Naughty Paris. Jina Bacarr
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Jina Bacarr
NAUGHTY PARIS
To my husband, Len LaBrae, an artist in his own right.
Acknowledgments
My love affair with Paris began years ago when I visited the City of Light as a struggling art student and fell in love with everything Parisian, including the world of the Impressionists. I visited the Louvre, the art studios, the cafés where the Impressionists had hung out and an idea began to form in my mind: what if I could travel back in time and become part of their world? Now that idea has become a novel, but not without the hard work and perseverance of three special and dedicated women.
I wish to thank my editor, Susan Pezzack, whose artistic sensibilities helped me fine-tune my manuscript; Leslie Wainger, the editor who opened the door for me, and my friend and agent, Roberta Brown, who loved this story from the first time she read it and never gave up on me. Merci.
I loved the film Moulin Rouge about Paris and La Belle Époque and wondered what it would be like to be slim and gorgeous like Nicole Kidman, fall in love with a handsome hunk, and sing on key when I’m having an orgasm. I thought about it at lunch when I dieted on herb quiche with low-fat cheese and gulped down latte without whipped cream. I thought about it when I showed commercial properties to boring old men with lust in their eyes and soft putty in their pants. I thought about it when I got jilted at the altar and went to Paris for my honeymoon sans the groom.
Then I didn’t have to think about it anymore because it happened. To me. Autumn Maguire.
It all started with:
Désir (Desire)
I am not a woman—I am a world.
My garments only have to fall
and on my body you will find
a whole series of secrets.
—Gustave Flaubert
(1821-1880)
CHAPTER ONE
Paris Today—An Art Studio in the Marais District
The Model
“You want me to take off my T-shirt?”
“Yes, mademoiselle.”
“And my yoga pants?
He nods. “Yes, mademoiselle.”
“Hold on a Paris minute,” I protest, glancing over at the old artist with a Gauloise cigarette hanging out of his mouth like a limp penis. He takes a drag without taking his eyes off my wet T-shirt sticking to me like a Post-it. “I ducked in here to get out of the rain, not sign up for strip aerobics.”
Husky voice, low in the back of my throat. Jeez, is that me? Got to be nerves.
I had the same catch in my throat when I swallowed the mint in my mouth after David, my ex-fiancé, insisted I give lousy BJs and he couldn’t go through with our wedding because he had issues with us.
The jerk.
As if flunking a postgraduate course in blow jobs is a top-ten reason to send me into therapy and sic my mother on me for the prepaid, nonrefundable honeymoon to Paris. But here I am, wandering around the Right Bank in the rain like Jean Valjean in squishy Nikes. Jilted and miserable.
And wondering how I let silver-tongued David—a guy who knows how to use that tongue to trigger my starter button—talk me into charging everything on my credit card. I’ve worked my ass off climbing the corporate ladder since college, putting my dream of opening my own art gallery on hold. Now I’m not only groomless but I had to dip into my 401-k account to pay for twelve bridesmaids’ dresses with matching dyed Jimmy-what’s-his-name stilettos, not to mention more than two hundred pounds of prime rib. Rare.
After I cut up my maxed-out credit card, I guzzled down the last bottle of champagne then tossed my white satin Vera Wang knock-off into the closest trashcan. The next morning I took off for the birthplace of Godiva chocolates to sweeten the bad taste in my mouth. And I don’t mean spending time on my knees sucking on a guy wearing a raspberry-flava condom. I mean something dramatic and wonderful, heart-stopping and sizzling with pent-up energy. I want to feel alive, desired.
Who am I kidding? I want to be a drop-dead-gorgeous sex goddess.
Youth and a fab bod aren’t everything, you know.
Ha! David thinks so. That’s why I’m not all snuggly and warm with him between the sheets in my Paris hotel instead of sneaking through the city like a rat in an underground sewer.
You’re not young anymore, kiddo, and you are, oh, so not thin. That’s why you lost David to that Aphrodite, an insipid skinny-as-a-toothpick, not-old-enough-to-drink-yet blonde. Your assistant, yet. How could you be so dumb?
Dumb? I was stupid, insane, a complete idiot for letting that bitch take David away from me. I got punked.
Zap! As if agreeing with me, lightning rips through the long multipaned window, hitting me in the eye like a redlight camera, illuminating the faint light in the studio and diluting the smoky atmos.
I blink, then blink again. A B horror film mentality creeps me out, making me shiver. It can’t get any worse. Storm clouds hide the afternoon sun. A rush of rain falls outside, banging against the windowpanes shimmering with a wet sheen. Thunder cracks like a boombox bursting with outta control volume. The old building shakes. I cringe. Do I really want to go back outside into that stormy mess? That’s why I don’t protest when the old artist hustles me toward the platform in the back of the art studio.
“Hurry, mademoiselle, we’re losing the light.”
A pungent whiff of burnt tobacco shoots up my nose. Who is this putz? For sure, he’s no panting Adonis who can seduce a woman to take off her clothes with a smile. He’s short, balding, sporting a little paunch and he smokes too much.
“Watch those hands, monsieur. I know karate.” I’m bluffing, but it works with the geek corporate types I deal with every day who think a physical workout is something you do by yourself with one hand.
By the way, did you notice the old artist was impressed when I said kah-rah-tay with the accent on the tay? I may give lousy blow jobs, but I’m not Gallic challenged. I got an A in French in college. I can rattle off enough swear words to impress the surliest taxi driver, from calling him a salaud, bastard, to a quel casse-couilles, pain in the ass.
“You made a mistake, monsieur,” I continue, now that I’ve got his attention. “I wouldn’t look as soggy as over-cooked lasagna if I owned an umbrella, which I don’t. Nobody from the O.C. does. It ruins our image, not to mention Nielsen ratings.”
He makes a face. Silly me. As if he understands my pop-culture rhetoric to explain why he doesn’t want to see me naked, why I slap on phony tanning stuff rather than sport a citrus-yellow bikini on a SoCal beach. I don’t tell him cellulite and I are as tight as sorority sisters. Not to mention my stomach is upset and I feel like I’m going to pass gas from the greasy pommes frites I gulped down at the flea market.
“Then you’re not a model, mademoiselle?” The old artist gestures with his two hands like he’s feeling up melons in the supermarché.
I shake my head emphatically. “No.”
“Pity.” He coughs, tosses his cigarette into an empty saucer, then does a mental strip search of my bod from the top of my red Angels baseball cap to my DKNY white cotton T-shirt, mauve yoga pants with a white stripe running up the side, and comfy walking shoes. “I’d still like to draw you.”
I tilt my head to one side, thinking. What’s holding me back? Posing in my bra and panties isn’t any different