The Art Of Seduction. Katherine O' Neal

      Mason and Lisette’s celebratory mood was tempered when they reached the lobby. Lisette put her hand on Mason’s arm to stop them short. A distinguished, grey-haired man had just come through the door and was looking around, as if to get his bearings.

      “What is it?” Mason whispered.

      “That man. He’s Inspector Duval of the Sûreté. The most feared flic in all of Paris.”

      Mason paled. “Policeman?”

      “Yes, someone you definitely do not want on your trail.”

      As she said this, the inspector noticed them. Smiling pleasantly, he walked toward them.

      Lisette’s hand tightened on Mason’s arm. “What does he want with us?” she muttered.

      As he came before them, still smiling, there seemed nothing threatening in his demeanor. He looked, in fact, like a kindly grandfather. He removed his hat and gave a slight bow.

      “Mademoiselle Amy Caldwell, I believe. From America.” He spoke in English, which was accented but fluent.

      “Yes,” Mason answered cautiously.

      “I thought you must be, as you are in the company of your sister’s friend. I am Honoré Duval of the Prefecture de Police. I am here to extend the condolences of the French nation on the loss of your sister. If I might be of assistance in any way during your stay here, I hope you will call upon me.”

      Mason could sense Lisette’s tension beside her. She smiled sweetly and said, “Thank you so much, Inspector, but I don’t think that will be necessary. My sister’s friends have been extremely generous and have been helping me through this difficult period.”

      He watched her closely for a moment, as if studying her, and she could see, beneath the benign exterior, the eagle eye of a man whose profession caused him to suspect hidden meanings in small details. He remained silent for several awkward moments.

      Lisette put some pressure on Mason’s arm, prompting her to leave. But before she could move, the policeman said, “I wonder if I might ask a somewhat indelicate question.”

      The smile froze on Mason’s face. “Of course. Ask anything you like.”

      His eyes swept down the chartreuse dress she wore. “Is it not the custom in your country to wear mourning on the loss of a family member?”

      It was a detail she’d forgotten in the rush to pull off the masquerade in time. She needed to think fast.

      “It’s not quite as strict a custom as it is here on the Continent,” she stalled. Then the answer came to her. “Besides, my sister hated black. She considered it the absence of color. If you look closely at her paintings, you’ll see she doesn’t use black. She would have hated for me to wear something she so despised.”

      He gave no response. The awkwardness continued.

      Finally, he asked, “May I share a personal feeling with you?”

      “Please do.”

      “Mademoiselle, in the past year, my office has investigated two hundred and fourteen suicides within the Paris city limits. Of those, all but four left some sort of suicide note, or at least a final word. It seems extremely odd to me that your sister, who devoted her life toward expressing herself, would depart this world without a word…or any provision for the paintings she obviously loved so much. It simply goes against all my instincts to believe this could happen.”

      The hair on the back of Mason’s neck prickled. Forcing herself to assume an air of calm grief, she said, “All I can say, Inspector, is that nothing about my dear sister was conventional.”

      “True, true. Artists are a world unto themselves. I hope I have not unduly alarmed you with my little observation.”

      “Not at all, Inspector. I appreciate your interest.”

      He took her hand and kissed it gallantly. “Let me assure you, Mademoiselle, if the death of your sister is not what it appears to be, I will find out. And if that is the case, I will prosecute the person responsible to the full extent of the law. That, Mademoiselle, is my promise to you.”

      Chapter 6

      Mason rumbled along in the coach on the Boulevard de Clichy. At any other time, she would have been enjoying its plush surroundings, reliving the ecstasy she’d experienced here the day before. But now that it was upon her, she was nervous about telling Garrett the truth. And the incident with the policeman had unsettled her.

      Over breakfast, Lisette had said, “Duval knows something.”

      “He doesn’t know anything,” Mason had argued. “How could he?”

      “He suspects something, or he wouldn’t have come here.”

      “The suicide note. Why didn’t I think of that? It would have been so easy to scribble something.”

      “Details are that man’s specialty. They say he loves to sink his teeth into the little things you’d never even think of. And once he does, he never lets go. He’s like a bulldog.”

      Mason had lost her appetite. “I get the picture, Lisette,” she said testily.

      But Lisette leaned across the table and hissed softly, “France has the toughest penalties for fraud in all of Europe. Juno knew of a man Duval nailed for cashing one of his mother’s war-widow pension checks after she died. A first offense! And he ended up spending ten years in Santé Prison.”

      Now the coach was pulling up in front of a building on Place de Clichy, close to the Hippodrome. Garrett stood in the doorway of the building shaking hands with a man. The sign on the window told her it was a realtor’s office. When he saw the coach, he excused himself and hurried toward her.

      She took a breath, remembering the speech she’d rehearsed, trying to quell her trepidation. When he opened the door and helped her out, she said, without preliminary, “I have something to tell you.”

      “That’s a coincidence. I have something to tell you. How’s this for an idea? The Mason Caldwell Pavilion.”

      He caught her completely off guard. “What?”

      He was nearly vibrating with excitement. “The Mason Caldwell Pavilion—at the World’s Fair.”

      “But the paintings were turned down by the Exposition.”

      “They’ll change their minds. And even if they don’t, we’ll do it independently. A pavilion of our own with nothing but Mason’s paintings in it.”

      “But…that’s