The Art Of Seduction. Katherine O' Neal
As Lisette translated, Mason noticed a man standing by himself several yards behind the reporters, staring at her with a penetrating gaze. The first thing she noticed was his size. He stood a full head above the rest of the crowd, with prominent wide shoulders and large hands that offered a captivating contrast to the ease with which he wore his expensively tailored suit. He’d forsaken the beard Parisian men favored and was clean-shaven, emphasizing the sculpted line of his jaw. He was the most arresting man she’d ever seen. But it wasn’t just his individual features—dark hair, wide forehead, thick brows atop piercing dark eyes, vertical creases on either side of his mouth—that made him so. As handsome as he was at first glance, it was the energy he projected that riveted her attention, one of action and excitement, and the promise of adventure. It hit her like a physical blow. Raw. Feral. Brazenly sexual.
For a moment, she lost track of what Lisette was saying. Why was the man looking at her this way? She’d never seen him before, but he was inspecting her with a cheeky sort of intimacy. She felt positively naked beneath his unflinching scrutiny and had to resist the urge to adjust her clothing. Was it possible that he recognized her? But no, she’d taken great pains to change her appearance—dyeing her hair, wearing carefully applied cosmetics, even chopping off the long eyelashes that were her most noticeable feature.
She dragged her gaze away and forced herself to concentrate.
Another reporter asked, “But, mademoiselle, there is no precedent for what is going on here today. Surely much of the interest is due to the harrowing circumstances of your sister’s demise. Such a wretched death for one so young, so beautiful, so talented.”
Someone piped up with, “But it has done wonders for her career.”
There were some snickers from the spectators who’d gathered round.
Falconier held up his hands. “Please, gentlemen, have some respect!”
The questioner added, “I certainly meant no disrespect. I only meant to point out that there is a quality to her life and death that seems to move people in a way that I have never seen before. She never had a patron, never sold a painting, never had the slightest encouragement from what we can tell. And yet she worked on, giving everything to her art, including, finally, her life. That is the mark of a true martyr, a…Joan of Art.”
As he coined the phrase, a silence descended on the crowd, as if suddenly realizing that they were a part of something larger than what had first been apparent.
Mason, taken aback by this, wasn’t sure what to say. She glanced about at the dumbstruck crowd. As she did, her gaze met and held that of the man standing on the fringes. He gave a slow, single nod of his head that baffled her.
“Jeanne d’Art,” repeated one of the reporters. “C’est formidable!”
The newsmen were now writing furiously. As they finished, another of them asked, “What are your plans for the paintings?”
Mason waited for Lisette to finish translating before she answered, “Monsieur Falconier will try to sell the eighteen here today—”
The intriguing man at the back shook his head, distracting her. She stumbled, then continued, “With the stipulation that, should the committee deem them acceptable, they be made available to be displayed at the World’s Fair this summer. I understand they turned her down once, but Monsieur Falconier seems to think in light of the recent publicity…”
“Are there more paintings?”
Mason hadn’t expected the question. But on impulse, she said, “Yes, many.”
As she translated, Lisette tossed her a quizzical frown. This wasn’t part of the plan.
Falconier looked pleasantly startled. “Really! But this is magnifique! And where are they?”
Thinking on her feet, Mason said, “My sister shipped them back to me in Massachusetts. I could have them sent over if anyone wanted to see them.”
Falconier had brightened considerably at this news. He rubbed his smooth, white hands together, and his eyes sparked with the glint of avarice. “Want to see them? The world will demand to see them! And you may rest assured that the Falconier Gallery will be the enthusiastic broker for these masterpieces.”
Lisette couldn’t help but smile at his greed. “How kind of the monsieur,” she quipped.
One of the reporters was nibbling thoughtfully on his pencil. “What do you surmise will happen to all this interest? Will it continue to grow?”
“I can answer that question.”
Mason turned to see Lucien Morrel, the city’s foremost art critic. She’d read his reviews and respected his opinion for years. He’d been instrumental in the careers of Renoir and Degas in the days when the art establishment had turned a blind eye to the revolution in painting that was going on all around them. Now he was about to pronounce judgment on her work. Unconsciously, she held her breath.
“In two weeks’ time,” the learned man proclaimed, “this Mason Caldwell will have been completely forgotten. Her current notoriety is entirely without substance or merit. Her technique is sloppy, the subject matter tends toward the macabre, and her colors bear no relation to the physical reality they’re supposed to convey. In short, her work is not art. It is an affront to art. This morbid interest in her is due solely to the fact that she surely realized she had no talent and, having come to this astute recognition, ended her life by flinging herself from the Pont de l’Alma. A romantic notion that at present has the bourgeoisie swooning and lining up to see her paintings, but that is all. Parisians are notorious for loving a good suicide. No, no, my friends. What we are experiencing here is not the discovery of a new master; it is a carnival sideshow.”
Lisette turned to Mason, her eyes brimming with consternation. Mason waved a hand, silently telling her not to bother to translate. Hearing it once was enough.
Mason turned away, feeling flushed and overheated, wanting nothing more than to bolt from the crushing rejection.
But at that moment, her gaze once again found the handsome stranger at the back. He was still watching her. Now he slowly shook his head, then rolled his eyes. His meaning was clear. He was telling her that the revered Monsieur Morrel was talking through his hat. The warmth of it flowed through her, coursing courage and a badly needed jolt of appreciation through her veins.
Caught off guard by the critic’s denunciation, Falconier had turned white. But he was saved from having to react by a sudden shuffling in the crowd and a harsh male voice calling out, “Where is Falconier?”
All eyes turned to a man of medium height, slim but well built, with slicked-back black hair and a distinctly disreputable air. It was the infamous gangster Juno Dargelos. As he and two burly bodyguards moved their way, the elegant bystanders parted in a flurry of scandalized whispers.
Spotting the proprietor, Dargelos called out, “I will buy them, Falconier. All the pictures of Lisette.”
Seeing him, Lisette raised her face to the ceiling and cried out, “Oh no! Not again!”
The intruder peered at her like a love-struck spaniel, and said, “Did you think I would let anyone else possess the pictures of my darling turtledove?”
With a stamp of her foot, Lisette fired back, “How many times must I tell you, Juno? I am not your turtledove, and never will be!”
The presence of the gang chieftain provided a delicious new twist to the story. The reporters jumped on it, firing questions at him.
“Eh, Juno, what are you doing so far from Belleville?”
“You don’t own the police in this part of town, after all.”
“Haven’t you heard that Inspector Duval has sworn he will not rest until the day he packs you off to Devil’s Island?”
Dargelos extended both arms toward Lisette in a gesture worthy of a Puccini hero. “For the woman I adore, I would swim