The Art of Seduction (10 page)

Mason looked down at her hands and saw stains of geranium lake and chromium yellow. Glancing about, her gaze came to rest on the riverbank still muddy from the rains. He was coming closer by the second. “Quick,” she told Lisette, “take off your dress and come with me.”

Lisette obeyed and they hurried to the riverbank where Mason bent to bury her hands. Standing, both hands full of mud, she slung some at Lisette, who shrieked at her. “What are you doing?”

“Pretend we're having a mud fight,” Mason urged, “so I can hide my hands.”

“Ah,
oui
.” Lisette followed suit, flinging it at Mason. Soon they were upon one another, rubbing mud on each other, laughing like two maniacs.

“I can't think when I've seen a prettier sight,” a deep voice greeted.

They looked up at him, two women clad in petticoats and covered in mud. He was dressed in sporting clothes, casual yet immaculate and crisply tailored, looking every inch the gentleman off for an outing in the country. He'd removed his hat and a lock of dark hair fell rakishly over his forehead. As he noticed the way Mason's damp, mud-splotched shift clung to her curves, his eyes darkened and his lips parted. He looked absolutely delicious. Mason had to fight the urge to run to him and throw herself into his arms.

Instead, remembering the necessity to keep her distance, she picked up a huge glob of the muck, straightened with a taunting grin, and said, “Come and join the party.” With that, she hurled it at him.

He stepped aside deftly and it sailed past him. “Not just now, thanks all the same.”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “Spoilsport.”

“The country air does odd things to people.”

“Ah, but you're breathing the same country air. Sure you won't change your mind?” She approached him, looking as if she might pounce on him at any second, head-to-toe mud and all. He backed away, which, of course, was exactly what she'd hoped he'd do. The farther he kept from her, the less likely he was to see the paint on her hands.

“How did you find me here, anyway?” she asked.

He shrugged. “A bit of detective work. It wasn't too difficult.”

His words sent a chill through her. She glanced nervously at Lisette. “Mason used to come here to paint sometimes. She wrote me about it.”

“Nice to see the two of you getting on so well. I should imagine Mason would be pleased.”

“Oh, Lisette's a dear,” she said quickly. “I asked her for directions to the place and she dropped everything to bring me here herself. We've been having a little vacation. Just us and the dogs.”

Some of those dogs had run in after Lisette and knocked her down so she sat in the mud as they crawled all over her.

“Apologies for invading your privacy, but I need to talk to you,” Richard said.

“Let's go back to the house. I want to wash up.” She turned and began to walk, leading him away from the scene of the crime, thinking regretfully of the ruined painting beneath the blanket.

“What about your things?”

“Oh, Lisette will get them. What did you want to talk about?”

He'd been looking quizzically at the oddly shaped blanket, but her reminder distracted him and he caught up to her. “Have you made any progress on shipping the paintings from America?”

“I'm working on it, but it will take some time.” The mud was beginning to dry on her hands, making her worry that the paint might show through. She thrust them behind her back and said, “I did, however, manage to find three paintings that she exchanged here for food.”

Genuinely excited, he said, “Excellent! I can't wait to see them.”

“You came all this way just to ask me that?”

“You're right. There
is
something else. Something important. Next week, a man is coming to town whom I'd very much like you to meet.”

She couldn't concentrate, feeling vulnerable as she still did from coming so close to being caught in the act. “All right,” she said distractedly.

“Shall I bring him here?”

“Oh, no. I mean it's such a long way. I'll go back to Paris.” They'd reached the house and she stood back, gesturing for him to open the door. “Go on into the front parlor.” She pointed the way. “I'll get cleaned up and bring the paintings down.”

Upstairs, she hurriedly stashed all her painting equipment in one of the spare rooms. She washed off the mud and used turpentine to remove all traces of paint, then washed her hands again. That done, still in her petticoat, she checked herself out in the mirror. Her hair was falling about her shoulders in a disheveled way that made her look ready for bed. Her loins began to tingle.

With any luck, he'll have to stay the night!

She'd intended to change into a clean dress, but, remembering the way he'd looked at her in her shift, she decided against it. Instead, she slipped into her laciest new petticoat—the tight one that accentuated all her curves—leaving the top two buttons open as if she'd been in too much of a hurry to finish. Her cleavage peeped through just enough to afford him a glimpse of hidden treasures. Then she fluffed her hair and carried the three paintings she'd completed downstairs.

As she entered the parlor, he turned from looking out the window and froze. His gaze came to rest just where she wanted it—on the swell of her bosom. It seemed to her that his face paled a shade. His throat moved as he swallowed.

“Sorry to be so long,” she said. “I tried to hurry.”

He shifted his weight to his other foot. “Perhaps you hurried a bit too much. Haven't forgotten something, have you?”

She glanced down at the flimsy lace with its pink bow. “Oh, this? Does it bother you? I mean, you did just see me in my petticoat out there, so—But I could go change, if it makes you nervous. I just thought you'd like to see the paintings as soon as possible.”

“I do. And I'm not the least bit nervous.”

“Of course not.”

She set the paintings up against the wall opposite him for his inspection, bending as she did to provide him a glimpse of her backside. When she turned to him, he was frowning and his lips were pursed tightly. He waved his hand in a sardonic gesture, indicating for her to move out of the way.

“Oh, sorry. I didn't mean to distract you.”

“Like hell you didn't.”

She moved aside, suppressing a smile. He stepped over to the paintings, put his hand to his jaw, and studied them carefully, looking at them for an unusually long time without comment. One of them, another version of Lisette in the catacombs, he picked up and held to the light. Then he set it down again, still saying nothing.

She came up behind him, looking over his shoulder, coming in close so her breasts flattened against his back. It was so delicious to be near him again. She felt a shudder go through him before he stepped away.

“Well?” she asked.

“They're good.” His voice sounded tentative. “But not as good as her best work. These must have been painted early on. Before she was fully up to speed.”

This annoyed her.
All those miserable hours painting the damn things.

But she felt no attachment to them. He was right. They weren't her best.

She put her hands behind her back, clasping the palms together, and stepped into his sight line. Once again, his gaze drifted, as if on its own accord, to her cleavage, which was now all but thrusting out at him. “It's getting late. I suppose you'll be needing to stay the night. We have plenty of rooms. You won't even have to share yours with one of the dogs.”

“No,” he said too quickly, too violently. Then, collecting himself, he added in a carefully modulated tone, “As tempting as that may be—with or without the canine companionship—I have some pressing business in town. I'm going to rush and catch the last train back. I have a chap waiting with his wagon who'll return me to the station.”

“The last train isn't due for an hour yet. Are you sure you wouldn't like some…refreshment first?”

His eyes flicked to her bosom and away again. “No. Thank you, no.”

With that, he bolted out of the door and down the path toward the road as if the furies of Hades were after him.

She fell back against the doorjamb with a sigh.

I guess I'm going to have to get some perfume, after all.

And then, belatedly, she wondered,
How did he manage to track me down?

T
hey left Auvers a day earlier than Mason had intended. She'd tried to throw herself into the work again, but it was no use. She simply didn't feel like painting. And she couldn't stop thinking of Richard, so obviously attracted to her, tempted by her, and running down the path from the villa to prevent himself from giving in to her. She felt encouraged by the difficulty he was obviously having, and she was determined now to move in for the kill. But first, she decided she'd take Lisette's advice and see what the sorceress Madame Toulon could do for her.

Lisette took her to see the
parfumeuse
that same afternoon. Her shop was located on Île-St-Louis, the smaller of the two islands in the Seine that made up the geographic center of Paris. It was a diminutive boutique at the end of a dead-end lane. Its front window was dominated by an incongruous poster for such an establishment: a garish advertisement for Buffalo Bill Cody's Wild West Show, which would play at the Champ de Mars throughout the run of the fair. Exposition fever reached even to this elegant enclave.

Inside, it was meticulously clean; the walls were lined floor to ceiling with shelves supporting untold hundreds of multicolored glass vials. In the center, a huge overstuffed pink velvet ottoman sat beside a rococo table.

Madame Toulon herself was a miniscule woman in her later years with bright green eyes that twinkled when she saw Lisette, her favorite customer.
“Mon chou!”
she exclaimed, kissing her on both cheeks. “My day is now complete.”

“I have a most special challenge for you,
maman.
This is my friend Ma—” She corrected herself, “Amy Caldwell, from America. She is in need of your genius.”

“But she is most fetching,” Madame said, looking Mason over with her practiced eye.

“Still, there is a man who is determined to elude her.”

“But no, no,
no,
that will never do.” Madame began to roll up her sleeves. “Come, my child.”

They sat together on the ottoman and the elder woman looked Mason over more closely.

Lisette, enjoying the moment, pulled up a chair and beamed at Mason.

“Tell me, little one, what scent are you now using?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” She turned to Lisette.
“Rien?”

Lisette shook her head incredulously.

“But this is sacrilege! No wonder you are having trouble. Well, then, we start from the beginning.” She took Mason's hand and gave her wrist a delicate sniff. “Tell me about this man who is so foolish he thinks he can escape your charms.”

“Well, he's English—”

“Sacre bleu!
This gets worse and worse! Oh, well. What does he like? What does he do?”

“Mostly he's a connoisseur of art.”

“At least
that
is in his favor. What sort of art?”

“All kinds, I think. But he likes Impressionism most of all.”

“Ah! Now I begin to like this man. We will find just the thing that will drive a connoisseur of art wild.”

She clapped her hands. A young assistant appeared and followed behind her as Madame scanned the shelves. “Nothing too traditional, then. It must be subtle. The worst thing one can do is to overpower the olfactory senses. One must caress them, coddle them, seduce them. And the scent must be uniquely you. So we will persevere until we find the exact blend that will mix with your own natural essence to create a potion so enticing, so elusively sensual, that should she catch a whiff of it, Aphrodite herself would weep with envy.”

 

The next day, armed with her new secret weapon, Mason entered the lobby of the Grand Hotel and saw Richard standing there, waiting for her. He looked particularly dashing. When he saw her, he blinked, and she caught the leap of appreciation in his eyes, registering the pains she'd taken with her appearance. He looked like a man who'd been telling himself all week that he'd overestimated her effect on him, and who, on seeing her again, had just realized how wrong he could be. She felt a trickle of anticipation flutter through her.

He surprised her by taking both her hands in his. Then he said, “I have some news. Come over here.” He drew her to a cluster of chairs and sat her down. “The Exposition has embraced the idea for a Mason Caldwell Pavilion. I've hired an architect who has supplied a plan we all like. And we've raised enough funds that construction can begin tomorrow. I've also talked them into a prime location, just below the Tower by the Monaco Pavilion.”

He'd done it. She thought back on that moment when she'd seen her letter of application so rudely stamped
RE-JECTED
. And now this…not just accepted to be placed in a room with a hundred other artists, but her own exclusive showcase!

She couldn't even imagine the argument he'd had to put up to accomplish such a miracle.

“How did you change their minds?”

“I've found that a little diplomacy goes a long way. And this didn't hurt.” He reached into his jacket pocket and handed her a folded copy of the
London Times.
“Have a look.”

She opened the paper and was shocked to find Cuthbert's story on the front page, positioned just below the banner as if Queen Victoria had just died.

“Go ahead, read it. We have time.”

She did, and it was more than she ever could have hoped for. Despite the doubts he'd displayed during their dinner, Cuthbert had parroted most of what Richard had said to him and presented it in a way that was persuasive and heartrending. This was the legend of Mason Caldwell as Joan of Art perfectly encapsulated. A fanciful exaggeration, to be sure, but even though it bore only a peripheral relationship to her own story, she had to admit it was compelling, with all the drama and pathos of a classical Greek myth.

“I can't believe it. This is the
London Times
! They don't buy into cheap sensationalism. How did you get them to feature it so prominently? And Cuthbert—he seemed so reluctant at dinner, but he ended up saying everything you wanted him to. Word for word. How did you ever manage it?”

He grinned. “Let's just say I know where a few bodies are buried along the Thames.”

This display of his prowess was unexpectedly arousing. “You make light of it; but really, this is beyond anything I could have expected. How can I ever thank you?”

“By coming up to my rooms.”

“Your rooms?” Her heart leapt. This was going to be easier than she'd expected.

“Hank is there waiting for us.”

“Hank?” She shook her head, trying to get her bearings.

“The man I want you to meet. He's an American, like yourself. You may have heard of him. Henry Thompson. He's a financier and entrepreneur. He's rather a legendary figure on Wall Street.”

“Oh, yes. The meeting.”

She didn't really want to meet this Hank Thompson, whoever he was. She wanted to be alone with Richard. But there was no way to avoid it.

“Let's go meet him, shall we?”

She reached over and put her hand on his leg. “Yes,” she smiled, “let's not keep him waiting.”

It was as if she'd scalded him with her hand. He jerked to his feet and she could see the hooded warning in his eyes. “Let's not,” he said through clenched teeth.

She smiled at him innocently.

They strolled over to the elevator. He opened the gate for her to enter. But, glancing behind, she noticed that a family of five had just entered the lobby and were slowly heading toward them.

Stalling, she gave a faint cry of pain and pretended to stumble. “Oh dear.”

“What's the matter?” he asked.

“I seem to have caught my heel on something. I hope I haven't sprained my ankle.”

“Shall I have a look?”

She reached down and rubbed her ankle. As she did, she cast a quick look behind to see that the family was almost upon them. “No, thanks. I'm fine.”

They stepped in and the family crowded in behind them, forcing them to the back, their bodies close, their faces almost touching.

In this position, Richard couldn't help but get a whiff of her perfume. It hit him so hard, she felt his back slam against the side of the elevator. She pressed into him further still, close enough to feel the swelling of his groin. When she looked up at him, she saw that his eyes were tightly closed as if in pain.

She'd never felt feminine power like this before. Indeed, this
was
sorcery.

Merci beaucoup, Madame Toulon!

The elevator stopped on the second floor and the family shuffled out, leaving them alone. She stepped back slightly and saw the evidence of his arousal. As the elevator began its climb again, he opened his eyes and saw her watching him with a delighted smile plastered on her face. He glared at her, and she burst out laughing.

“Are you going to be all right?” she teased.

Tersely, he ground out, “I shall manage.”

The lift stopped on the fourth floor and he stood for a moment, battling down his unwanted response.

“Cold baths are wonderful for that, I'm told.”

He didn't appreciate the humor.

“Well, it's hardly my fault, is it?” she asked, trying hard not to giggle.

“Not much,” he grumbled.

Composed at last, he led her down the hall to his suite. She had to fight everything in her to keep from dancing down the corridor beside him.

At the door, Richard paused before turning the key. “I should warn you, Hank's a bit of a character. But he's someone I trust implicitly.”

Once inside, she saw the man in question standing at the bar. He was in his late fifties, somewhat portly but distinguished in a rough-and-tumble way. He wore a grey suit with piping along the back shoulders, as one might expect on a Texas cattle baron, with a peach-colored silk bandana knotted about his throat. He'd been handsome in his day, and still bore traces of his youthful splendor with intense blue eyes in a sunburned face and attractively silvered temples. He carried about him a deceptively casual sense of authority that was in no way diminished by the vast expanse of the room.

He was drinking whiskey from a crystal tumbler when he saw them enter. He drained the glass, slammed it down on the bar, and favored her with a boisterous smile, his eyes crinkling merrily. It occurred to her that she'd never been in a room before with two more striking and charismatic, albeit completely different, men.

“You must be Amy,” he boomed, charging over to grasp her hand and give it an energetic shake. “Say, they grow them pretty in Boston, don't they though? My name's Thompson. Henry Thompson on the birth records, but you can call me Hank. Everyone does. I'm not much for formalities. I've made my home in New York and Chicago these many years, but I was weaned along the Texas panhandle, and we Texicans prefer things plain. I was just fixin' myself a little hair of the dog. What can I get you, Amy girl?”

She was so astonished that she barely managed to say, “Some water will be fine, thanks.”

“Water? Water's for horses, darlin'. Why don't I put some kick in it?”

She wasn't at all sure what to make of his folksy charm. “It's a little early for me to get kicked, thanks just the same.”

He barked out a laugh. “Pretty and feisty to boot. Where I come from, that's a hazardous combination. But that's okay, honey, I like 'em feisty. And so does Buster as I recall, eh, boy?”

Richard scowled at the man. “They don't call me Buster here. Are you feeling up to this, Hank? Not too…fatigued from your trip?”

“Oh, I'm lively, son, real lively. I'm just getting started.” He splashed some more whiskey into his glass and added, “Well, now, let's go sit us down, why don't we?”

Mason looked at Richard and said, “Buster?”

A muscle flexed in his jaw. “An old nickname of Hank's. Have a seat.”

She did so, wondering at the man's odd familiarity with Richard. Clearly, there was more to this alliance than met the eye.

Hank sat on one of the long settees and propped the boot of one foot over the other knee. He took a gulp of whiskey, then twirled the glass as he spoke.

“Buster—all right, son—Richard here would probably like me to ease into this a tad more gracefully. But we're both Americans and I don't believe in beating around the bush.”

Hypnotic blue eyes bore into her as he spoke.

“That's refreshing,” Mason commented, for lack of anything better to say.

“I have a proposition for you, little lady, and I hope you'll hear me out.”

Mason shifted uncomfortably in her chair, thinking this man couldn't possibly have anything to say that she'd care to hear. “I gathered that.”