against the saucer.

Lisa knew she’d had a raw nerve, but just how raw surprised her. He was clearly unwilling or unable to talk about painting again. In fact, she’d go so far to say he seemed
afraid
of discussing it.

“Okay. Okay. I just thought…”

He took her hands, as if he needed to compose himself once more. “I said before, punishments—corrections—are for play. When we’re in the zone, you will obey me to the letter, but outside of those times, I want us to have a relaxed, fun time. In fact, I’d love it if you were free tomorrow.”

“Hmm. Let me see. I was going to get my work suits dry-cleaned, and then I need to have my central heating serviced, and I had thought of…”

“Stop.” Momentarily, he’d seemed to believe her, then he shook his head. “If I really thought you would do any of those things instead of seeing me, I’d put you over my knee right now and sizzle your behind the colour of the steak.”

Heat raced to her sex at the idea of being spanked on the balcony, but she managed to get a grip on herself, enjoying teasing him. “As you pointed out, we’re not playing now,
maître
,” she said coolly.

His pupils darkened. “The game can change very fast.” Olivier relaxed his grip and said, “Tomorrow, we’re going to see some Monet.”

“Okay, that wasn’t what I expected, but I think I can fit you in.”

He wagged his finger. “You’re in dangerous waters, but I’ll let you off this time. You did say you had the next few months free.”

“Won’t the galleries be heaving with tourists at this time of year?”

“You’re right. The Louvre and the Musée d'Orsay will be a nightmare, and I don’t fancy being elbowed out of the way by a camera-toting horde. I’ve got other ideas.” He tilted up her chin with his hand. “If they meet with madame’s approval.”

Chapter Nine

Olivier slipped his arm around Lisa’s waist as they lingered, awestruck in front of Monet's famous water lily murals in the Musée de l’Orangerie. It intrigued her to think that anyone seeing them would assume they were lovers, in every sense of the word, not just the sexual one, but she knew that love was the one thing off the menu.

The Orangerie was still bustling but not overrun in the way of some of the hotspot galleries. She and Olivier had spent the morning walking from his flat through the Tuileries Gardens to the Musée Marmottan. It held the world’s largest collection of Monets, but until now, Lisa had been far too busy working to visit it. After lunch in a pavement bistro on the Ile de Saint Louis, they had moved on to view the lily murals that were kept in the Orangerie. Looking at the pictures through the eyes of a real artist had been a revelation for Lisa.

“I can hardly bear to tear myself away,” she said, enjoying the light pressure of his arm around her waist. “Though you must have seen these murals so many times. Don’t you ever get bored?”

“No…” He paused, and she felt his embrace loosen a little.

She glanced into his face. “What’s the matter?”

He gave a rueful smile. “I used to come here all the time, but I haven’t been for the past few years.”

“What made you stop coming?” What Lisa really meant was
what made you stop painting?
because she was sure, from his uncomfortable expression, that his visits to the Monets had ceased around the same time that his creativity had also deserted him. She longed to know the reason why. She was certain that held the clue to knowing the real Olivier rather than just the Dom.

The thought struck her; she shouldn’t even
want
to know the real Olivier. That wasn’t part of their arrangement. Even if she hadn’t been off to New York in a few months; even if it hadn’t been a business arrangement, she wasn’t ready for anything deeper so soon after Jody. She reminded herself of Mimi’s biggest warning, one that Lisa had laughed off as impossible—not to fall in love with Olivier, no matter what the provocation.

He checked his Cartier, ignoring her question. “I think we can manage one more gallery if we get a move on.”

“It’s getting a bit late,” said Lisa, frustrated at being shut out so abruptly.

“It is, which means the crowds will be gone by now, and I want you to see something special.”

Lisa’s feet were killing her, and she’d much rather have stayed in front of the Monets in the hope Olivier would reveal more about why he’d stopped painting. They got into the Musée D’Orsay just before the last entries closed. Olivier grabbed her hand and hurried past the visitors flooding out, straight for a large canvas that she recognised instantly.

When she’d recovered her breath, she stared at it in wonder. “
Le déjeuner sur l'herbe.
Lunch on the Grass.”

“And what a lunch.” Together, they gazed up at the large painting that depicted a nude woman and another who was barely dressed, apparently enjoying a country picnic with two fully dressed gentlemen.

“It’s by Édouard Manet, isn’t it?” she said. “Wasn’t the picture banned when it was first put on show?”

Olivier couldn’t keep the delight from his voice. “And how. It was rejected by the Salon jury of 1863, so Manet exhibited it in the Salon de Refuses.”

“Was that where the artists showed pictures that the real Salon rejected?”

“Yes, the official Paris fine art jury sent Manet packing—in fact, they rejected thousands of artists that year, but there was such a protest that Emperor Napoleon eventually allowed the rejects to exhibit their works in an annex.”

Lisa could not take her eyes off the painting. It was almost surreal in its depiction of the contrast of the naked women and the formally attired men, all sitting down to something as apparently innocent and everyday as a country picnic. “I imagine that this painting caused quite a stir back then.”

Olivier’s arm crept around her back again, and her skin tingled at the combination of his touch and the sensuality of the scenario in front of her. “I think meltdown is more appropriate. It was instantly notorious.”

“I can’t think why.”

He steered her to a bench placed opposite the painting, and they both sat down. “What do you think of it?”

“Oh gosh, I’m no art historian…”

“I didn’t ask for a critique. I asked you how it makes you feel.”

Was his question part of her training? Lisa wasn’t sure but found it awkward to be on the spot by an expert in the field. She thought for a few seconds before replying. “It’s sexy, although I know that may be the wrong reaction to have because the women are probably courtesans or prostitutes and being exploited. Also…I find the picture quite disturbing, with the way the men are clothed and the women are stark naked. It’s very…Dom-sub.”

“Interesting…but don’t you feel it’s not really the men who have the power?”

Lisa looked again at the painting. The women certainly seemed totally at ease with their nudity, although they were being interpreted through a man’s eyes, of course. “I suppose I can see what you mean. The men are tied to convention in their suits, while the women are bold and daring. I guess that all means something significant?”

“It means what you want, but you’re right to feel disturbed by the scene. It was surreal when it was painted and, of course, considered obscene.”

“Because of the naked women?”

“Not just because of that. In those days, Manet’s style and treatment were considered as shocking as the subject itself. It was Manet’s way of refusing to conform to traditional subjects and ways of representation. Some people say that this picture was the beginning of modern art.”

“Wow.”

“But most people are probably just turned on by it.” Olivier’s hand covered hers firmly, and while the gesture was innocent enough, there was something about his touch that electrified her. He had plans for her when they returned to his apartment, she knew without him saying a word, and her body tensed in anticipation. It was then that she realised that only a handful of visitors were left in the gallery, and a wicked thought filled her mind. What would it be like to make love here on the bench with the museum guards and tourists watching?