And remembered to breathe.
“Allez, viens. Myatelieris this way.” With a nod of his head and another dazzling smile, Jean-Luc indicated the direction, and Ella crossed the cobbled stone square oflaPlace du Tertrebeside the handsome Parisian artist who made her heart sing for the first time in many years.
They strolled down a picturesque side street and arrived at a studio where Venetian blinds covered the glass front display window. Above the blue painted wooden door, Ella spotted the name“Atelier des Lumières”and another sign—Fermé—indicating that the shop was closed. Jean-Luc unlocked the door, turned on the light, and led her inside while he placed his bag of supplies and unsold paintings on a large table in the corner.
Ella glanced around the bright, vibrant room where numerous paintings covered the sunny, lemon-yellow walls.Atelier des Lumières. Studio of Lights. The perfect name for a bohemian artist in Paris.
A set of wooden stairs led up to a second story above the workshop. “I live in the apartment upstairs. It’s perfect. I pay one rent, which covers myatelierand my residence. Convenient and affordable. Well, nothing in Paris is truly affordable, but I get by.” Obviously pleased that she was admiring his shop, he promised, “I’ll show you more of my work tomorrow. And give you a proper tour.” With a dashingly handsome grin, he offered her the crook of his elbow and suggested gallantly, “But now, let’s get something to eat. And watch flamenco.”
****
TheTablao Flamencowas housed on the hill ofMontmartreinside an eighteenth century building whose façade had been redesigned to resemble a Spanish villa. The arched oval windows and wooden entrance door of the elegant white exterior were shaped like an Arabic mosque or Andalusian palace. Jean-Luc was warmly greeted by the staff—who obviously knew him well— and as the hostess led them down an arched, sloped entry into the dimly lit restaurant where the performance would be held, Ella was amazed that it felt like entering an underground cave.
Vibrant purple lights shone onto the elevated wooden stage at the center back of the cavernous chamber, the vivid color reflecting onto the white limestone walls and bathing the entire room in an astonishing plum hue. A golden glow glimmered from crystal lamps affixed to the arched stone side walls, gilding the lavender haze so that the entire establishment was like an iridescent, precious amethyst hidden like buried treasure inside a secret cave.
Waiters in white shirts and black pants carried trays of steamingpaella, the sweet honey fragrance of saffron mingling with the tantalizing aroma of seafood and garlic, bustling among the packed, crowded round tables facing the stage.
“Voici votre table. Bon appétit. Et bon spectacle!”With a generous smile, the attractive brunette hostess escorted Jean-Luc and Ella to a small table for two and discreetly disappeared.
Jean-Luc gallantly seated Ella, then pulled his chair closer to hers as he settled down at her side. “Let’s order a bottle of wine. Have you ever hadpaella de marisco? Seafood paella?”
A plaintive melody from a trio of acoustic guitars filled the room, the emotional, evocative notes stirring Ella’s soul.Jean-Luc described flamenco as la alma. The soul of the music. I feel it deep inside.“No, I’ve never hadpaella, but I do love seafood,” she replied as a competent waiter approached their table.
Jean-Luc ordered a bottle ofMeursault—a dry white burgundy—to beautifully complement the exquisite flavors of the seafood, spices, and saffron.
Whenle serveurfilled their glasses and left the bottle ofMeursaultin a bucket of ice on the table, Jean-Luc proposed a toast. “To your summer in Montmartre. May I show you all the sensual delights of Paris.” The sultry timbre of Jean-Luc’s deep baritone strummed a melody of flame in Ella’s core, the mellow warmth from the rich, earthy wine a liquid fire in her veins.
The paella was bursting with the flavor of succulent mussels, spicy jumbo shrimp, red peppers, garlic, and saffron rice. Enhanced by the heady glow from the exquisite white burgundy, and the intensely attractive Jean-Luc at her side, Ella savored every delectable moment.
When they finished eating, the waiter cleared the table, refilling their wine glasses.
And the flamenco show began.
“The box that the musician is sitting on is called acajón,”Jean-Luc whispered in her ear as he pulled his chair closer to hers. His breath was hot against her cheek, the earthy scent of sumptuous wine enhancing the musky scent of healthy male. “He’ll slap it in rhythm with the clapping. And the wooden stage is a percussive instrument as well, for it amplifies the dancers’ intricate steps.” He leaned closer, and Ella deeply inhaled the intoxicating, enticing blend of leather, spice, and virility that made her nipples tingle and liquid warmth flare between her quivering thighs.
Five female dancers—in alternating colors of red and yellow dresses with tiers of ruffles below the knee—sat upon chairs onstage as the trio of guitarists began playing a romantic tune. Five men dressed in black clapped in striking syncopation with the passionate music. As the tempo increased, the seated dancers clapped rhythmically, stomping their heeled shoes on the flat wooden stage.
The stone walls of the cave-liketablaowere acoustically designed to amplify the sound of the performance, for the reverberations of the percussive stomping and clapping rumbled into Ella’s very bones.
The dancers arose as one, their arms swooping in delicate arches over their heads, as their footsteps increased in speed and power, the thick heels of their black shoes like drumsticks frapping rhythmically against the smooth surface of the hard wooden floor. With elegance and grace, they picked up the hem of their dresses, the tiers of ruffles rippling as they spun, swirled, and stomped with passion, precision, and power.
Ella—a dancer at heart—was absolutely enthralled. Flamenco was pure passion. And she was engulfed in its fiery blaze.
When the show ended, Jean-Luc wiped a tear from Ella’s cheek as he traced his fingers along the side of her face. He leaned forward and brushed his soft lips against her flushed skin. “I knew you would love it. And I’m pleased at how intensely it affected you.” He hooked his finger under her chin and gently pulled her face to look at him. Ella swooned in the dark depths where desire danced like flickering flames. With full, sensuous lips, his soft kiss was a whisper of undiscovered delights. “Would you like to dance? I know a great club nearby.”
Ella did not want the night to end. She longed to feel Jean-Luc’s arms around her waist… his body moving against hers… “I would love that,” she stammered, still brimming with emotion from the moving flamenco performance.
He rose to his feet and chivalrously extended his hand. As she placed her fingers inside his warm grasp, tremors of pleasure slipped up her arm. His eyes dipped to her breasts, where her erect nipples clamored for his touch. He dazzled her with that seductive smile, dark eyes ablaze with promised pleasure.
Ella rose to her feet on unsteady legs, gripping her bag of precious art. She had never been as attracted to any man as she was to Jean-Luc. Her entire body craved his touch. But so did her soul. After years of being ignored by a husband who had never loved her, Ella was starved for affection and attention.
Jean-Luc made her feel desirable.
And Ella hungered for more.
****
The dance club was packed. Amid flashing strobe lights, bodies swayed and pulsed to a visceral, thumping beat. Jean-Luc seated her at a small table and leaned forward, his full, curved lips close to her ear. “What would you like to drink?”
