I get to my feet, painfully, and draw my purse, but he waves my hand away.
“This is my gift. Perhaps, one day, if this impressionism idea ever takes off, it might even be worth something.” He waves at Arabella as he bustles off. “Good evening, Mademoiselle Macquart.”
“A pleasure as always, Monsieur Monet.”
Arabella starts to get up, but I hold up a hand.
“Don’t move.”
My command pulses through her body. Ismellthe pleasure it causes her to lie back again, to obey, to give me this tiny sliver of herself. The night air thickens with myrrh and ginger, and the slightest tang of raspberry.
Arabella wets her lips.
I hurl myself over the edge of the pond. The water is a welcome shock to my stiff, lust-addled body. I wade across to her, pulling myself up onto the columns, my clothing soaked through, my skin almost as cool as hers.
“You will ruin that fancy Italian suit,” she scolds me, raising up on her elbows, allowing me to drink in her beauty – her slender neck and narrow shoulders, draped with glittering jewels, the delicious dip of her navel, her small, round breasts with their large dark nipples, and the dark triangle between her thighs.
I smile down at her. “Maybe I’m ready to be ruined.”
I cup her chin in my hand. Her skin is cool from the evening air. I should offer her my coat, which is still mostly dry, bundle her up and take her somewhere warm. But I’m too enchanted by her.
I cannot go another moment without kissing her.
So I don’t.
I bend down, and I press my lips to hers.
I hold my breath for a moment, half expecting her to disappear into fog.
Instead, she kisses me back.
Her lips are cool against mine, and soft – so soft that my chest aches. I part them with my tongue and explore her, tasting raspberries and moonlight. A mewling sound escapes her, and she is no longer soft, but a tiger, fierce and hungry with wild need, devouring me whole.
Our bodies move together. The wretched longing that has twisted inside me – since the night I first saw her dance – unfurls. I think I wanted her before I even knew she existed.
“You were right about coming out tonight,” I moan against her.
“I know I’m right,” she gasps between kisses. “I’m right about everything. I’m right about things you haven’t evenheardof yet.”
I laugh as I smother her mouth in mine.
Arabella presses her hand against my chest, fisting my shirt, pulling me closer. She might as well be squeezing my heart. She could tear it from my chest and eat it in front of me, and I wouldn’t care. Whatever she wants, I’ll give it to her…
“Monsieur Rougon, it is you!”
Arabella curses, biting my lip. I feel a sharp prick and taste my own blood. She sucks on my lip, but I pull away, turning towards the sound of the voice and the revolver I keep in my coat, thinking only to protect Arabella.
“Who goes there?” I yell into the gloom.
A shadow moves along the edge of the pond. A familiar voice calls out, “It is I, Monsieur Rodin. I’m sorry for interrupting you.” Auguste Rodin steps into the moonlight and bows his head. He carries a sketchbook under one arm and something clenched tight in his fist. “I was sketching in another corner of the garden when I heard you in conversation with Claude. I did not wish to disturb you.”
“An excellent idea,” I call back.
He doesn’t get the hint. “I’m creating a large work that I’m thinking of callingThe Gates of Hell. This sculpture will represent the tragic love story of Paolo and Francesca from Dante’sDivine Comedy. I wandered past after Claude left, and something of your love story captured me.” He nods to the sketchbook in his hands. “I have been struggling with how to capture the raw beauty and tragic desperation of the kiss. But when I saw the two of you, the work came to me in a flash.”
“But our love story isn’t tragic,” I say.
“All love stories are tragic,” Auguste shouts back. “I thought you should know that I’m not the only one watching you.”
