Ella threw her arms around his neck and stood on tiptoes to plant an enthusiastic kiss on his smiling lips. “I love it! It’s perfect.L’Atelier du Coeur.”
His expression became somber and serious. “I nearly lost you,” he choked, his voice quavering as he held her close. “I love you, Ella. I want to share my life with you.” He stepped back and retrieved a small box from the pocket of his jeans.
Ella recognized the name on the label.Au Temps Jadis.The package he’d received yesterday. Her pulse hammered in her throat.
Jean-Luc opened the small black jewelry box to reveal an antique ring. Atop an intricate, delicate setting in the shape of an elaborate rose, a dazzling diamond glittered in the golden sun. “It’s set in platinum, fromla Belle Époque. Shaped like a rose, forMa Rose Bohème. With a heart-shaped diamond. Becausemon coeur— you’re my heart.”
He dropped to one knee and offered her the diamond ring. “Will you marry me, Ella? I can’t live without my heart.”
Ella’s shaking legs nearly gave out. Spirit overflowing, tears brimming, she cried, “Yes! I love you, Jean-Luc. I desperately want to become your wife.”
He rose to a stand, removed the ring from the box, and slipped it onto the third finger of her left hand. Her heart finger. With a curved thumb, he lifted her chin and lowered his full, sensuous lips onto hers. Sealing the promise with a kiss.
****
Three days later, Jean-Luc had just finished his morning art lessons when Ella spotted the two museum curators she’d met the day they’d delivered Colette’s portrait tole Musée de Montmartre. Jean-Luc greeted them with a firm handshake and a cordial hello as Guillaume and Olivier entered the atelier.
“Bonjour, Jean-Luc,” the sandy-haired Olivier responded with a friendly smile. “I noticed your sign in the window. You’re relocating… opening a new shop.L’Atelier du Coeur?”
“That’s right,” Jean-Luc replied politely. “On theAllée des Brouillards. Where Renoir once lived.” He regarded the men expectantly, obviously wondering why they had come. “How can I help you?”
“We’ve come to ask you to reconsider your decision to withdraw from the exhibition,” Olivier remarked affably with a conciliatory smile.
Jean-Luc scoffed and shook his head, clearly not interested in the offer.
“Before you refuse,” Guillaume interjected, “we wish to inform you that Colette Ducharme has been terminated and her contract revoked. We do not tolerate sexual harassment of any kind, and she will have no further involvement withla Fête des Vendanges,le Musée de Montmartre, or theL’Art de la Danseexhibition.” He paused briefly, allowing Jean-Luc time to process the information. “We’d like you to remain our featured artist, with the hopes that we can still hold the press conference scheduled for this Saturday.”
Jean-Luc considered the proposition, his expression wary. “You say Colette has been dismissed, and she will have no further association with the exhibition or the museum?”
“That’s correct,” Olivier responded with an enthusiastic nod. “In fact, as we speak, she is on a plane, returning tola Côte d’Azur.”
Jean-Luc raised an inquisitive eyebrow at Ella, and she flashed him a breathless smile of approval.
“In that case, I’d be honored to accept,” Jean-Luc announced with a generous grin, shaking Guillaume’s proffered hand.
“Excellent,” Olivier exclaimed as he shook Jean-Luc’s hand. “The publicity will be ideal to promote your new atelier. There is one problem, however.” He exchanged a nervous glance with his colleague. “We insisted that Colette take her portrait, since we want no further association of her with the exhibit.” He added hesitantly, “We were hoping you might substitute a different painting for the keynote work of art.”
Jean-Luc chuckled heartily. “I have the perfect piece. One of the extra paintings I recently completed for the exhibition. Come, I’ll show you. Ella—you, too.”
He led them from the front showroom of the atelier to his large, open studio.
At the sight of the tufted sofa, Ella smiled inwardly, remembering Jean-Luc painting her nude portrait, with every session ending in passion on that sumptuous black velvet couch.
Sorting through a stack of paintings leaning against the wall, Jean-Luc selected one, carried it across the room, and set it upon the wooden easel before Ella, Olivier, and Guillaume. He gallantly unfurled the cloth covering, revealing a vibrant painting of Ella in a scarlet, form-fitting flamenco dress, the voluminous ruffled fabric below the knees swirling outward in a dramatic, fiery plume. One of her bare arms curled up toward her head, a pair of castanets clenched within her palm. The other hand flung the fiery, flamenco plume of the dress, like the sizzling, scorching trail of a blazing comet across the sky. Ella’s enflamed face expressed pain. Or pleasure so intense it engulfed her in flames.
Swirls of long blonde hair curled like flickering flames, and twisting twirls of fire licked at her limber legs.
“I call itFlames of Flamenco,”Jean-Luc announced proudly. “The fiery passion of my Muse.” He kissed Ella’s hand. “The woman who will soon become my wife.”
Olivier broke out in a grin. “Congratulations! Another fascinating announcement for the press conference.”
Guillaume inspected the artistic detail of the painting, then turned to Jean-Luc in awe. “This is even better than the portrait of Colette Ducharme. It’s ideal for the keynote piece of art. You’re an artist who paints flamenco dancers. You’re a flamenco dancer yourself. And now, theFlames of Flamencowill feature your artistic talent. And your passion for the woman you love. The press will go wild.”
Guillaume grinned at Ella. “You must be there for the press conference Saturday, too. They’ll want to interview you as Jean-Luc’s fiancée. His Muse.” He could barely contain his enthusiasm. “We’ll want you to be at his side throughout the entire week ofla Fête des Vendanges.An integral part of theL’Art de la Danseexhibition. The model for the keynote work of art.”
At the front door of the atelier, Guillaume shook Jean-Luc’s hand as he and Olivier prepared to leave. “Decide which pieces you’d like to exhibit and prepare them for transport. We’ll send a truck Wednesday to pick them up. Can you meet us at the museum at two? We can arrange the display and go over the details of the press conference. Does that work for you?”
“Wednesday at two it is. We’ll see you then.” Jean-Luc shook Olivier’s hand.
