The Art of Seduction (11 page)

He watched the whiskey swirling in its glass. “I think it's safe to say all three of us here believe in the future of Impressionist pictures—Monet, Manet, Degas, and those boys. You couldn't find a sounder investment, because sooner or later every museum and millionaire worth his salt is gonna be fightin' to have one. But some folks don't have the same faith in this future that we do, because the sad truth is, with all that's been said and written about them, the Impressionists have yet to catch on with the buying public. The dealers here still have a helluva time movin' a Sisley or Pissarro off the shelf. Now, why do you think that is?”

Mason realized he was asking her. “Why don't you tell me?”

“All right, I will. Because as gifted as these painters might be, they're all still very much alive and kicking, thank you, and not one man jack of them has a life story worth telling once they
do
go. The thing is, people today need something to stir their imaginations. Something to help sell the merchandise. Something that amplifies the art and forces them to see it in a different and exciting way. A story. A face. A hero. Or in this case, a heroine.”

“And that would be Mason.”

He jabbed his finger at her. “Your sister. Someone whose life is so irresistibly dramatic and whose painting is so completely different—and yet so easy on the eye—that the public can't resist 'em anymore than they can resist Mark Twain or Lillie Langtry. Your sister can carry all of Impressionism on her shoulders. Now, granted, I don't know pictures the way my boy Buster does, but I know sellin', and what I sell is ideas. And what we have here, folks, is an idea whose time has come.”

Mason didn't know what to make of this man. He affected the air of a bumpkin, but beneath the façade, he was undeniably shrewd and ambitious. Clearly, he held some special position in Richard's life.
Buster?
She couldn't imagine a more unlikely nickname for someone like Richard Garrett. The mystery of it intrigued her.

“You said something about a proposition?”

“That's it. I love it. Get to the point! Now I know I'm talking to an American. Okay, here's the deal: I feel so strongly about the future of Impressionism that I've decided to endow a special museum to venerate it. Mind you, this is something the French haven't come close to thinking about because the French pooh-bahs still see Impressionism as a bunch of childish scrawling. This will be the world's first museum of its kind, and we intend to stick it right dab in the middle of New England. Maybe Boston. That
is
where you're from, isn't it?”

After a brief hesitation, she said, “Yes.”

“Then it'll be in your own hometown. And that's fittin' because we want Mason's paintings to be in this museum. Hell, I'll go ahead and say it. We want Mason's paintings to be the centerpiece, the top dog, of our museum. First of all, we think she'll be the biggest draw. Second, she represents a rare opportunity because all her paintings are in one place, and if we can corral them all, we can have the entire Mason Caldwell Collection under our roof, which is something no museum can say about any other great artist. Da Vinci, Caravaggio, Rembrandt, their work is spread all over the world. Third, we think her pictures belong in her own country. In the good old U.S. of A.”

The centerpiece of a museum…

In Boston…

How her mother would have loved that…

And all those toffee-nosed Brahmins who'd scorned her…the crow they'd have to eat!

And her father…if only he were alive to see it…

Taking her silence for resistance, Richard interceded, “What Hank is saying is that, while Mason painted here in France and was inarguably influenced by French painters, her work shows the perspective of an American observing her adopted country as an outsider. American Impressionism, as it were. Mary Cassatt did it, and some others, but not with the riveting intensity of Mason. And as such, we feel her paintings should be given a place of their own in her own country, where they can be honored as they deserve, rather than be sold piecemeal to wealthy collectors around the world where they'll be hoarded away.”

Hank slammed his drink down on the table beside him. “She don't need you to tell her that, boy. She's got sense.”

Richard gave a slow nod and leaned back in his chair. It puzzled Mason that he should defer to the man so completely.

Hank turned back to her. “Now I have to tell you straight off that we don't have the resources of some of these loaded Europeans who are gonna come at you wanting to pay a truckload of cabbage for this or that painting. But, of course, we can pay you something substantial. And what we're really offering is a way for you to keep the collection in one piece in America and at the same time give it to the world.”

Mason was churning inside, but she strained not to show it. After a lengthy pause, she said, “Thank you, Mr. Thompson. I'll think about it.”

It wasn't the answer he was hoping for, but he said, “Good. You do that, little lady.”

“What I need to do,” she continued, “is to let the offer settle—maybe someplace where my mind can be diverted by something entertaining.”

Hank looked at Richard. Neither man spoke.

“I know!” she added. “The opera! Do you think you could use your influence to get me a box, Mr. Thompson?”

His face brightened. “Hellfire, honey, I'll buy out tonight's performance, if you like.”

“That won't be necessary. But I
will
need a handsome young man to escort me. I don't suppose you can think of someone like that?”

“Buster can take you!”

Richard's eyes narrowed suspiciously on her. “I'm not much for opera.”

“Hell, you say. All those times you tried to wrangle me into going? It's not my cup of bourbon, but if it's yours, I'll get you the best seats in the house. I don't care if I have to throw out a duke and three counts to do it. Why, you young folks are gonna have the time of your lives!”

Mason grinned at Richard like the cat who'd just gulped down the canary.

L
'Opéra was one of the glories of Paris, often acclaimed as the foremost opera house of the world. Its architect Charles Garnier had wanted it to be “a monument to art, to luxury, to pleasure,” and it had grandly fulfilled that function for the Parisian upper classes since its opening in 1875. Mason had never been there, nor had anyone she knew in Paris—it was a world apart from the milieu of struggling artists. But from what she knew about it, it would be the perfect setting for the next stage of her plan.

It was directly kitty-corner to the Grand Hotel, so Richard, looking dapper in his tuxedo and top hat, called for her at the Jockey Club and they walked the short distance. He was there under protest but was gentleman enough to disguise the fact beneath a veneer of cordial host. They went around the side to the “Millionaire's Entrance,” joining the flow of fashionable guests—with their pastel silk and satin evening gowns, their jewels, their top hats and canes—through the extravagant décor, a playful mingling of Baroque and Neo-Classical. The exuberant excess, the rich paintings and statuary, the immaculately uniformed attendants, all made her feel like Cinderella at the ball. As they ascended the grand staircase to the second level, Mason spotted a crescent of open wooden doors—the private boxes that looked down on the auditorium and stage. “This is our box here,” Richard said, pointing straight ahead.

They entered a vestibule with walls and a ceiling that were covered with red jacquard silk. Two padded velvet benches graced the sides, and there were curved gilt hooks to hang their coats. Crimson velvet curtains led to the box beyond. As she took her seat beside him, Mason couldn't have been more pleased. Their loge sat in the exact center of the auditorium, directly across from the stage. Unlike the others on both sides, which merely had high dividers separating them, this deluxe box was situated between two ornate columns that hid them completely from view.

As the audience found their seats and the orchestra tuned up, Richard told her about
Aida
, the opera they'd be seeing. “It's by the Italian Giuseppe Verdi, and it's my favorite of his compositions. It's set in Egypt in the time of the pharaohs. Aida is a beautiful Ethiopian slave, a conquest of war, who's loved by Radamès, a great Egyptian general. Radamès returns Aida's love, but the problem is, he's also loved by pharaoh's daughter, Amneris. So there's a great deal of conflict. It shows how complicated things can become when people give way to their passions.”

She smiled inwardly at the not-so-subtle barb. Let him resist all he wanted. Tonight she intended to melt that resistance, come what may.

“I never dreamed we'd be so…alone in this huge box,” she commented idly. “It's so private, so…intimate. You could do anything in here and no one would know it. No wonder the upper classes love this opera house so much. What a perfect setting for mischief.”

His gaze flicked sardonically to her. He knew very well what she was trying to do, but he pointedly changed the subject. “I hope you weren't put off by Hank's manner. He hides behind a rustic exterior, but he's actually the most clever man I've ever known—also, in his own way, the most noble. I hope you'll give serious consideration to his offer. It's the best thing you could do for Mason.”

“I don't know,” she said with a sly smile. “I may just need some inducement.”

At that moment, the conductor raised his baton, the overture began, and the lights dimmed. The sudden darkness, coupled with his nearness, was intoxicating. As the sweet, lush music filled the hall, she leaned toward him and whispered, “It's hot in here, don't you think?”

He just looked back at her guardedly, his eyes gleaming in the reflection from the stage.

She reached into her evening bag and produced the small vial of perfume, dabbing a drop or two behind each ear, on her wrists, and between her cleavage as Madame Toulon had instructed. Then she pulled out her fan, opened it, and gently began to wave it in his direction.

She watched from the corner of her eye. As the curtain rose on the Egyptian desert and Radamès stepped center stage to sing of his immense love for Aida, Richard caught a whiff of her scent and straightened rigidly in his seat. But as the tantalizing aroma enveloped him, he defensively stood up, moved his chair a few inches away from hers, and murmured, “It
is
rather sticky in here.”

She let him stay there, continuing to fan the perfume his way, while Amneris came onstage, singing to Radamès, and was joined a few moments later by Aida. As the three of them sang soulfully of their respective longings, Mason scooted her chair over so she was right beside Richard once again, wedging him between her and the column, with nowhere else to escape.

She gave him time to adjust as Radamès was made leader of the Egyptian armies in a new war with Ethiopia, and Aida, torn between love of her enemy and her country, beseeched the gods, praying first for one, then the other, her anguished cry soaring through the hall. Caught up in the emotion, Mason put her hand on Richard's leg and leaned into him, whispering behind her fan, “It's magnificent. Thank you
so
much for bringing me.”

She left her hand on his leg. It felt like petrified wood, braced as it was against her gentle touch. Softly, she began to massage it, moving in tandem with the music, feeling chills dash up her spine.

Angrily, he seized her hand, crushing it in his grip. She feared for an instant that he'd broken her bones. He thrust it from him, into her own lap, and she flexed her fingers, loosening the effect of his rejection. But the touch of his hand, so forceful, stirred her deeply. Her breath quickening, she felt her blood boiling in her veins.

She leaned into him again, her head on his shoulders, her far hand going to his chest. “I'm sorry,” she lied softly, entreatingly. “Forgive me?”

She felt everything in him withdraw into himself, attempting to create distance without making a scene. She could sense the battle raging inside. A battle for control. Struggling valiantly to tramp down his rising rage—at her, at this enforced subjugation, at her less-than-subtle assault. But mostly, she sensed, he fought to stem the tide of his mounting lust.

“Can I help it that you make me weak with desire?” she breathed at his ear. Then she licked his inner ear with her tongue.

She felt the jolt of something raw and primal flare between them. It shocked her, as if she'd just been struck by lightning. She could feel it flow through him and into her, so intense, so nakedly carnal that her whole body coiled with longing in its wake.

He turned his head. She was so close, her face was but a fraction from his, their lips nearly touching, their eyes starkly locked. She felt suspended in the searing heat of those eyes.

“You're playing with fire,” he warned.

“Am I?”

She trailed the hand that had flattened on his chest down the buttons of his shirt and felt him tense all the more. His eyes blazed, commanding her to cease. But she'd gone too far. She was simmering in her own juices, feeling reckless and daring. The danger added spice to the chase.

“Don't do it,” he advised.

She met his glower defiantly and smiled. A smile as ageless as the universe itself. The smile of all the temptresses who'd known their power to rattle the most concerted obstinacy of man since the dawn of time.

She cast a glance at him to see that his eyes were tightly closed, his jaw clenched. The sweeping romance of the music, the tempting invitation of her perfume, and her nearness in the closely confined quarters were wreaking havoc with his resolve. She inched her hand downward slowly, closer, closer…running her fingernails along his abdomen, feeling him shudder. Ever closer, as her perfume enfolded them both in its seductive veil.

And then she touched him.

He was so hard, so stiff, that he felt like steel beneath her hand. Proof of his losing struggle. Concrete. Irrefutable.

His hand clasped hers. She thought he might snatch it away. But he held it there, pinned against his erection, his eyes closed as if in pain.

He swelled beneath her fingers, straining for release. She could feel his rough-hewn breath and realized she was breathing just as hard.

Then, all at once, his eyes flew open. He gave her a hard, impenetrable glare. His hand convulsed on hers. He lifted it, holding it between them, contracting his grip until she gave a little cry. Detaining it, imprisoned in his, he put his mouth to her ear and snarled, “All right. I've had enough.”

“What?” she asked, startled.

“You win. I'm going to give you just what you want.”

He stood abruptly and yanked her up out of her chair. It toppled to the floor, but the crashing of the music covered the noise. He jerked her back into the vestibule and shoved her so she went flying against the silk-lined wall. Then he gave the curtains a single yank that closed them, and they were immersed in nearly total darkness. Only a tiny crack at the edge of the drapes provided a glimmer of light with which to see.

He charged at her and took her bare shoulders in punishing fists. Jerking her up against him so she collided with his chest, he demanded, “Is this what you want?” He kissed her roughly, the force of it pushing her back into the wall, pressing into her, all but crushing her with his weight. His tongue ransacked her mouth, sending her heart leaping, making her wet between her thighs. Unleashing his pent-up fury and frustration in this blistering assault.

Then he lifted his head. She felt dizzy, clinging to the wall behind her to seek purchase. His hands moved to the low neckline of her gown and wrenched it down, baring her breasts. He lunged down, taking one of her nipples in his mouth, kneading the other in a conquering palm while he sucked on her, electrifying her. She threw her head back and moaned uncontrollably, surrendering completely to the devastating sensations. Her female triumph mingling with her rousing passion.

His hands moved up to clutch her head on either side, squeezing tight. He raised his head to hers, kissing her again so masterfully that she felt she couldn't stay on her feet.

“Is that what you want?” he insisted. “To know what you do to me? To know you drive me wild?”

“Yes,” she gasped, reeling with happiness.

“It's entertaining for you, is it? Tormenting me? Watching me squirm? Taunting me with that…scent that scrambles my brain. Knowing that just the sight of you makes me hard? Knowing that I lie awake nights, wanting you—
not
wanting you—that you're like a fever in my blood? Until I think I'll go mad? Is
that
what you want to hear?”

“Oh, yes,” she sighed.

“Then take what you asked for and the devil be damned.”

He shoved her to her knees. Then he jerked his trousers open, took himself in hand, and thrust against her lips, demanding entrance, then immersing himself inside. He was so large she choked on him. But he didn't stop. Taking her head in his hands, he fucked her mouth, standing over her like a god.

He tasted divine. Sliding in and out, moving her head where he wanted it, his authority absolute. Growing harder and larger still, bulging in her mouth, filling her throat. On her knees before him, she felt helpless and empowered all at once, a supplicant whose worship only elevates herself. She gloried in the unyielding feel of him on her tongue. The music soared, dancing at the corners of her awareness.

And then he came in her mouth. Tasting sublime. Holding himself inside, making her take all of him. She felt his energy pour into her, feeding her, nourishing her. She swallowed his manly essence greedily, feeling utterly consumed by him.

When he was done, he took her shoulders, heaving her to her feet. She swayed precariously and he had to hold her to keep her upright.

“Is that what you want?” he repeated.

She opened her eyes and saw his anguish in the dim half-light.

“I only wanted you to love me,” she told him, the honesty surging from her freely, hurled from her with the force of her yearning.

He looked absolutely stricken. He stared at her for a long moment, conflicting emotions warring in his eyes. Then, unexpectedly, he pulled her to him, wrapping her in his arms. “Forgive me,” he pleaded.

She eased herself back. “Oh, Richard, there's nothing to forgive.”

His eyes softened. He kissed her, gently now, so sweetly that she felt her heart overflow with love. Then, as a chorus of 400 voices resounded through the hall in a rousing hymn to ancient gods, he said, “Let's see if I can't make amends.”

He laid her tenderly upon the velvet bench, kissing her attentively all the while, stroking her now with the intention of pleasuring her. His kisses melting her in his arms. Moving slowly, leisurely, he called on the considerable skills at his command to carry her away in a wave of bliss. Pushing aside her skirts, he found her sticky warmth. Igniting her with practiced fingers, he knew just where to touch her to cause her body to arch into his hand. And then, only when she was ready, when she knew she couldn't wait another second, he entered her—already hard again—slowly…so slowly, so lovingly that she wanted to weep. The chorus flowing through her, she welcomed him into her, his mouth on hers. Moving with him to the sumptuous swell of the music, unbearably beautiful. Triumph forgotten now, games forsaken, in the majesty of his body giving everything to her.