The air around us feels electric. I’m being singed by his heat and energy.
“I am. Though I confess that”—I gesture lightly toward the glowing glass walls and the crowd swarming in couture—“this isn’t my usual Friday evening.”
The corner of his mouth curves, the faintest hint of amusement. “Nor mine. I prefer quieter company.”His gaze lingers on me long enough to make my pulse skip before he adds, “But one makes appearances. It is expected.”
“And one buys an expensive painting. Is that expected, too?” I don’t know why I’m provoking him—maybe because Simone was hanging on his arm, maybe because he told me he wanted me but couldn’t have me, like we’re stuck in some eighteenth-century melodrama.
Whatever.
“I bought the art because I love it.” His eyes lock on mine. “One can’t have everything onewants—but when the opportunity appears, I take it.”
We could be discussing the weather. Yet beneath the civility, there’s a harsh truth.
Her perfume hits before I see her. Chanel and money.
“Mon chéri,” Simone coos, gliding up in her burgundy satin, resting a proprietary hand on Gustave’s arm.
Her eyes flick to me, cool appraisal, before she tilts her head as though in thought. “I don’t believe we have met.”
I blink. Has she already forgotten me?Probably.
I extend my hand, polite as ever. “We have. At the Louvre. I’m Tara Gayarre. I’m working on the Carriera pastel.”
Her eyes widen—a fraction, enough to suggest surprise or something close to mocking. “Ah, but ofcourse. Forgive me. So many faces, so many events.” She shakes my hand, drops it, and then turns smoothly back to Gustave, dismissing me as if I’m part of the décor.
The message is clear:You’re a nobody, barely worth remembering.
My spine stiffens, but I keep my smile in place. If she thinks she can erase me with a feigned lapse of memory, she has sorely underestimated Latinas raised on sarcasm and stubbornness.
“I imagine it must be difficult to keep track. You must meet so many interesting people every day,” I say lightly.
Simone’s lashes flicker. Gustave’s mouth twitches, as if he’s fighting a smile.
Round one, I think.
Before either of us can fire another volley, a booming laugh cuts through the din.
“Bravo?*,Gustave.I thought Hunt was going to win.”
Philippe—something, I forget—his friend, I remember, appears like a storm front: broad-shouldered, flushed with champagne, and trailed by a model girlfriend who’s probably half his age and twice as bored.
“Sigrid was quite impressed,” he declares. Sigrid seems to be no such thing. She smiles vacuously and goes back to scrolling through herphone.
Philippe’s gaze swings to me. “And who is this enchanting creature?”
Oh, but I know his type, I think, amused.
Before I can answer, Simone does.
“One of the Louvre’s restorers. She’s working on that little pastel Gustave likes.”
Her voice drips with that syrupy benevolence people reserve for patting a child on the head.
Heat floods my cheeks. I know exactly what she’s doing—shrinking me. To her, I’m not Tara Gayarre, specialist, PhD, the woman trusted with a Rosalba Carriera. I’m staff. The help. A curiosity who wandered in from the wrong world.
But Philippe, at least, appears sincere. He takes my hand with a courtly flourish. “Mademoiselle?*, anyone who revives our treasures is as valuable as the artists we admire. You preserve our souls.”
I laugh awkwardly.
