Chapter 1
Montmartre
Ella strolled along the cobbled stone square ofMontmartre,the bohemian heart of Paris nestled behind the famous white church,le Sacré-Coeur. A sultry jazz melody from a smooth saxophone floated among the red and white striped umbrellas, the bright streetlamps, and the canopy of manicured trees under the starry night sky.
Meandering among the tourists getting their portraits sketched on the chic and trendyPlace du Tertre,she inhaled the invigorating, intoxicatingmélangeof scents. Decadent chocolate crêpes. Sizzling seafood. Strong French coffee.
An American teacher of French from Florida, Ella had won a summer scholarship to come to Paris and practice her language skills through the study of art in Montmartre. For the glorious month of June, she would be residing nearla Maison Rose, a restaurant once frequented by such artists as Picasso and Dali. She’d be taking French language and culture classes with other teachers from around the world, their linguistic learning enhanced through workshops in variousateliersby local painters and sculptors.
Ella had arrived a few days early, before the academic program began, to allow herself sufficient time to explore Paris on her own, thrilled at the chance for a new beginning.
She’d finally divorced the husband who had ignored her for years, leaving her feeling undesirable, unattractive, and unwanted. Ella had applied for the scholarship, never expecting that she would be one of twenty-four teachers selected. And now, here she was. In Paris,The City of Light.La Ville Lumière.
With a deep intake of breath, she clutched the teal leather purse where her stamped passport was tucked safely inside its zippered pouch. And plunged headfirst into the adventurous, welcoming night.
As she wandered among the tourists, watching profiles emerge on canvas, deciding who she would choose to sketch her portrait as a souvenir for this most memorable summer, one artist caught her eye.
And took her breath away.
Thick, glossy, black hair cascaded down his back. Sinuous tattoos snaked up either side of his muscular neck, slithering from beneath the snug black tee-shirt molded to the sculpted biceps of his long, athletic arms. A mustache and several days’ worth of dark stubble joined the trim beard which outlined his chiseled jawline and clefted chin.
A ripple of desire shivered up Ella’s spine.
He must have sensed her watching him, for he looked up from his work to gaze acrossla Place du Tertre.
Their eyes met, and Ella was transfixed.
An irresistible aura of mystery and passion exuded from his every pore. He flashed her a glorious, dazzling grin.
Her knees nearly buckled from the blinding impact.
Stunned—for she was unused to male attention, let alone captivating charm—it took a moment before she smiled back. I want him to sketch me. And melt me with that scorching smile.
Ella strode toward him, taking her place in line behind the three other tourists awaiting their turn to be sketched. She watched him work, awed by his artistic skill, nimble fingers coaxing lifelike images to appear miraculously on the smooth white paper affixed to the canvas on his easel. Thumbing through some of his pieces for sale on an adjacent stand, Ella discovered a small painting of a flamenco dancer that called to her, stirring the creative depths of her inner soul.
The tiered ruffles of the form-fitting red dress cascaded from delicate fingers of the elegant arm curled up over the dancer’s retracted head. A sleek, black bun graced the nape of her neck, her slender throat sensuously exposed over her bent, arched back. The thumb and forefinger of her other hand formed a circle near her curved waist, the long fingers unfurling like wings of an exquisite swan.
But it was the agony and ecstasy in the dancer’s intense facial expression that gripped Ella’s heart. The passion and pain. The joy and despair. The savage beauty and ethereal grace. Ella had to have this painting.Was this dancer his lover? Is that why she is so intimately portrayed?
Surprised at the personal train of her thoughts, Ella realized it was her turn to be sketched. She stumbled forward, presented the painting to the artist, and spluttered, “I’d like to purchase this, in addition to having my portrait sketched.”
He grinned broadly, his handsome, stubbled face aglow with pleasure. “We share similar tastes. That’s one of my favorites as well.”
When he took the painting from her hand, his calloused fingers brushed against hers, sending a delicious wave of heat up Ella’s arm. As she watched him lovingly wrap the small canvas in white paper, she glimpsed an intriguing tattoo—an abstract image of a flamenco dancer— on his prominent right bicep.
Her treasure tucked safely into a paper shopping bag, he handed her the parcel with a satisfied smile. “Merci beaucoup. Please, sit here for your portrait.”
Ella settled onto the folding chair provided for his patrons, glad she had worn a clingy mauve halter top which flattered her lithe form. As she crossed her bare legs, his appreciative eyes roved over her long limbs, a hunger in his lingering gaze that Ella had never glimpsed in her disinterested, inattentive husband.
A delicious thrill rippled up Ella’s spine.
She pulled a strand of long blonde hair forward over her shoulder. Proud of the length—it touched her waist—she wanted him to capture it in the sketch. Ready for him to begin, she looked up to meet his eyes.
And lost herself in the smoldering, dark depths. Decadent and delicious as French chocolate. A wave of warmth melted her inner core.
“Lift your torso and tilt your head slightly to the left. Look at me. And smile.”
As she complied, Ella found herself enthralled by the bohemian artist whose torn, faded jeans hugged his sculpted, muscular thighs.
