Walking back to the messy kitchen made him smile and shake his head. He rinsed the plates and then scribbled a note for Françoise, apologizing for the mess. Then he headed upstairs to shower himself. He had a big day planned for Callie and he didn’t want to waste any more time.
Chapter 10
The neighborhood of Montmartre was a place of colors and living dreams. Topped by the Byzantine-style white domes of the Sacré-Coeur, the Sacred Heart Basilica, the cathedral felt like a holy place both of the spirit and the heart. Artists were everywhere, their easels set up along the streets, their bohemian little stands full of life as they courted the tourists who flocked to the center of Paris’s art district.
Callie stood next to Wes, taking in the main square, the Place du Tertre.
“Did you know that this square was a famous haunt of the artist Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec?” Wes waved at the eclectic mix of tourists and artists. It was easy to picture an artist haunting this place for inspiration.
“It’s amazing.” She wanted to study all of the sketches and the portraits around her.
“It’s a bit busy with the bourgeois bohemian.”
“What’s that?”
Wes laughed. “Think of it as the French word for hipsters.”
“Really?” She laughed, too.
“Yes. But this is your first time in Paris and you have to experience it. Especially from an artist’s perspective.” He curled his arm around her waist and guided her to the nearest row of artists.
Callie breathed in the air, which smelled of chalk dust. Wes had stayed close to her ever since they had left the apartment. He had actually relaxed in jeans and a light sweater, as though finally at ease enough to leave behind the suits. His dark masculine scent was heady and addictive.
They halted at the front row of artists and Wes spun her to face him, a possessive gleam in his eyes.
“You are getting your portrait done,” he announced. “It’s a rite of passage.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and they walked down the row of artists.
Wes paused behind each artist, examining their styles and examples of past works intently. He was in his element, like last night when he’d bent over the Sargent and examined its details for Dimitri. He was focused on the art, and she was focused on him. That itching in her right hand, the need to sketch, to channel that creative pulse which was humming like rich wine in her veins. She wanted to draw Wes, to put his likeness on paper, to own a part of him, how she saw him, in whatever small way she could. The temporary madness born of mutual passion would pass someday and they’d go their separate ways, but she knew now that he would be her first lover and she never wanted to forget him.
Artist after artist, Wes wasn’t satisfied until he peered over the shoulder of the last man sketching at the end of the row. He was a man in his midforties, a pair of slender glasses resting on the bridge of his thin nose. His brown eyes studied Wes right back with the clarity reserved only to artists and the lovers of art.
“Monsieur, je voudrais un portrait de la jeune dame.”
The man nodded. “Bien sûr. Ça coûte soixante-dix euros.”
“Seventy euros?” Callie gasped. “Wes, that’s way too expensive for a street portrait.” She tugged at his sleeve, but Wes nudged her toward the small wooden stool.
“He’s the best. I want only the best.”
Callie sighed, seeing that an argument wouldn’t get her anywhere. Wes played with her hair, settling it in a particular way over her shoulders that seemed to please him. He and the artist shared a knowing look and then the man lifted his hand in a universal gesture she understood and she responded by lifting her chin an inch and tilting her head to one side.
Over the next half hour the man worked at a steady pace with Wes directly behind him, observing the artist’s progress. The serious expression on Wes’s face made her feel a little silly and she couldn’t stop it when she started to giggle.
“What?” Wes glanced around, as if expecting to discover the obvious source of amusement.
“I’m sorry,” she said half giggling, half laughing. “You look so serious. Smile or something, otherwise I’ll keep laughing.”
Wes’s solemn expression softened and a glint of wicked humor filled his gaze.
“Oh, I know plenty of ways to stop your laughing. Want to hear?” The scorching burn of his gaze showed her just how serious he was. Her breath caught in her throat and heat flooded her face.
“C’est fini, monsieur.” The artist sat back, resting his hands on his charcoal-stained pants.
“Bon, c’est magnifique.” Wes’s gaze was rapt as he studied the sketch.
“Can I see?” She leaped up from the stool and hurried around the tall easel so she could see what the man had done.
Her heart stopped. It was only when Wes caught hold of her from behind, wrapping his arms around her waist and nuzzling her temple as they stared at the sketch together, that her heart finally jolted back into a steady beat.
The piece was done on gray paper. The man had used white charcoal to accent her cheeks and the flash in her eyes. He’d used the paper’s darker color to let the shadows form rosy blushing cheeks and deepen the fall of her hair interspersed with light. It was done entirely in shadows of charcoal, yet rendered with such precision that she felt as though she was staring in a mirror. Yet what held her fascinated was the expression on her face he had somehow managed to capture. Slightly parted lips, slumberous eyes, a woman in the midst of lovemaking—that was how she appeared.
“He captured it,” Wes murmured in her ear. “The most sensual expression I’ve ever seen. What were you thinking about, I wonder?” He asked the question almost rhetorically.
“Ice cream. I was thinking about ice cream.”
He laughed. The vibration of his body behind hers was wonderful.
“You’ve spent way too much time around my sister. What were you really thinking about?”
The natural command in his tone was not loud but had just as much of an influence over her. She had to answer. There was no denying him what he wanted.
“You.” The single word was breathless and he went rigid behind her, his warm breath making her shiver.
“You know how to torture a man, Callie.” The warning was clear. From the way he pressed hard against her and pushed his fingers into her, she knew he was on the verge of losing control.
The artist, with his back to them, sprayed a finishing spray on the charcoal to protect it from smears. Then he placed a sheet of wax paper over it and rolled it up and slid it into a white cardboard tube.
Wes finally released her and pulled out a thick wad of money in a silver money clip and slipped seventy euros into the artist’s hand.
“Merci, monsieur. Vous avez une belle femme. Vous êtes un homme chanceux.”
“Je sais. C’est la chance en effet.” Wes shook the artist’s hand.
“What did he say?” Callie asked as they continued their walk along the street.
“He said you were beautiful.”
Callie raised one eyebrow. “I understood that part. What did he say after that?”
Wes wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. “He said I was a lucky man.” His lips curved into a body-melting smile. “And I agreed with him.”
Her heart fluttered a little with nervousness but she realized it was a happy fluttering. She’d never really felt that way before. With Fenn she was either happy or nervous. Never a mixture of both. This was new…and a little startling, but she liked how it felt. There was a warm buzz in her heart when she looked at Wes and let him cradle her against his side.
Yes…this was…nice. She liked nice.