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Naughty Paris
Jina Bacarr


After being jilted by her fiance, Autumn Maguire uses her nonrefundable honeymoon tickets to explore Paris on her own.Eager to experience the true bohemian lifestyle, she answers an ad for an artist's model. When she exchanges her clothes for the artist's lush red cloak, something strange happens–a feeling of intense sensual reawakening overcomes her. Suddenly lightning strikes and through the power of black magic she's thrust back into– –the nineteenth century where the scandalous painter Paul Borquet is insisting she become his Titian-haired muse.Between everyone's strange clothing, the claustrophobic Parisian streets and the overpowering pull of sexual desire, Autumn can't process–just where the heck is she and how did she get here?And frankly, with Paul's expert caresses imprinted on her body, does she really care about going back to present day?









Jina Bacarr

NAUGHTY PARIS







www.Spice-Books.co.uk (http://www.Spice-Books.co.uk)


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 from sporting a bikini at a pool party, right? So why not go for the win?

I nod. “Okay. It’ll be a fun souvenir to take home.”

He smiles, then drops the bombshell. Right into my lap.

“Bon. Good. You must pose in the nude.”



“Are you sure Madonna started like this?” I ask, holding on to my panties, pulling on the elastic waistband until it snaps against my bare skin. Ouch. I’ve already taken off my wet clothes and left them hanging on the tall black screen standing in the corner, along with my waist pack with my money and passport.

“Mademoiselle?”

“You know, the pop star? ‘Like a Virgin’?” I sway my hips like the superstar diva. Somehow it doesn’t have the same effect. The old artist shrugs.

“I don’t care if you’re a virgin—”

I’m not, but I smile anyway.

“—I wish to sketch you, mademoiselle, not make love to you.”

That did it. Can my ego get any flatter? Ever seen a used condom?

Well, here goes.

I wiggle my peppermint pink panties down over my thighs and let them drop onto the small platform. There. I’ve done it. I’m nude. No turning back, even if I haven’t shaved below my bikini line.

Vive la nue me.

I glance over at the old artist wiping down his posterboard with a damp cloth. The look on my face says, What do I do next?

He coughs, wipes beads of perspiration off his forehead, then points to my feet. I look down. I’m up to my ankles in pink nylon. I shift my weight from one foot to the other. The wooden platform creaks. Loudly. Urging me to hurry. Okay, okay. I scoot my panties off the platform with my bare toes. Wearing nothing but my sweat, I grin.

The old artist nods, picks up a Conté carré dessin, drawing charcoal, and waits for me to get into position. I hold my hand over my crotch. What a silly thing to do. I must relax. Relax. Keep up my courage. A chill slithers up the back of my neck, making my nipples harden and point straight out. I know now how guys feel when they get a hard-on in the middle of a heated business meeting. They can hide it behind this week’s market stats report. Me? I’m as naked as a low-carb burger going solo.

I know you’re sitting there all comfy in your sweats, shaking your head, pinching your thighs, wondering how a thirty-something woman could even think about taking her clothes off in front of anybody but her gyno. Brace yourself. It ain’t pretty. Here’s the skinny, which I’m not, so it’s even more outrageous.

I’m desperate for excitement, a cheap thrill, and if it cost me a new pair of La Perla panties, then let them fall. Nothing exciting ever happens in corporate real estate sales, though I keep hoping I’ll run into Donald Trump between bankruptcies and wives.

Unfortunately, time is running out for this apprentice wannabe. I’m thirty-four with more than a little tummy since David took off with my heart and my willpower stuffed into his back pocket. The idea of posing nude evokes a sexual charge in me, an irresistible allure of the forbidden without putting myself in danger or jeopardizing my corporate reputation, a unique twist to my personality I never dared explore.

Until now. This moment. My world is so frustratingly normal, so conservative in every way, that although I’m shocked at the artist’s request, I’m also terribly intrigued. It’s my nature.

Besides, I want to show my ex-fiancé I’m still hot stuff.

I grind my teeth. Just thinking about David makes me cringe. When I discovered he used me to get info on a major land development deal in Wyoming, I should have broken up with him then. But he was so convincing in his “I’m doing this for us” speech, I put aside my fears and didn’t protest when he proceeded to slide my panties down between my thighs and do more with his sexy mouth than give me spin.

Even my mother warned me about David, said he was looking for a hot body with a trust account, but I didn’t listen. She oughta know. My mother and her talking mirror just divorced their third husband.

I’m not in the mood for advice so I clicked off my cell phone. Mother drives me insane with her text messages that resemble the bottom-of-the-screen news headlines on CNN. Don’t get me wrong. I love my mother, even if she collects marriage licenses like some women clip grocery coupons.

For your information, I left her blissfully engaged in bringing down the French national debt single-handedly on the fashionable rue Saint-Honoré while I wandered around the Marais district. I was looking for a poster or painting to take home to add to my collection of lowbrow work by undiscovered artists, or to put it bluntly, cheap, when a summer storm hit. A refreshingly cool rain blew in from the west, twirling over the blue-tiled rooftops and pelting down the narrow alleyways. The raindrops fell in bunches and splatted on the stone streets like water balloons. I got drenched. Not a pretty sight. I took refuge in an art studio with faded lettering over the arched entryway: House of Morand.

House of Wax is more like it.

Looking around the studio, the place looks like something out of a scary movie. Dirtballs fill every corner, mustard-yellow newspapers sit piled up on chairs, and a bookcase filled with art books stands alongside a tall, ebony pearl-inlaid screen. A hotplate with dirty red pots sits atop a Chinese coffee table alongside paint brushes sitting in trays in a liquid that smells like turpentine.

I hear the old artist clear his throat.

“Are you ready, mademoiselle?”

I nod.

Wetness drips down the insides of my thighs, a wetness which makes me twitch when I see him smoking and humming to himself, waiting for me. I can’t back out now. I exhale deeply. This is it. My destiny on canvas. I’m hot, sweaty and perspiring.

I strike a pose.



Who knew standing still for twenty minutes would be so difficult, especially since I was trying hard not to concentrate my energy on my throbbing pubic area? Okay, my pussy. Yes, I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I got turned on posing nude. No, the old artist didn’t come on to me. He’s very professional.

It’s me.

I’m sexually frustrated, and not even a stiff neck—oh, for the delights of a stiff dick instead!—and achy back can stop me from daydreaming about moving my body in a brisk rhythm, my lover licking my clitoris, then the lips of my pussy, digging his tongue into me, and then back on my clit. Back and forth until I’m buzzing down there with an undulating energy that never stops…never stops…

Mmm…keep dreaming.

I take a break behind the screen to soothe my sore muscles and wipe off the sweat between my legs. That’s what it is, isn’t it? I smile, then sniff. Maybe not. Letting go of a sigh and a little gas—I couldn’t help it—I grab a faded smock off a coat hook. Gray-tinged and splattered with dried paint, it looks like it’s been hanging there since Paris was liberated but it’s dry. My clothes are still wet. Drip, drip. I tiptoe through puddles of water on the wooden floor. Or is there a leak in the roof?

I look up. Unlike the rest of the studio, the ceiling is a square skylight. High over my head rain beats down against square glass panes framed with lead, blocking out what little gray daylight can slide through the pelting drops. I shiver. It’s creepy back here. I wonder what the old artist is hiding under the black velvet drape covering the wall? Dorian Gray in his jockeys?

Before I can pull back the curtain to find out, I see an object that intrigues me. It’s about a foot high, battered bronze, and grimy looking: a statue wearing a feathered crown, carrying a flail, and with his erection protruding straight out in front of him.

Did I say erection? As in penis? A dick? Oh, yes, I did.

This is way better than any hotel souvenir. Oozing with curiosity, I reach down and wrap my fingers around the statue’s penis and continue to hold on to it. I have no idea why, I just can’t let it go. I smile. It’s been a while since I’ve held such a hard penis in my hand.

I peek over the screen and ask the old artist about the statue.

“You’re holding la gaule, the erection, of the Egyptian god Min,” he says, tapping his cigarette pack. It’s empty.

“He should be the poster boy for Viagra,” I say, trying to make light of my awkwardness. The statue’s kinda cute, if you dig a walking Egyptian with spiked hair.

“Min is the god of fertility, mademoiselle. His symbol is the thunderbolt.”

Thunder cracks. How apropos.

The old artist never misses a beat, as if he’s told this story a hundred times. “He has the power to grant youth and sexuality—” he pauses, then lowers his voice “—if you’re willing to pay the price.”

“Price, monsieur?”

“You must sell your soul, mademoiselle.”

I cock an eyebrow at him. “Sell my soul?”

“Yes. You’ll be young and beautiful—”

“Get out!” He’s kidding, isn’t he?

“—but you can never fall in love.”

No chance of that happening. Not after David.

I ask, “What happens if I do fall in love?”

“You change back to the way you were.”

In other words, middle-aged and overweight. Thinking, I run my fingers over the statue’s, um, dick. The statue is for sale, according to the old artist. It’s tempting. No more vanity sizing? A flat stomach? Perky breasts? What a fascinating idea, a tantalizing, sexual black magic. FX to the max. But is it worth braving an airport security search? I shake my head. I still have not-so-fond memories of smirks and pat-downs when my ex-assistant—yes, she and David are now a twosome—sneaked a lipstick vibrator into my carry-on bag when I flew up to San Francisco last month. I don’t want to go through that again.

Smiling, I tell the old artist I’ll think about it. He shrugs, then disappears to get another pack of cigarettes. I look around to see what other goodies I can find. Nothing here. Cracked vases, old books, a Tiffany lamp and a charcoal-tinged red pot emitting a weird odor. Not unpleasant, just weird. I take a sniff. Coriander, wine…and is that ginger I smell?

Within seconds dizziness muddles my mind as if the wine gremlins have invaded my head and are using my brain for a grape mosh pit. Is it the bottle of Pinot Noir I washed down those fries with? Or the smelly stuff in the pot? The bile in my stomach crosses paths with frying grease and adds fruity alcohol to the mix, flipping out my equilibrium. Whatever, my knees go weak, as if I’m moving in slo-mo. I try to focus, but everything looks blurry. What if I pass out? Go into a coma? Without a prince to wake me up with a French kiss? No frickin’ way! I sink to my knees, but I refuse to succumb to the sleepytime trolls dancing in my head. I grab on to the black velvet drape to steady myself when—

Swwooosh!

My hands fly up as a heavy thump of velvet comes down on top of my head, suffocating me. Gasping, I struggle to wipe the soft darkness from my eyes, free myself from the giant bat cape covering me from head to toe. Loud breaths, husky, panicky, invade my ears, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I hold my breath and listen. Who is it?

I let out my breath. Damn, it’s me. Panting like a porn star having a fake orgasm in cyberspace.

Okay, so now I can relax. I’m not trapped in here with some spine-tingling apparition chatting me up with nocturnal moans, but I can’t get this velvet drape off my head. Every time I pull one way, the drape goes the other, making me queasy. I gotta shake this nausea. Breathe in then out. Two, three times. I’ll never dip greasy French fries into red wine again. What was I thinking? Then…

…over my rapid breathing comes another sound. Laughter. Laughter? Is the old artist back? I have the odd feeling he’s choking on his ciggie sans filtre, enjoying this. I’ll give him something to laugh about when I unravel this velvet mess and—

—ooohhh, wait. That’s not him. The laughter is low and sexy and so close to my ear a chill slithers up and down my vertebrae knocking together like Lego pieces that don’t fit. Something creepy is going on here. Drops of perspiration form between my breasts, wiggle down my ribcage, then drip down my thighs as I pull and tug on the black velvet drape. I can’t thrash loose. My breath becomes sharper. The back of my neck is damp. Finally, I rip the heavy fabric off my face and—

—I see him. Staring at me with his eyes. Dark blue eyes that intrigue me.

A life-size painting of a man over six feet tall.

I grin, relaxing the tenseness in my face. So that’s what the drape was hiding. A superstud. Arms crossed, feet spread apart, and wearing tighter-than-tight pants that outline his impressive cock and he’s—

Laughing?

Creepy bumps pop up on my bare arms. The more I think about what I heard, the more I believe I must have imagined it. Hearing the man’s sexy laughter stirred carnal desire so dormant in my female psyche that I can’t tell what’s real or in my head. Well, look at him, will ya. He’s a painting, dammit! Touch him, no, not there. There. On his hand. Cold. See? He’s not human, so get off this goth kick and get the hell outta here. Oh, I forgot. I can’t. I’m naked.

So, girlfriend? He can’t see you.

I smile. Yeah.

So why not have a little fun and flirt with him?

With my eyes still on the man in the painting, I trace the fullness of my breasts with my fingers, cupping them in my hands. Playfully, I rub my nipples, hard and brown and pointy, licking my lips again, then as I become more comfortable with my teasing game, I move my fingers down to my belly, then between my legs. I sway my body gracefully, in a classy manner. This is art.

Art? C’mon, a lifetime of Cosmo signals to me loud and clear this is sex, pure and simple. My juices flow and the fullness in my groin swells as I hear the old artist scuffling out front.

He’s back.

I hear him strike a wooden match. He’s lighting another stubby Gauloise cigarette. A wavy swirl of smoke snakes over the screen. Smoke has no effect on the man in the painting. He’s still smiling. Me? I cough.

Not taking my eyes off this macho pin-up, I call out from behind the screen in what I hope is an I’m-just-curious voice, “I found a painting I like.”

“Mademoiselle?”

“The good-looking guy in tight pants under the black velvet drape.” I wet my lips. Ooh la-la.

“Ah, you found Paul Borquet.”

“Who is he?”

“He was considered a genius in his time, mademoiselle. The painting is a self-portrait he did in his studio in Montmartre.”

“I never heard of him.”

“After his strange disappearance in 1889, the art world forgot about him. I covered him up years ago.”

“Covered him up? Why?” I lean my hip against this lost artist. So close our thighs touch. I tingle. He has an electric charisma that transcends three-dimensional space. Or am I just horny?

“The models spend too much time looking at him—” the old artist laughs “—and arousing themselves.”

Even in the murky light, I can see why. The man is dark, dangerous looking, with a raw aura of lust about him that makes my skin crawl with ideas of back alley cafés, strong liqueur and sweat-drenched nights of passion. An erotic hero.

My eyes travel down to the big bulge between his legs, confirming my suspicions. No doubt he has an ego to match. He’s handsome with chiseled, though slightly misaligned features, giving him a cocky air. He stands with his legs apart, his longish dark hair swirling around his open collar and contrasting with the musculature of his chest, visible under his white ruffled shirt.

Looking at him starts a slow burn down in the unexplored area below my phony tan line. He makes me squirm. I remind myself he’s just a painting. Then a sneaky thought hits me. How would it feel to make love to him? Why not? After David gave me the heave-ho, a girl’s got to rev up her mojo even if he is a two-dimensional hunk in tight pants.

I drape the black velvet curtain around my shoulders in a provocative swirl, letting it slide down my bare back, and wiggle my butt. I wonder what it would feel like to run my fingers over his chest, touch his hot flesh, then grab on to the mauve-colored scarf wound around his neck in a graceful swirl and pull him close to me. So close I can inhale his musky scent, then lean my cheek against the deep satin blackness of his cape slung over one shoulder.

I feel my inhibitions rise up and escape from me like someone sucked the breath out of me with a long, deep kiss. French kissing. I can’t get the desire of wishing for a deep kiss from him out of my mind.

I shudder. Sweat trickles down my neck. What am I doing? Making love to an artist who died over a hundred years ago? I am losing it. I should run out into the rain and let a good soaking clear my head.

Flash! Lightning dances over the varnished ebony screen, making the surface shimmer. I flinch, turn my back to the painting. I won’t look at him. I won’t. Thunder echoes in my ears, as if Paul Borquet is daring me to look.

I ask, “Was he an Impressionist?”

“Paul Borquet was among the best, mademoiselle,” says the old artist. “Monet, Renoir, Toulouse-Lautrec, they all admired the young artist’s work. And his bravery.”

I cock my head and sneak a peek at Paul Borquet. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself.

“Bravery?” I ask. Okay, so he was a real alpha male. Interesting. Very interesting and just what I don’t need. Another stud who pops steroids like they’re purple M&Ms.

“He died in a fire, mademoiselle, trying to save the woman he loved.”

That’s cool, but I’ve had my fill of macho overkill. So why can’t I stop looking at Paul Borquet? I’ll tell you why. No cosmetic effect of darkness at play here. I know art. His work has energy. Vibration. He really understands color. His use of paint becomes a vehicle for the perception of light. He seems suspended, shimmering and vivacious within the frame of the portrait. There’s a snapshot quality to the work, a sense of immediacy and spontaneity as if he were here now in front of me, alive.

“Paul Borquet,” I mumble, putting my thumb to my lips and sucking on it, wondering if he was as good in bed as he was with a paintbrush. A sexual hunger awakens inside me and makes me reach down into myself, way down.

Wetting my lips, I imagine him naked. I slide the heated palms of my hands over my thighs, imagining the sticky, dewy liquid dripping from his penis, glistening. I savor this moment. The artist’s use of bold brushstrokes and harsh lines suggests a mad aggressiveness about his personality that excites me. Gives me chills, then makes me hot. Very hot.

I keep my eyes riveted on the painting as I wiggle my hips, dreaming about how it would feel to have the paintbrush of this lost Impressionist sliding down over my belly, down between my thighs, then tickling me with its soft bristles. Running his fingers up and down my torso, lingering here and there, taking his time. Then licking me with his tongue, drawing his finger in and out of my pussy. In and out. In and out.

I sway, shake, moan, barely keeping my urges under control. The strong smell of oil paint mixes with the sweet smell of my own desire as I move in time to music in my head. I swear Paul Borquet winks at me. I take one step backward, then a second. His eyes seem to follow me. A tremulous hunger swells up in me, aching to be satisfied.

I bend forward, touching my breasts, squeezing my nipples, swaying my shoulders back and forth. Then I rub my pussy slowly, daring the man in the portrait to kiss me. I pretend I’m kneeling astride the lost artist, locking my legs slowly around his neck, his longish dark hair tickling the insides of my thighs as I press my soft mound on his mouth, brushing my body back and forth across his lips. A tingling vibrates between my legs. Melty, sweaty heat wiggles deliciously down to my pussy and a subtle, yet burning sensation flows through me as he tickles the sensitive button of my clitoris with his tongue.

I squeeze my pubic muscles together. My pussy is tight and hot, though I haven’t come. I want him to fuck me. I want to clamp down on his cock as if it were deep inside me. I want to keep it there forever. My mouth is dry. I lick my pink glossed lips, then give out a low moan.

Can I push the limits? Can I climax in my fantasy?

I smile. No one can see me behind the screen. No one but Paul Borquet with his broad shoulders, bulging biceps, narrow waist and hard lean thighs. And, oh yes, his squeezable butt.

My heart is pounding, pounding in my ears. I abandon all my sensibilities, grabbing the statue of the Egyptian god Min and holding it between my nude breasts, its firm erection nesting in my cleavage as I climax wildly, warm sweetness oozing in my cunt as melodic waves of pleasure hum through me, a seamless tapestry of buzzing and purring and sighs and moans weaving through the air, some breathy in tone, others louder, still others painfully ecstatic.

All of these sounds only make my climax more intense, more lasting than anything I’ve known in a long time. I don’t close my eyes, but continue staring at Paul Borquet, wishing I could feel his arms around me, his lips kissing me, his body pressed against mine.

“You wouldn’t stand a chance, monsieur, if I were young and beautiful,” I whisper in French, shifting my weight from side to side. The wooden platform bends, squeaking under my wet bare feet. Lightning flashes overhead through the skylight, stinging my eyes like a thousand-watt lightbulb slashing through the air. “I’d make you fall in love with me—”

I cry out when electricity jolts the bronze sculpture I’m holding between my breasts, sending a hot current through me and vibrating through my brain, raising the hair on my arms, and making my eyeballs bulge out.

Somewhere in the back of my mind I hear the old artist calling out that he’s going for help, but I can’t answer, can’t focus. All the muscles in my body tighten and I feel myself lifted up off my feet and zooming through space, as if something is flinging me skyward. An unexplained chill settles in me as if I’m in a swirling vortex as electricity flashes over my skin, racing in and out of my bod faster than I can blink.

What’s happening to me?

This isn’t my normal world. I want things dry and safe. Not wild and crazy. The electricity dances a choreography of darkness and light all over me, tracing the path of my sweat. I’m breathless and more than a little bewildered. Mix in bewitched and my trip to Paris is turning into the Rocky Horror Picture Show with French subtitles. This can’t be happening!

Thunder claps in my ears with a loud boom then—the lights go out.

Darkness. The humid air suddenly reeks of a strong musky scent. Male.

Coming closer…closer…yes…I hear that sexy laughter again as someone blows hot air into my ear, making me shiver. I twist my fingers on the statue until they burn, then my nipples harden into pointy peaks as if someone pinched them. Becoming aroused again, I let out a sigh when someone squeezes my breast and sucks on it, then moans. Who? Where is he? I can’t open my eyes, swallow or talk, or move my legs or hands, touch him, anything.

I can’t do more than make a desperate breathing sound as I lie—

Where?

Where am I?




CHAPTER TWO


Paris 1889

The Artist

I can’t paint, I can’t move. Alors, I can’t believe what I saw. A moment ago I swear the night was slashed open by a strange light and I saw a redhead stripped naked, teasing me, flirting with me, her bare shoulders swaying and dipping provocatively.

I continue to stare into the gauzy-thin darkness veiling a corner of the room, a rapturous chill shooting up the side of my face, then wiggling down my spine and meeting head-on with the slow burn pulsating in my groin. Ready to explode. No. I must be going mad. Delirious. What occurred stunned me, like lightning flashing through my body.

Exhaling slowly, blinking, trying to ease the strange headache that came upon him—brought on by too much absinthe, or so he wanted to believe—he regained control of himself. Barely. He tapped the tip of his cane against his leg, keeping time to a strange rhythm in his soul only he could feel. He gripped his cane tighter, trying to hold on to the moment. How was such a thing possible? No candle or lamp illuminated the corner where he’d seen the redhead, no moonlight drizzled through the open window. He’d heard no one enter through the thick wooden door. The only sound in his ears was a soft whisper.

“I’d make you fall in love with me,” she said, taunting him. A sensual giggle escaped her tinted lips, no pretense of innocence shading the moaning sounds coming from her throat. Then she slumped to the floor, the life gone from her, like the morning sunlight dissipating over the stacks of hay in the wheat fields, leaving behind only deep shadows. Cold. Lonely.

He moaned.

Tonight, working in his studio, he had the unnerving feeling someone had been watching him. Lusting after him. Undressing him. He grinned. It was the redhead. A familiar tingling inside him made him squirm with frenzied energy as if thousands of carmine-red lips, wet lips, her lips, kissed and sucked the long shaft of his penis. Up and down, circling around it with her tongue.

A spasm of anticipation within him caused his hard cock to press against his tight pants. He was excited, stimulated by this redhead. He felt his penis bulging and swollen with a great need he couldn’t conceal.

But first he must find out if she was real.

Paul Borquet approached the dark corner with fear in his heart. Fear of discovering she was but an illusion. What else could she be? The whisper he’d heard in his ear came from a long way off, fading so slowly, like the long sigh of a young girl as she peaked during her first sexual climax.

He drew in a long, deep breath.

The beautiful girl lay on the floor, not moving. She was flesh and blood.

And she was nude. The pale sheen of her skin enchanted him, her face bewitched him, her breasts thrust forward with one hand lying lightly between her thighs, as if daring him to peek and savor her pussy. Her slim hips, long legs, all delighted his artist eye with a sensual harmony so perfect he could do nothing but stare at her.

Strangely, as if in the grip of an unseen hand, he couldn’t concentrate on anything but the redhead. Not the model waiting for him in the small studio upstairs, not his unfinished drawing, not his need for more absinthe. He’d raced down to the study to indulge his thirst for the green liqueur when a sudden lightning shower drew him to this room. Then he’d seen her.

And nothing else mattered.

He breathed in deeply, and the shadow of her erotic perfume descended over him, holding him in a sensual moment so real his hand shook when he felt for a pulse on the side of her neck. His dark blue eyes widened. Yes, blood beat in her veins, but her skin was hot, as if a fiery flame danced over her body without burning it. He couldn’t stop himself from reaching out to touch her face, her lips. Her breasts. The desire to twist the pointed nubs of her breasts with his eager fingers heated his groin. He yearned to lick them with his red-hot tongue, then nibble on them. He moaned, wishing he could bury his face in her creamy white flesh and smell the aroma of her female sex. Sweet and pungent. Erotic.

He must paint her. He must.

He closed his eyes in ecstatic torture. Touching the beautiful redhead raised him out of his deep depressive mood. He had been melancholy earlier, sitting silent and withdrawn in his studio, his head sunken to his chest, his hair hanging in his face as he drank absinthe. Night after night he sat, condemning the art world for not recognizing his genius.

In the late afternoon he had roused himself out of his drunken stupor and gone to the Louvre to study the works of Delacroix, Poussin and the Dutch masters of the seventeenth century. It provided him with the perfect release when the headaches and dreams crowded his brain with such pain he could no longer hold his brush steady.

Then he had come to his small studio in the Marais district in the town home of la comtesse, his one-time mistress, and prepared his paints, but nothing happened. Nothing. His creative urges were stalled. He could no longer reach into the most remote parts of his mind and explore the vast universe of his imagination, that mystique of sensation he knew he could achieve, allowing him to put his feelings into art. Yet he wouldn’t give up. Couldn’t.

He drew in his breath, a sudden longing for the smell of paint under his nose and the sound of short, quick brushstrokes whispering in his ears. With a haunting clarity, he conjured up in his mind a dazzling painting of this redhead, already seeing his bold colors on canvas. Red. Blue. Yellow. Shocking colors, passionate colors. Colors that lived, that captured the moment.

His heart raced faster, a thin veil descending over his sense of reasoning, the veil of madness that was often a companion to his art. Always striving to sell just enough of his work to buy more paints, while at the same time he struggled to express a feeling, a thought, a human need in his painting.

Could not hope be expressed by a star in the heavens? The hunger of a soul looking for love by the brilliance of a sunset? The beauty of all women by the luminous eyes of one woman?

He was certain the redhead was that woman.

How had she come to him? She was here in the room with him, this seductive creature of the night. And if so, she must be skilled in black magic and a follower of the occult. He exulted in the idea she would be a fitting partner to join him in his ongoing journey of mystic and sexual exploration into the Paris underworld of hedonism and excess, where women danced naked, titillating the madly decadent men.

He called it his cirque érotique, where beautiful, young mesdemoiselles rode from room to room in sumptuous private mansions on bicycles sans pantaloons, naked below the waist, giving the gentlemen an exquisite view of their nude buttocks; or where women offered themselves as love slaves, willingly partaking of strong intoxicants to increase their pleasure as they did their masters’ bidding; or where they engaged in salacious threesomes, making certain the gentleman always had twice the fun.

He embraced this world, watching women performing and arousing, seducing and being seduced. A world where there was magic in every kiss and every kiss was magic, a world he found strangely evocative and compelling.

The world of the Black Arts.

The girl moaned. She was stirring.

“Oooh…” She crossed her arm over her chest, her hand pushing together the luscious swell of her breasts. He gasped. The sight of her white flesh delighted his eye, but his mind told him to cover her, lest she catch a chill. He was acquainted with the wardrobe of the mistress of the house in an intimate manner, so it didn’t take him long to retrieve a long, hooded red velvet cloak from the garderobe. He placed the cloak over the girl’s nude body, then picked her up in his arms, reveling in the lightness of her slim body when—

—her other hand opened and the object she’d been holding dropped onto the carpeted floor.

His throat tightened. No, it couldn’t be. But it was. His small statue of the Egyptian god Min. Had the girl sneaked into the town house to steal it? What other treasures did she seek? Jewels? Gold louis? Silks? Was she but a thief of the night and not a goddess as he believed?

He should toss her out into the street, be done with her. Such women, he knew, were sensual creatures who plied their trade with kisses and promises of forbidden sex. Naked young women in the throes of passion, kissing, sucking, restraining the man with silken bonds, blindfolds and cock rings to keep his erection until he satisfied each girl and she cried out in orgasmic bliss.

Was she such a girl? He looked down at her lovely face, the fullness and beauty of her breasts, the elegant curve of her heaving rib cage so white and pure against the lushness of the red velvet cape. He’d go mad if he couldn’t paint her, and so he would keep her. But he would be very careful with his feelings. Very.

He placed her upon a rose-colored meridienne, putting a red silk pillow under her head, then stroked her cheek, her straight nose, her full lips, her breasts. Then his fingers traveled down her sleek midriff to her flat belly and the insides of her thighs before tugging on the curly reddish hairs covering her mound. His dream was in his arms, an enchanting mademoiselle, but one thing still puzzled him. Why had she stolen his statue of Min? Why? Did she know its power?

Did she?

He did.

He became interested in the occult when the owner of the red velvet cloak, a beautiful and wealthy comtesse, presented him with the small statue as payment not only for his portrait of her, but for his performance in her boudoir. La comtesse claimed the statue was discovered in the pyramid of a powerful pharaoh known for his sexual prowess. The statue had magical, sensual powers she was only too happy to teach him as she lay upon the bed, waiting for him. He held her face between his hands, then lowered his mouth to kiss her deeply until she wrapped her legs around him and gripped him tightly around the waist, her ankles crossed above his back. Then he ground his hips, pushing his cock into her in slow rhythmic thrusts, then faster and faster until she climaxed with so many orgasms she lost consciousness.

Bedding the countess wasn’t the only game he indulged in. From time to time, sexual orgies occurred in the grand houses here in the Marais district and he eagerly took part, wearing only a long red cape over his nude muscular body. He hid his identity behind a fox mask, though many young women claimed to recognize him by what he couldn’t hide. His cock. Long, hard and perfectly shaped.

His favorite trick was making his cane disappear, then inviting the eager young women to duck under the wings of his cape and search for the missing cane in between his legs. They ran their fingers, their lips, even their melons, large breasts, all over his body until his penis found them, filling their connasses, cunts, between their legs with his magic.

“Hélas, tu es bien monté,” the women whispered, telling him he was well hung. Then he would sweep through the bevy of naked girls, pushing up against them, pumping, thrusting forward his cock, huge and fully aroused. He kept his handsome face hidden, his piercing, dark blue eyes watching the eager women through the holes in his mask, women all vying to be pleasured by him.

Not tonight. Passion for his art triggered a reflex action in his fingers, making him open, then close his fist. Slowly. A stimulating flash of inner heat, as though he’d reached through the arc of what was real now and what could be real beyond this moment, surged up in him.

Tonight he must paint.

Her. The redhead.

But first…he must get rid of the blonde.



“Do I not please you, monsieur?” a feminine voice asked, emphasizing the world please with a pretty lip pout. It had no effect on him.

“I’ve changed my mind, Lillie.” He buttoned the deep blue, paint-splashed jacket he wore and tightened his flowing neck scarf, the color of a velvety plum. It was his trademark, his style, and he guarded it carefully. Then he forced his eyes to look at the model, a pretty girl from Madame Chapet’s maison tolerée, brothel. Lillie de Pontier was the prettiest of all the girls at the House on rue des Moulins. He picked her out of three girls simulating sexual encounters with each other, writhing all over a large four-poster with abandon, touching, caressing, kissing and sucking on each other’s breasts.

She seemed pleased when he chose her, snuggling up to him, blowing in his ear, rubbing her firm derrière back and forth across his crotch, making gestures about the firmness of his buttocks. But he no longer needed her services. He was nervous. Edgy. The redhead would be conscious soon. He must sneak Lillie out the back way without the two girls seeing each other. He was frantic. He didn’t have much time.

“I will show you for free, monsieur, what all Paris would pay to see.” Lillie pulled off her tight black garter and her rose-colored silk stocking slithered down her creamy thigh in a slow, serpentine crawl.

“Put your stocking back on, Lillie.”

The girl ignored him and leaned toward him. He noticed beads of sweat between her nude breasts. For a moment he couldn’t take his eyes off her. She wore only a corset in peacock-blue satin, tightly laced around her tiny waist and pushing up her exposed breasts. Her ample bosom swelled out in all directions in delicious curves, pleasing him. Full, bulbous cups of white flesh seduced his eye with the promise of delights to come. A crinkly pink ribbon tied in a neat bow around her neck completed the effect.

He reached out to untie the bow when—

He stopped, his hand raised in midair. A sound from downstairs caught his ear. Was that a moan he heard? The redhead?

“Your private show is about to begin, monsieur,” Lillie said in a husky voice, curling her lower lip and hissing the phrase with a deliberate purr. Her long white fingers pinched the end of her pink stocking as she pulled it off, then she wiggled her naked toes playfully before slowly spreading her legs to expose a gentleman’s peek at the yellow-gold triangle of pubic hair between her perfect thighs. Sa chatte. Her pussy. Well-groomed and beckoning him. He had not expected this. She tilted her head toward him, her eyes asking, What do you think?

“You tempt me, Lillie, but I—”

Did he hear someone moving about downstairs? Opening drawers? Banging them shut?

“I’m the best at Madame Chapet’s at chevaucher.” Lillie chewed on the end of her fingernail then touched the inside of her thigh, running her fingers up and down, ever so lightly, coming closer and closer to her soft pussy. “I can ride the stallion for as long as the gentleman desires.”

She slapped the air with an imaginary riding crop, and for a moment he was tempted. Very tempted. He was in need of release from the pent-up passion throbbing within him. He could imagine himself sitting on a chair with Lillie spread out over his lap, his cane sliding up and down her toned calves, her thighs. Then, slapping her firm, naked buttocks ever so lightly before turning her over, he would take her, her mouth wide open, his tongue licking her lips, his hands grabbing her all over, her breasts, her waist, her thighs, everywhere.

He ignored the bold desire in her eyes, eyes telling him what she wanted. Baiser. Make love. To her. Tonight. He shook his head. No, he couldn’t, though she was beautiful. Her angel-pale skin gleamed white with rice powder from China with skillfully applied brown pencil arching her brows. Deep blue shadows flowed across her eyelids and over her temples, enhancing the size and luminosity of her eyes. He could see where she had dabbed the color of a pink dawn over her cheeks with a hare’s foot, the lobes of her ears and her chin. The touch of artificial gold rinsed her hair. Garish but effective.

La belle fille possessed all the skills of a woman schooled in the art of illusion. And that was why she could never be his perfect model, why he could never paint her with the vigor of reality, because everything about her was an illusion.

Mais non, it was someone else who held him in rapture, someone more provocative, more alluring, more sexually exciting.

“I have no need of you tonight, Lillie,” he said, dismissing her. He should have known a woman with Lillie’s skills would not give up so easily.

“Watch me, monsieur,” she whispered, twisting her pubic hairs then inserting her fingers inside her pussy, “as I wind up my music box to play a tune that will please you.”

He wasn’t surprised when she began moaning, quite convincingly. He had no doubt she’d had much practice, but he had no time for love. It was a foolish emotion he refused to give in to; it drained his energy, his passion to paint. Art was his mistress. He could never love a woman as much as his art.

Never.

He ran his fingers over the ebony handle of his cane carved into the shape of a couple making love. His own penis was also hard, unbending, like the unique design of the male figurine hovering over the woman, lowering his erect outil, tool, into her. Lillie, moaning louder, also noticed his hard cock. She kept repeating what a strong, muscular body he had, and how she would find such delicious pleasure burying her face between his hard thighs, sucking on him. He tried to ignore her obvious overtures. He must get rid of her. He must. But how? Sweat slicked his grip as he slid his hand up and down the cane. Why was he so tormented, so affected by his passion to paint the redhead?

He knew why. She was the seductress chosen by the gods to be the perfect model for his masterpiece upon which he could stamp his art with an impulse of his true feelings, the inner emotion of his soul. He never would have believed it possible such a woman existed in his world.

A different urge settled in his groin. Primitive. Lusting. He couldn’t wait any longer.

“Put on your clothes, Lillie,” he ordered. “I can paint no more tonight.”

Her chemise lay on the floor, crumpled into a thousand fine little wrinkles, with one rose-colored stocking strewn carelessly on top, along with her violet two-piece taffeta dress and petticoats, violet button shoes and tiny matching hat with its long, curling veil.

“Pardon, monsieur?” she asked.

“You’re leaving.”

“But we haven’t played the game—”

“I have no time for games. I have another engagement.”

“At five o’clock in the morning?”

“Do as I order or Madame Chapet will hear about your insolence.”

“That old garce? Bitch. She cares only about making money, and I make plenty for her.” Lillie threw on her petticoats, then her shoes, though she didn’t button them.

A door slammed. Downstairs.

She laughed. “I believe your other engagement couldn’t wait, monsieur.”

He panicked. “No! She can’t leave. She can’t!”

Paul grabbed his cane, then his voluminous black cape and swirled it about himself like a creature of darkness about to take flight on the cloud of a dream. He raced downstairs, flung open the door, then ran outside, blending into the landscape of mendicants scouring the boulevards of Marais, their baskets on their backs but no names on their souls. The clean, dry air was still.

Where had the girl gone?

He stopped a poor chiffonnier, ragpicker, and asked her if she’d seen a young girl in a red velvet cape running from the townhouse. The old woman held out her hand and, after he folded a bank note into her palm, she pointed toward rue Saint-Merri. Joy raced through him, sharpening his eye to see the truth. Then she wasn’t an illusion. She was out there somewhere. But where?

Gripping his cane, twirling his cape, he raced out into the night with a quickening sense that he had no choice but to find her.

No matter what he had to do.




CHAPTER THREE


Jesus Christ, what the hell happened?

Zzz-zap. Zzz-zing. Bang.

Energy pulsated through me like a thunderbolt, giving me the wildest orgasm I’ve ever had. It started at the center of my vagina, way up inside me. Sizzling like a hot fireball, pulsating, increasing in size until it filled my pussy. Then my clitoris burst into flames, and dazzling fireworks exploded before my eyes. Silver, red, blue.

Hot, hot, hot.

I experienced the most exquisite, soul-melting ride: my whole bod jerking with each jolt, my legs thrashing in midair as I flew through space, an electrical shower falling around me, singeing my skin and making me yell out. I moaned so much, I sounded like I was crying. Long rhythmic shudders traveling up and down my body thrilled me, telling me the peak of my passion, my climax, was near. Then my pussy began a series of spasms, clamping so tightly on—

Hold it. How could all this happen with no penis filling me up? Plunging deep, totally possessing me? My pussy muscles tried to draw him in deeper and deeper.

No go. It was all in my mind.

Or was it?

Paul Borquet.

I swear I saw him through the slits of my eyes, leaning over me. His manly scent ignited my desire for sex all over again, and his arrogance at taking what he wanted set off my emotions in a frustrating state of upheaval. I felt his hands squeezing my breasts, then rubbing his thumb over my rigid nipples, sliding his palm down across my waist and digging his fingers through my pubic hairs. Oh, it was delicious.

Him. Moaning, gasping. His body tense, hot, slick with sweat.

Me. Tingling. Glowy. Trembling, aching for him to touch the soft mound between my legs, push aside my pussy lips, insert a finger—

Then he was gone.

Where?

And where the hell am I?

Isn’t it time we answered that question?



I walk with my arms swinging, bare thighs rubbing together sans panties, feet burning, striding up rue Saint-Merri, looking everywhere at once. I see a few electric lights glowing in the nest of small streets crowded together, mostly gaslights from the grand houses throwing a yellow tone upon the cobblestones and tossing eerie shadows everywhere. An exquisite haze, barely a mist, covers everything like a delicate veil. I see a man standing on the corner, tending to a big copper cauldron. He pulls down his black felt hat, then flips up his coat collar as he rattles the steaming-hot chestnuts roasting in the pan. The nutty fragrance floats across the square and tempts me to stop, ask the questions lingering on my lips. I don’t. I want to see more.

I’m not disappointed. I see horse-drawn carts, wagons, a horse cab, even a lone bicycle at this early hour, the traffic flow following no specific order. The clop-clopping sounds of horses’ hooves fill my ears. You’d think I’d get it, wouldn’t you? But I don’t. Can’t. It’s still too weird.

I keep walking, pulling the red velvet cape closer around me, shutting out the early-morning chill. I love this cape. Lined with a slippery red satin as soft as nude skin, I snuggle within its folds, lapping up its luxuriousness with a greedy hug. Sooo sinfully elegant. Where did it come from?

When I came to after the best orgasm I’ve had in years, the cloak covered me from head to toe, but my clothes, my waist pack with my money and passport, everything had disappeared. A girl needs more than red velvet to find her way back home.

Or back to the hotel. That’s where I’m headed. I intend to go to the police and find out what that old artist did with my stuff.

I’m still groggy and drained from climaxing like I was the star attraction in a ménage à trois, but here’s what happened when I woke up. Darkness invaded the studio except for an electric light with an opaque, fluted shade. One electric light? I questioned, noting someone hung a pink chiffon scarf over it, giving the room a soft glow. That should have been a dead giveaway, but I didn’t let it sink in. I was more fascinated with the wardrobe of costumes I found. Petticoats, stockings, garters, button-up shoes. No underwear. But in my present state of undress, I couldn’t be choosy.

I wiggled into a soft white petticoat with layers and layers of frilly lacy ruffles and pert pink bows, then slipped on a silky apricot-hue dressing gown so thin it was transparent. I let out a girlish giggle when I saw my breasts standing up and not sagging and my hard nipples popping through the silk like I was nineteen again.

Isn’t that what expensive lingerie does for you? Makes you feel sensual and thin?

Or was it something else? Something black magical?

After tying a silver cord around my waist—which seemed smaller—I laced up a pair of tight-fitting pearl-gray leather button shoes with stubby two-inch heels and threw on the gorgeous red velvet cloak. No mirrors, so I couldn’t see how I looked, but everything fit perfectly, as if I’d lost a few pounds. Very strange. I wanted to believe the statue had worked its magic on me, but I couldn’t. Not yet.

My calf muscles pull, legs tighten in the morning chill, and I walk stiffly across the boulevard toward what I hope is the rue Saint-Honoré. Up in the sky the fading moon ignores me, along with the dark clouds trying to blot out its glow. No storm clouds. No thunder, and God help me, no lightning. No rain puddles, either. But it’s cold, much too cold for an early summer dawn breaking over the elegant edifices of the pink-brick and white-stone mansions. A cool breeze plays with the heavy velvet whipping around my ankles, as if it knows I’m pantyless and wants a peek. I pay it no attention. I have to get some answers, and fast.

Why did the Marais studio look so different when I came to? Where was the old artist? How long was I unconscious?

And what about Paul Borquet?

He couldn’t have been real. I only imagined him.

I exhale deep lungfuls of air that puff in front of me like smoke. Yet I’m sweating despite the chill. I hear only my own panting, the swoosh of my long cape hitting the pavement as I plod along the cobblestone streets in two-inch-high button shoes with squared-off toes that wouldn’t know a Blahnik from a Choo. I don’t want to accept the crazy notion skirting through my orgasmic-maxed-out brain. Nothing I’ve seen is real, I tell myself. Can’t be. The reality is I’m lying in a Paris hospital, tubes coming out of my nose, my mouth, everywhere, my mother hovering over me while she flirts with the handsome French doctor who assures her I’ll wake up soon.

Only a bump on the head when she slipped on the floor during an electrical storm, he tells her.

My mother reacts. You said she was nude? And holding on to the erection of an Egyptian statue? My daughter?

Yes, Mother. Your daughter, who’s having the sexiest wet dream of a lifetime and I have no intention of waking up just yet. So, let’s get on with it! I want to see what happens next…



I look to the pavements. A soft sigh escapes from my lips, frustration following, as if my breath catches on a feather and hangs there a moment. I see construction, houses the color of milky limestone going up, streets being widened, as if the city of Paris is getting a facelift.

I can’t put into words my fascination, but I feel it down to the core of female sexuality. As if I’m the city of Paris and my body, my spirit, my fucking sex life, is reawakening and filling me up with so much energy, so much furiosity I feel my body regaining its suppleness, its curves. I’m lethal, baby. A sex pistol.

This sensual feeling takes possession of me and won’t let go. I breathe it in. Suck it in, dammit. Power is a thrill ride. Sexual power is a thrill ride in overdrive. So, power up, because here I go.

I cross the street, the intoxicating floral scent of nature in an aroused state—ask any bee—seducing me. Moisture glistens on the canvas awning of a flower stand. Underneath I see an old woman wearing a tattered black shawl and a long, heavy dark skirt lovingly arrange her roses, lilies and violets. The woman pulls the shawl back from her face and smiles at me. I’m so absorbed in watching her I don’t see the man come up behind me—

“Pardon, mademoiselle,” drawls the young dandy, bumping up against me. Wearing a polished black hat and evening tails, he weaves past me in complete bewilderment of either me or his surroundings. I wrinkle my nose. The strong smell of alcohol lingers in the air. I assume the slender shape of a wine bottle holds more appeal for him than the curves of a woman. The young man dawdles down the boulevard, muttering to himself, when from out of nowhere a ragged creature with a wicker basket strapped to its back shuffles closely behind him.

I turn my head, sniffing. Did the air just get heavier with a foul scent? Unpleasant, as if they haven’t washed in weeks.

Carrying a lantern in one hand and a sharply pointed hook in the other, I watch in amazement as the creature picks several items out of the young man’s coat pocket with its hook then tosses them into the basket.

“Watch out, monsieur!” I yell out, trying to warn the young man, but he’s too tipsy to realize what’s going on and dawdles on his way without looking back.

“Mind your own business, mademoiselle.”

Is it a woman? The voice is gruff, gritty but definitely female.

“I will not,” I shoot back, insulted. “You’re a thief, madame, or worse.”

None of this is real, I keep telling myself, so I edge closer, fascinated by this creature.

“Sassy, ain’t ya, mademoiselle?” Surprised by my boldness, she stands down, shifting her weight under the heavy pack. I judge her to be around forty, but her hunched-over posture makes her appear much older. Swathed in gray-stained rags with an occasional patch of fancy silk plaid showing through her torn muslin petticoats, she has the look of a woman worn out by poverty, but crafty nonetheless. What surprises me are the fine black leather boots on her feet. She notices my stare. She grins with glee. “You like?”

“Where did you steal them?” I ask her, smirking.

“Yesterday these fine boots belonged to a fancy lady on the rue Saint-Honoré.” She raises her skirts with her hook and shows off her boots. “Now they adorn Old Mathilde’s callused feet, ma fille.”

Did she just call me a ho?

“You may be a thief,” I insist, “but I am not a whore!”

“Eh, bien? Really? What else could you be with that red Titian hair, mademoiselle?” I flinch when she reaches out and touches my hair, but I don’t pull away. Something about this woman intrigues me, as if she’s a key player in this melodrama. “I’ve never seen hair this color except on a beautiful demi-mondaine, gentleman’s mistress, decked out in fancy feathers and soft silks and smelling like faded carnations and Rachel Rose powder.”

I make a face. “Don’t ask me what you smell like—”

Before I can stop her, the creature bumps into me, then rips open my long flowing cape, nearly tearing it off me. My bare breasts peek through the silky material of the dressing gown, my nipples brown and pointy, the apricot-hue giving my skin a natural peachy tone.

The woman’s eyes widen. “By all the angels in heaven I’ve never seen anyone, not even a dégrafée, unhooked one, running through the streets of Paris in her underwear.”

I pull my cloak closer around me. “Someone stole my clothes.” I have no intention of explaining further.

Old Mathilde fiddles with her smooth, wooden rosary beads. “I know, mademoiselle. I’ve been watching you.”

“Me? Why?”

When did she hop on for the ride in my orgasmic wet dream?

Stooped over, her wicker basket heavy with the night’s pickings strapped to her back, she sniffs me. “I followed you through the streets from rue Saint-Merri, past the boulevard de Sébastopol to rue Berger.” She chuckles softly. “You have the smell of sex on you, mademoiselle.”

I roll my eyes and wet my lips. “You have no idea.”

She smirks. “Is that artist as good with his cock as they say he is?”

In the early-morning mist, I can see she enjoys toying with my emotions. “Artist? Who?”

“Paul Borquet.”

I grab her by the shoulders, though the smell overpowers me. Think vinegar with dead rats floating in it. “What do you know about Paul Borquet?” My pulse races. “Tell me!”

“You must have a hot cunt, mademoiselle. All wet and juicy and tight. Ripe for a man to slam his hard cock into and shoot his heavy load.” Licking her lips with her wet tongue, she points it at me. The effect is more comical than sexual, but her comment unnerves me.

“I’ve had enough of your tricks,” I yell. “Tell me what you know about Paul Borquet.”

“He’s looking for you, mademoiselle,” she hisses. “And when he finds you, beware! He has an appetite for sex that derives its power from the occult.” She crosses herself. “He’s a master of the Black Arts.”

Creepy chills come over me. I pull my cloak tighter. Black magic? Then the old artist was right about the power of the Egyptian statue. Oh, shit, then that means…

…this isn’t a fantasy?

The old ragpicker says, “He can make any woman his slave.”

“Any woman?”

Even a woman from another time?

“Yes, mademoiselle. Even a woman as young and beautiful as you.”

Young and beautiful? Red Titian hair? Small waist?

Before I have time to contemplate whether or not I really have sold my soul to be young and sexy, I lose my balance when the creature jerks my arm back and grabs at my breasts and squeezes them. Hard.

Something snaps in me. Regaining my balance, I throw a punch at her. She bounces backward but recovers quickly. With a disgusted grunt, she shoves me to the ground. I go down hard, hitting with such force my teeth rattle in my head. Before I can react, she shifts the basket on her back, then takes off, wobbling down the street faster than I would have believed possible. She’s wearing leather boots that fit. I’m not so lucky. The chick who owns the shoes I’m wearing must have only four toes.

I shout at her to stop, but she looks back at me and laughs.

“You won’t get away with this!” I yell, taking off after her. I see the elusive creature weaving down the boulevard, paying no attention to whether or not I’m following her. She knows the streets better than I do, but I can’t lose her. She’s my only link to Paul Borquet.

I kick my stride into high gear, pushing myself to the max. I ignore the Exercise Overload red light flashing in my brain. Anger, like good sex, has a way of making you endure. I’m not even gasping for breath. I see the street thief about twenty feet in front of me. My long legs pumping, arms swinging, red velvet cloak blowing up around my bare legs like a battle flag. I’m no marathon runner, but when I’m desperate I can move out. Fast.

I catch sight of her turning onto a crooked little street so narrow only pedestrians and baby carriages can fit through its open-air portal. Pumped with adrenaline, I rush down the street. Where did she go? Inside a house? No, everything’s shuttered up tight. Where then? The scene in the street looks like something out of an old black-and-white film noir. Plain, multistoried row houses, broken stoops, uneven cobblestones.

I shiver as a misty breeze tickles my bare neck. Sweat oozes down my cheek and settles on my lower lip. Salt mixes with what’s left of my pink lip gloss. I lick off the sweat and wrinkle my nose. The pickpocket has disappeared, but her dirty smell lingers in the air. I race down the street, looking everywhere at once. I’m not sufficiently paranoid to think I’m being led into a trap.

I dart into one doorway, then another, trying to follow her tracks. I bet she’s watching me from her hiding place, laughing at me, waiting for me to give up. I won’t.

Won’t. Get it, you old ragpicker?

Because the street is bending and winding, with crumbling Gothic stonework caving in on either side of me, and because the alley is the only escape route visible to my eye, I surrender to my female impulse. I proceed without caution into what I believe is a small alleyway. Deserted. Quiet. I walk up and down the alley, going a little deeper into the darkness. Any excuse not to go to back to the hotel and face my mother and the French police and end this thrill ride. I don’t want to lose the feel-good vibes surging through me from my fantasy fuck.

I’m having too much fun.



I cock my head to one side, looking for any sign of the old ragpicker. I slow down, painfully aware I’ve lost her. Just when I was getting started. I’m pumped with energy, like I could run all day. I don’t turn back, not even when a cold wind penetrates my red velvet cloak, slicing through me like the steel blade of a knife. My teeth chatter. Dampness inches under my clothes, pricking my skin with tiny bumps. The alley leads me into the back entrance of a large, run-down building.

A curious urge guides my footsteps into the cool vastness of the gigantic wrought-iron framed hall. I crane my neck and look upward. An awesome panoramic view. Dizzying. Breathtaking. It’s as big as an airplane hangar, stretching off to a misty vanishing point. The gigantic umbrellalike building with wrought-iron-and-glass roofing looks old, very old, and goes on for what appears to be miles. I count as many as ten pavilions with iron girders and skylight roofs, as well as large cellars for storage. Then I hear voices. I turn around and see merchants unloading their crates of wares and piling them ten, maybe twelve feet high, between rusty-looking scales and anywhere else they can find room.

At the same time, a steady congestion of traffic of hand carts and vendors passes by me, delivering their produce or selling their trade outside the market to the early morning shoppers. What time is it…5:00, 6:00 a.m.? Knife sharpeners, dog washers, even a fuzzy burro pulling a cart of rush-bottomed chairs with the rush badly broken, passes by me. Retail meat sellers, coffee, soup and milk stall keepers, fruit merchants and oyster sellers hustle and jostle each other for the best position to sell their wares.

I sniff the air. The scents of mint, thyme and tomatoes all mix together under my nose. It’s overpowering. Rough, raw, lusty sights and smells and sounds. Rats running in and out of the vegetable sweepings strewn about on the ground. Prostitutes soliciting from shadowy corridors. Accordion players piping out a melancholy tune. Mountains of pea-green cabbages. Orange pumpkins. Crates of ripe red tomatoes.

Funny-looking goose bumps pop up on my bare arms. Pointy, like needle marks.

Where the hell am I?

The crack of a whip catches my attention. I spin around, alert. I see a man weighing at least 250 pounds with long, dark, curly hair and a big, black beard hurrying up what I assume is his poor wife. The pitiful woman is attached to the cart by a harness and pulling a heavy load of vegetables, her labored breaths making each step painful.

“Hurry up, bitch!” the man screams at the woman, then turning around he snarls at me. “Out of my way, stupid!” The man pushes by me, cursing.

“Watch who you’re calling stupid, you patapouf!”

“You whore!” he yells.

Crack! comes the sound of a whip striking a wooden post near me. Startled, my heart pounding, I can’t move. The impact is so hard the splinters break free and breeze by my cheek, grazing it slightly. Blood trickles down my face and into my mouth, but I don’t taste it. I spin around and see this same ferocious bear of a man coming straight at me, wielding a whip in his hand.

“Arrête! Stop, thief!” he yells, “or I’ll shred the flesh from your bones with my whip.”

“I’m not a thief!” I cry out. The nerve of him. Just because I called him a tub of lard, he calls me a thief. Blood curdles in my veins when I see the man raise his arm and crack his whip in the air like a dragon’s tail. I swallow hard. This time he won’t miss.

I fling myself on the ground and cover my head with my arms, rocking back and forth, ignoring the sting of wooden scraps and sawdust cutting through my cloak. I’m shaking, my teeth chattering. I clasp both hands to my head, striving to understand what’s happening to me. It’s harder to hit a moving target, so I roll into a dark corner away from the man with the whip, then get to my feet.

I bolt through the market, bumping into carts and knocking over crates of vegetables and fruit. I keep going. I have to get out of here. How to escape? The market entrance is blocked by piles of crates stacked up high over my head. I look the other way. Blocked as well. I run faster, experiencing a rush to my brain I don’t understand.

With the wind ruffling the stray wisps of hair escaping from my hood, I keep running until—

“Not so fast, my young thief.”

“Stop calling me a thief!” I spin around as a strong hand grabs me by my red velvet cloak and grips me so tightly I can’t breathe. I hear the crackling of his long cape hitting the ground before the heavy woolen material slaps against the backs of my calves, stinging me. The man’s other arm goes firmly around my waist and he lifts me off the ground as if I were as light as a poupée, a doll.

He carries me into the shadowy doorway near a restaurant with the picturesque name au Chien qui Fume, The Smoking Dog. I sniff the air. The bitter smell of alcohol lingers on the man’s breath. And licorice. I squirm, twisting my body this way and that, pressing my hip into his groin, but I can’t see the man’s face.

“Let me go!” I cry out, irritated.

“Never. Now that I’ve found you, mademoiselle, you won’t escape me again.” My captor begins laughing, a rich, hearty baritone edged with a sensuality that sends a tingling to my brain that shoots down to my pussy and makes it throb.

I know that voice.

My heart beats so fast I can’t catch my breath. The strength of his hands holding me does strange, wonderful things to my libido I don’t want to admit. Can’t. This fantasy has gone too far. I’ve been jostled by a ragpicker, labeled a thief, chased, grabbed and manhandled. And now I’m turned on by a voice I only imagined I’d heard.

Fear tightens my throat as he turns me around and I get a good look at him. I gasp. Loudly. I can’t believe what I’m seeing, even if the man is in my face, the darkness of his eyes glaring at me. Eyes alive. Lips pressed together in an amused manner. Pulse beating rapidly at the side of his neck where his longish dark hair curls around his cape collar.

God help me. It’s him.

Paul Borquet.

No wonder I’m turned on.

“I want another look at you, you little hellion.” He reaches inside my cloak, then pushes aside my dressing gown and cups my breast in his hand. I struggle, but he holds me with a firmness that lets me know resisting him is futile. “Yes, perfect.” He slides his hand under my petticoat and runs his fingers up and down my thigh. His breathing is heavy, guttural, like an animal assessing its prey. “Slim, firm. You’ll do.”

“Do” for what? What am I? A prize pony? Doesn’t he know I’m running this fantasy gig?

“If you touch me again, monsieur, I’ll grab your balls and—” I slur what I think is the slang word for twisting off his testicles. He gets the idea.

“Damn you, mademoiselle. You should be grateful to me for saving you from Monsieur Renard.”

“Who?”

“The beast of Les Halles.”

“You’re the beast, monsieur, for treating me like this.” I squirm in his grasp, turning my head first to one side, then the other. “I’m not for sale. I demand you release me.”

I kick him in the shin. He yells an obscenity.

“I’ll teach you a lesson, ma belle.”

He turns me over his knee, his hand wandering under my cloak until he finds my bare buttocks, then he begins to stroke my skin. I moan, my breath ragged, my senses reeling. I cry out when he slaps my butt. Once, twice. It stings, but it’s a delicious sting, igniting the nerve endings around my perineum. With two fingers he massages the sensitive area between my pussy and my anal hole. I hear him draw in his breath as his fingers push, probe and knead my quivering flesh.

I close my eyes and enjoy the feelings of tingling warmth as he traces his fingertips around the area, gently but with a purpose, knowing exactly how to arouse me. I feel my face flush and my ears turning red. It feels so good, I want more, more. But I’d rather die than admit it.

“Zut alors, if Monsieur Renard finds you, mademoiselle, your pretty young arse will end up on the wheel.”

“Wheel?” I ask, refusing to give up the pleasurable sensation shooting through my groin. Very pleasant. “What are you talking about?”

Paul Borquet smacks my bare butt again. I moan. “If you do as I tell you, mademoiselle, I’ll save you from such unpleasantness.”

“Oh? And what is that?”

“Alors, mademoiselle, I want you to—”

He closes his hand over my cunt and pushes his finger in between my pussy lips. Oooh…his thumb finds my clitoris and rubs it, not too hard, just enough to awaken sensual, warm feelings in me. I sigh with pleasure.

Then he whispers into my ear the naughtiest, most sensuous, succulent act of lust I’ve ever heard.

Goody. Goody.




CHAPTER FOUR


As slippery with his sweat as with her hot juices, Paul sniffed his fingers, reveling in the aroma of her youth filling up his nostrils. Such delights energized him with renewed passion, vigor and sustenance to indulge in his art.

I must be alone with her. Taste her cunt, wet with her jus de miel, her honey juice, a few inches above my mouth.

First he must seduce the redhead to go with him to his studio in Montmartre. He would tell no one about her, not even the other artists he often painted with at L’Atelier Gromain. Who knew how they’d react when seduced by her opulent beauty?

His gaze traveled up and down her body in a long, continuous curve, the delightful journey beginning at the top of her silken red hair and ending at the tip of her button shoes. She could never compare to a mere mortal. Tall and regal looking, she held her head up with pride, like a goddess carved in white Carrara marble. She was perfection in a world of imperfect flesh, driving men mad.

She was safe only in his hands, he thought, inserting his fingers into her again and massaging her clit with an expert touch.

The girl squirmed in his arms, the smell of her female scent assuring him she was real and not an hallucination induced by his indulgence in absinthe. Breasts, round and firm, responded to his probing fingers, her nipples puckered and dark. He was surprised she wasn’t laced up in a whalebone corset, yet she was slender with a natural waist so small he could almost span both his hands around her.

He wanted desperately to seduce her, grab her everywhere, kiss her everywhere. Never had he dared to imagine he’d find her in Les Halles, the rumbling central market of Paris. He had meandered around the market, smelling the unpleasant odor of sea snails on the fish counters while looking for her, before wandering into a small restaurant to partake of a bowl of gratinée to cure his hangover. He had almost given up hope of finding her when the flash of her red velvet cape caught his eye. Racing after her, he’d sobered up quickly.

Now he couldn’t let her go. He suspected she hadn’t savored what he could teach her. He imagined her nipples, hard and pointy, pierced by silver rings. Her pussy framed with a delicate blush of raspberry curls and glistening with the moisture of her juices, waiting for his tongue to lick her essence, savoring the taste of her. She moaned and sighed with so much joy, as if she were discovering sex in its purest form with his fingers probing her. Inexplicably, each thrust of her lower torso into his hand heightened his anxiety.

What if she wouldn’t pose for him?

“Does mademoiselle agree to my proposition to save her from the humiliation of the wheel?” He looked up toward the high, high ceiling at the big, horizontal wheel attached to the flat roof of the hangman’s stone tower. How many times had he seen thieves and unscrupulous merchants imprisoned in the rim of the medieval torture device with only their heads and hands showing, the hangman turning the wheel tighter every quarter hour?

The girl followed his gaze, then shivered. “You’re not kidding, are you?”

“Word spreads around Les Halles faster than a careless indiscretion of l’amour, mademoiselle. Come with me.”

“And if I don’t play your lascivious game, monsieur?”

“Les Halles is swarming with gendarmes, mademoiselle, eager to wield their sticks. Apprehending a thief is great sport for them.”

She grinned. Or was that a smirk on her pretty pink lips? “But I have you to protect me, monsieur. Lucky girl that I am.”

“You won’t smile so easily, mademoiselle, if they stretch your beautiful naked body out on the wheel, your legs spread so far apart to reveal the delicate inner pleats of your pink pussy lips, your breasts pointing outward, your nipples sucked on at the whim of the hangman, his ugly tongue licking you wherever he wishes.”

A bad taste lingered in his mouth. The wheel was too cruel a punishment when the girl’s only crime was foolishness. He remembered how many years he had suffered pain, stiffening in fear, never knowing how long the blows from his stepfather would last.

In his mind now, his thoughts went back to Giverny, to his childhood home with heavily fringed lace curtains keeping out the light and sending him scurrying out into the fields to paint. He could see the soft fields of poppies, azaleas, peonies, begging for him to take up his brush, hours he spent painting, knowing when he returned home, his stepfather would try to beat this “painting nonsense” out of him. Sometimes he couldn’t paint at all. The years of beatings by his stepfather took away his sight and set off a painful emotion that pressed upon his artist’s soul, dragging out the mental effect of the beatings long after the physical pain had ceased.

The girl knew nothing of his pain. Innocent of life’s harshness, she blinked, running her long fingers up and down her cheek. Such soft skin, untouched. “You are a pervert, monsieur, though a handsome one—”

He dug his fingers into the soft flesh on her buttocks, squeezing her until she squealed. “I promise you, mademoiselle, I won’t hurt you. I wish only to pleasure you.”

A saucy laugh escaped the redhead, but unlike the girls he met up with in the brothels of Paris, she didn’t lower her eyelashes or coyly turn her cheek to allow the morning sun streaming through the glass roof to highlight her bone structure. This girl was the exception, and that intrigued him even more.

She said, “If you only knew what pleasure you bring me.”

“Zut alors, mademoiselle, you surprise me with your boldness.”

She laughed, throwing her head back. Her voice was low and husky. His cock hardened with desire, straining against his pants. “But if you try to fuck me, monsieur, you’ll be limping home. I know karate.”

Kay-rah-tay? What the hell was that? A devil’s curse?

“Pardon, mademoiselle?” Paul blinked, frustration slowing down his exploration of her cunt. He removed his fingers from inside her, but that didn’t stop her from pressing her slim hip up against his thigh. He suppressed a groan. He was never a man to let his physical needs override his reason. He’d been nurtured in a society where manners were more important than emotion. This little firebrand, he noted with wry amusement, had no manners.

“No man ever dared proposition me as you have, monsieur, asking me to…to…it’s so unbelievably erotic, so sensual, it takes my breath away.” She pulled away from him, but he held on to her. “Are you real? Or are you a dream?” She squeezed his forearm. “Mmm, you are real and ripped.”

“Ripped, mademoiselle?”

“Buff. A hunk. Pumped-up.”

Her words sounded strange to his ears. A country dialect? She spoke with a peculiar accent, lapsing into English, using words he didn’t understand, although he knew a little of that barbaric language.

“I’ll rip ‘off’ your clothes, mademoiselle, and make love to you not once but twice before the cock crows at dawn.”

She laughed. “I love the B horror movie dialogue.”

Ignoring her, he continued, “I’ll make you beg for mon mandrin, mademoiselle.”

“Mandrin?” she asked, not understanding. “Dick, penis?”

He pulled her closer to him. “You fascinate me, mademoiselle, with your choice of words. Parisian females need very little language to get their meaning across, using the elegance of their bodies to let a man know what they want.”

“I know what I want, Monsieur Borquet.”

He drew in his breath. “You know my name, mademoiselle?”

She smiled. “I’ve seen your work, monsieur. Very impressive.” Her eyes moved downward. She squeezed his crotch. “Like the rest of you.”

Gritting his teeth, he ignored her squeeze and her sarcasm, his hands moving up and down the slender form of his captive with an experienced touch. “Obviously, mademoiselle can’t wait to experience the pleasure of my cock in her.”

“I warned you, monsieur,” she said, bringing her knee up to his groin, but his hands were faster. Not only was he a master with a paintbrush, but he had the hands of a boxer. Big. Strong. He grabbed her arm and swung her around, his face so close to hers he felt her breath on his cheek.

“I can’t wait any longer, mademoiselle. I want to taste you.”

He bent down and kissed her on the mouth. Kissed her hard. He parted her lips easily, thrusting his tongue into her mouth. She moaned, and he felt her body shudder. A more delicious sensation reveled through him as the half-dressed young woman struggled like a wildcat. He sensed in her a fiery passion that could make the night sparkle. Like a sweet, pink champagne.

Finally she let her body relax, her anger fading. “None of this is real, so why am I fighting you?”

“C’est si bon, mademoiselle. Good, because I’m not letting you go.”

“Don’t get so cocky, monsieur. I haven’t agreed to your insane proposition.” She squeezed his crotch again. Harder this time. “Not yet.”



“Who is that dirty-looking harlot in your arms, monsieur?” Lillie asked, her eyes blazing.

Paul spun around, twirling his cape, but he didn’t let go of the redhead. “How did you find me, Lillie?”

“Everybody in Les Halles is talking about the girl in the red velvet cloak and how you stole her away from Monsieur Renard.”

He could see the blond prostitute fighting to keep the muscle at the side of her mouth from twitching. The look on her face told him she’d been following him from one tiny bistro to the next, looking for the redhead.

“I dismissed you earlier, Lillie. Be on your way.”

“Not until I have a look at the slut.”

Before he could stop her, Lillie yanked the hood off the redhead and, seeing the girl’s beautiful face, slapped her.

“Bitch!”

“Keep your hands to yourself, sister!” yelled the redhead, slapping Lillie’s face. Hard. The blond girl’s hand flew up to her cheek, already burning red.

“Quel cockatrice,” Lillie said, spitting at the girl.

“What did she call me?” the redhead asked him in English.

Trying not to show his amusement, Paul said, “An old, worn-out whore.”

“I’ll tear her hair out by its dark roots,” the redhead threatened, making Paul wonder if he should let her do it. It would be quite a show, these two beautiful women tearing the clothes off each other, grabbing hair, their nude breasts heaving up and down, pulling on each other’s nipples, the smell of their fury mixing into an erotic musky perfume. But les chipettes, women such as Lillie, could attack their victim with a knife as easily as they plucked their eyebrows. Not a pretty sight.

“Not so fast, ma belle,” Paul said, trying to keep the two females apart. “Mademoiselle de Pontier isn’t a woman to be tampered with. She is a calège, a high-class woman of pleasure, from one of the best brothels in Paris.”

That didn’t impress the redhead. She started laughing, then wet her lips before she said, “Where I come from, women who sell their bodies are known by the same four-letter word, whatever their price.”

She glared at the blonde, making Paul uneasy. Trouble of a female sort was brewing. Silently he shot Lillie a glance that told her to keep quiet. She paid his warning no heed.

“Alors, mademoiselle,” Lillie shot back, hands on her hips. “A girl of your sort would never be accepted at the House on rue des Moulins.”

“Oh?” the redhead challenged. “And what sort is that?”

“I’ve heard gentlemen at Madame Chapet’s say women like you are like a cheap sauce—once you find out what they’re made of, you don’t want to taste their pussies.”

The redhead bolted toward Lillie, muttering, “Is that so? Well, I’ll take the puff out of your French pastry—”

“Cochon, you little tramp!” Lillie yelled, ready for a fight. “You’re nothing but a marcheuse, a streetwalker haunting the boulevards, stopping in front of a shop and playing with your cunt to entice a man to follow you.”

“Me? From what I can see, mademoiselle, you do a good job soliciting with your hips,” the redhead said with a flippant attitude. Paul noticed she had lost none of her courage.

“Zut alors, you know nothing about pleasing a man, mademoiselle,” Lillie said, wiggling her body and emphasizing her catlike litheness that hinted at the claws hidden under her cloak. “I’m the most popular of all the girls at the House on rue des Moulins.”

“I don’t care where you live or who pays you to moan when you’re lying flat on your back with a dick in you,” the redhead said, her frustration spilling over. “I don’t want any trouble.”

She looked very confused, and in that moment, Paul wanted only to take her in his arms and hold her. To do so, he knew, would anger the beautiful blonde, and that would make matters worse.

“Enough of your silly jealousy, Lillie. Be on your way!”

It was Paul who spoke, his voice cutting through the heat of the moment. The look in her eyes told him she knew he meant it. Although the cool morning mist mixed with the lingering night chill, Paul began to perspire. He turned to the redhead. She smiled at him, and was that surprise, then gratitude he saw in her eyes when he smiled back?

He didn’t have time to find out. Lillie claimed her rights, insisting Paul pay her extra francs for her services, which he did, then fretted about how he’d be sorry he didn’t let her ride the stallion tonight.

Lillie also had parting words for the redhead. “It’s not over between us, mademoiselle,” she said. “I never forget a face.”

“I, on the other hand, find your face utterly forgettable,” the redhead returned.

Paul could see Lillie barely holding herself in check, but she knew when to retreat, especially with the extra francs he stuffed in her bosom. Parting her pouty carmine lips, she hissed at the girl, though the redhead refused to flinch. Then Lillie was gone, her scent tagging along on a breeze, subtle but strong enough so Paul couldn’t forget it.

“Merci, monsieur, thank you,” the redhead said, her face flushed. “I let my anger get the better of me when that girl insulted me, but I couldn’t stop myself. I feel like I’m starring in the French version of a bad slasher movie.”

“‘Movie,’ mademoiselle?”

“Yes, a film, a flick.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I guess movies haven’t been invented yet.”

She offered no further explanation, and he didn’t ask for one. A strong wind heavy with anger ruffled the cape between his legs. More trouble, he knew instinctively before he turned.

“There’s the thief!”

Paul saw the big, ugly Monsieur Renard push his way through a small group of stall keepers huddled around him, his stubby finger pointing to the redhead.

“I will capture the beautiful thief, monsieur,” another man said, “then strip her naked and put her gorgeous body on display for all to see!”

Paul looked to see who had spoken, the threat made in very bad French with an English accent. It was a curious young gentleman, dressed in fine broadcloth, obviously very drunk, and arm in arm with a luscious young woman, her bare shoulders rubbing up against his white shirtfront.

The young Englishman wiped his mouth then rubbed his crotch, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the redhead. Paul gripped his cane tighter. Stupid fools. Couldn’t they see the girl was with him?

He held her hand tighter, shielding the girl from their eyes with his heavy cloak. Her hand was warm, the pulse in her wrist beating rapidly. She was his to protect, to keep safe on a distant plane in a faraway place where only he could travel.

“Let me go, monsieur, before my dream turns into a nightmare,” the redhead demanded, begging him to listen to her with her beautiful green eyes.

Paul studied her face, fascinated by the way her perfect lips formed the sounds of her strange accent.

“As long as you’re with me, mademoiselle, no one will harm you. I promise. Quickly, follow me.”

Paul ignored the ranting of Renard, along with the Englishman’s wailing, threats and bad French as he walked purposefully through the tarpaulin-covered stretch of stands in the market, his cape fanned out around the girl like a cloak of invisibility as she moved in tandem with his step. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her. Their eyes met and her look set his heart racing. She drew him inside her like the green enchantress, the name given to the heady absinthe that gushed through his veins, arousing him out of his black depression.

He exhaled slowly as his eyes swept over the girl’s blossoming curves, experiencing a rising surge of creativity bubbling to the surface and spilling over into a bluish pool of desire. Desire to possess the girl’s soul on canvas. The whiteness of her skin bedazzling him, the erotic pout of her lips tempting him to kiss her again. The lingering desire in her eyes,, arousing him. Her face an alluring shade of pale. His fingers skipped playfully over her slender neck, then toyed with the curling red hair sticking to her forehead, her face an alluring shade of pale.

“Arrête, monsieur, stop!” shouted the Englishman, close behind them. Where did he come from?

“Ignore him, mademoiselle.”

“You don’t have to ask twice, monsieur,” she said. “I’m outta here,”

“Stop, I say!” the Englishman called again. “You’re shielding a criminal, monsieur. In England, you’d be hanged for that!”

Paul turned and noted with dismay that despite his tipsiness, the Englishman was quick on his feet and nearly upon them, all the while thoroughly enjoying the entire incident.

More disturbing to him, where had Renard gone? Paul didn’t trust the man. Though he was rumored to have a cock as limp as the rotting asparagus in his vegetable cart, he had a reputation around Les Halles for seducing young girls, then raping them. Tearing apart their pussies with the black leather shaft of his long whip. He was probably waiting in the shadows somewhere in the vast market to grab the girl the moment he let her out of his sight. This Englishman, however, with his wild accusations, was an immediate threat. Alors, he’d have to change his plans.

Paul spun around, folding the massive swirl of his black cape around the girl. He couldn’t hide her completely from view as the foreigner cut them off between the meat stalls, his goblin face lit up with a grinning smile of white teeth, a lustful snarl rolling over his lips as he reached out to grab the girl’s bare breast peeking through her cloak.

Paul was tempted to use the sharp knife concealed in the end of his cane to convince the man to go about his business. A dryness caught in his throat at the thought of her pure, lovely skin being touched and tainted by the overly eager Englishman. Pampered and smooth-skinned, the gentleman probably hadn’t had his balls stroked by a woman since he was an infant at the breast of his wet nurse.

“Run into the Black Beau, mademoiselle,” Paul whispered to the redhead, indicating with a nod a tiny bistro nearby.

“Monsieur?” she questioned.

“Do as I say or the Englishman will cause enough commotion to have your beautiful ass hanging upside down on the wheel.” He opened his cape and cleared a path for her between the stalls. “Run, now!”

The redhead rushed past him, so close to him his fingertips brushed up against the exposed skin on her neck and a hot flush warmed his groin. She must be his.

“Stop that thief, monsieur!” shouted the Englishman.

“Thief, what thief?” Paul mumbled, twirling his cane and gracefully pirouetting around in a circle, his wide cape swirling around him. “I see no thief.”

“That one, monsieur.” He pointed to the redhead pushing through the crowd and heading toward the tiny bistro. “She won’t get far.” He elbowed past Paul, shoving his shoulder into the artist.

“Quel bâtard,” Paul muttered under his breath. “Mongrel.” Such poor manners. The Englishman deserved to be taught a lesson.

Quicker than the flick of a brush, the artist thrust his long, ebony cane out in front of the Englishman’s feet and tripped him.

The Englishman cried out, tumbling onto the ground, his arms and legs flailing in the air in all directions before he landed with a loud thud.

Paul smiled, wiping his cane on the ends of his black cape with the tips of his fingers. The dirty hands of the Englishman would never touch the girl, he swore, sweeping the cane under his cloak with little effort. It disappeared like grains of sand caught on the wind.

“You tripped me, monsieur,” the Englishman accused, struggling in his drunken state to stand up. “I should call you out for that, except I’ve already sent my bodyguards home for the night. And I refuse to dirty my hands on the likes of you.”

“Me, monsieur?” Paul couldn’t help but snicker. The man resembled a pot of jellied consommé, dumped onto a saucer. “I am but a poor artist.”

“I don’t believe you, monsieur,” demanded the Englishman. “You’re a magician. What have you got in your hand?”

“Nothing, monsieur—” The artist feigned a look that clearly said he was insulted. Adding to the effect, a muscle in his neck twitched and his eyes loomed large in his handsome face, casting a surrealistic, dangerous twist to his features. Smiling, he threw open his cape, his muscular chest straining against the thinness of his white shirt, “—but this!”

With a grandiose gesture he pulled out a faded handkerchief and waved it under the man’s nose. The Englishman reeled backward, caught off balance by the heady smell of patchouli, a minty perfume from India that spoke of long nights of exhaustive pleasure.

Paul bowed slightly. “Your servant, monsieur.”

The Englishman shook his head in disgust. “You and your magic don’t fool me. You helped that girl to escape.”

“You are mistaken, monsieur.”

“You have insulted the Duke of Malmont, monsieur. Next time we meet, it won’t be under such unsavory circumstances in front of peons. And when we do, I swear I will kill you,” the Englishman threatened, squaring his shoulders and wiping the dust off his coatsleeves. He stalked off in another direction, his battered British pride flattened in front of the market jammed with porters, commissionaires and wholesale and retail buyers stocking food on their hand carts.

Paul tapped his cane on the sawdust-strewn floor in an uneven rhythm, a mental fear engulfing him. He was rid of the Englishman, his threat meaningless to him, but the redhead wasn’t safe with Monsieur Renard looking for her. He must get her out of here, this goddess who couldn’t be more than nineteen, not yet a woman.

Where did she come from?

He often frequented the back doors of the cabarets and theaters where the women he met were victims of lascivious upper-class diversion long before he stroked their feminine egos with compliments and money. These women had succumbed to a living death on the silken sheets of sexual perversion and greed. One fed off the other. He merely provided a way out for them, indulging in their fantasies, giving them the joy of his cock for one night.

Unless he helped her, he had no reason to believe the future for this redhead would be any different. He tried to imagine her life on the streets. Begging for a sou might buy bread, but the day would come when her pitiful plea would buy nothing but an offer to take from her the one thing she could sell but once: her virginity.

He wondered what hope she would have then when she lay on her back with languid eyes turned away from the stranger thrusting inside her so deep, the walls of her cunt grabbing for him hungrily, betraying her. Hope that died with each thrust, each sweaty moan, each careless fondle. Paul knew the darkness of perversity came next. It always did.

He rubbed the handle of his cane between his fingers. Sticky sweat imprinted his fingerprints on the smooth ebony. He must save her from that darkness.




CHAPTER FIVE


Running from the beast they call Monsieur Renard, I’ve never been so scared as when I saw him spring toward me like a wild animal. I swear I saw him pull out his dick, dark and meaty, and wave it at me. The pungent smell of his sweat overwhelmed me. Repulsive. Because of him, I’ve lost Paul Borquet.

You fool.

Okay, so the artist is sexy, gorgeous, and has a cock that lives up to his reputation, if it’s as big as it felt pressing against my hip. And when he spanked me, I squealed with both surprise and pleasure, arcing my back up toward him. I’ll never snicker at those SM personal ads again. There’s something about a little whack on the butt that sets off a girl’s libido like a vibrator on autospeed.

But if you think I’m going to tell you what he whispered in my ear when he was playing with my cunt, dream on. I can’t think about it now. I gotta haul my butt outta here before that creepy Monsieur Renard finds me and turns me into his own private peepshow. Why do I get all the corpulent creeps? Why don’t I get the Disney dream with the dorky dwarves and cute little elephants?

You got the handsome prince, kiddo. What more do you want?

Yeah. I can’t keep a smirk from crossing my lips. What hands that artist has. Stroking, rubbing my clit in perfect rhythm. I imagine him licking the insides of my thighs until I can no longer stand up; then I collapse into his arms and he catches me; before I can think of the right French idiom for fuck me hard, he kneels and puts his mouth on me and makes me climax un, deux, trois.

Yes, I’m willing to believe I’ve traveled back in time, if that will keep this scenario going and help me find Paul Borquet.

First, escape.

Inside the Black Beau bistro I’m surprised to find it so small it has no table. And no customers. Only a bar and a couple of chairs stacked in the corner. Heavy steam pours out of the big pots cooking on the stove. I pull back to escape the hot vapors before they scald my exposed skin. I hear the angry stomping of leather boots outside. Close, too close. I take one step backward, then a second, and find myself flattened against the back wall of the tiny bistro.

Crazy. I’m hiding out in a deserted restaurant in a market demolished long ago, the dark, worn wooden chairs and dented pots casting distorted images of a past where I don’t exist.

Until now.

My heart races; my body is flushed.

“Where’s the girl with the red hair?” I hear a man’s voice yell, the crack of his whip cutting through the still morning air. I peek through the tiny hole in the door. It’s Monsieur Renard.

“She went into the Black Beau,” someone says.

I look around. Where can I hide? There’s no back door, and no one attending to the steaming pots of hot liquid boiling on the stove. Talk about lousy customer service. I wish I knew what to do next, but I don’t. I’ve used up my smart chick trick quota for today. A wave of fear washes over me as I grab a big, heavy broom to defend myself. I’m not going down without a fight. I will never allow that thug to snatch me, grab my breasts, his yellow teeth closing around my nipples, biting hard.

I begin whacking a big pot of boiling soup across its belly, sweating and grunting, until the kettle starts wobbling back and forth on the stove and the steaming hot liquid splashes out onto the floor. One more push. I strain with a loud grunt and over goes the pot, crashing and splashing over the worn, wooden floor.

“Attention! Watch out!” someone yells outside as the flood of scalding liquid spills out of the tiny bistro.

I protect my face from the hot steam with my hands, peeking through my fingers to see what’s happening. Outside I see the angry crowd, including the black-bearded man and another man, jumping and bumping into each other, shrieking and cursing. A melody of yells, then accusations.

“It’s your fault, monsieur!”

“Not so, monsieur—you started it.”

I’ve got to make a run for it. I take a deep breath, lower my head, gather up the soft folds of my red cloak, when I hear—

“Over here, mademoiselle,” whispers a man’s voice. “Hurry!”

Who? What? I can’t believe it when I see a trap door in the floor rise slowly like a musty clam opening its shell and a hand beckons me.

What have I got to lose?

Without hesitation, I run toward the trap door and peer down into the hole. A rich, velvety darkness awaits me below. Okay, so it’s not a good idea to jump into a black hole that could lead me to nowheresville. I should have thought about that when I imagined this madcap adventure. I didn’t, so I don’t have much choice. It’s that or be ripped apart by an angry mob, my body bucking against the intrusion of more than one vile cock.

“Jump, mademoiselle,” urges the same voice from deep inside the cellar. “Jump.”

I hear a crackling sound as a bullet shatters a hanging oil lamp, splattering the thin glass everywhere. Someone’s shooting at me! I take a deep breath and jump…

…and land unhurt on top of what I think is a large wine barrel. I can’t see much. Carefully feeling my way in the dark, I let my legs dangle over the side. Only a faint sliver of light beckons me into the darkness. Before my eyes can adjust to the dim light, a breeze skirts past me, making me hold my breath. I smell strong liqueur.

“Shut the trap door, mademoiselle, before they find us and we go together to claim our place in hell,” orders a man’s voice. Impatience slurs his words, but I get his drift. I pull the cellar door shut, fasten the handle in place, then turn my attention to the caped figure holding a candle in one hand, a cane in the other.

Paul Borquet.

I smile. I’ve never been so happy to see anyone.

“I owe you my life again, monsieur.” Our eyes meet and I begin to understand the flurry of emotions engulfing me. From the first moment I saw him, I was wildly attracted to his gallantry as well as his cock.

“Mais non, mademoiselle, it is I who owe you. Your beauty inspires me, fills me with passion to paint.”

We face each other, and in that breathless moment, I recognize he’s more than a dark and mysterious superhero clone in a black cape and crotch-hugging tights. We are artist and model, a creative work of art yet to be defined that defies time and rationale. I lean into him and he strokes my neck, his fingers working at the fastening to my cloak, then stops. I sense his pleasure and something else. Fear. We’re not out of danger yet.

Nibbling on my lip, I ask, “How did you find me?”

“No time for questions, mademoiselle,” the artist says, the light making a halo around him as he extends his hand out to me. “Take my hand. We must move quickly. It won’t take that beast Renard long to start tearing up the floor, looking for you.”

His strong, muscular hand grips mine as quivering candlelight guides me down to the dirt floor below. Then, wrapping his cape around him, the artist leads me through a twisting, underground tunnel barely big enough for him to crawl through on his knees. Pulling my cloak around me, I follow him, crumbling dirt hitting the top of my head, the tip of my nose. I keep his tight butt in sight. I’ve spent a lot of time on my knees with David, but the view was never this good.

Then, without warning, the candle flickers and goes out. I panic, but instead of being thrown into blackness, I’m surprised to see a spotlight of sunshine greeting me like a warm smile. I look straight up. The way out of the tunnel is an old, dry well laced with rusty, iron rings and small stone steps spaced about a foot apart on the cracked stonework.

“I’ve used this escape route many times when my taste for liqueur overrides my taste for a woman’s pussy,” the artist says with amusement. “Every sharp cut of stone is an old friend.” He clasps his hands together and bends over to give me a boost. “After you,” he urges.

I lift my eyebrows. “So you can stick your fingers up my rear end?”

“You have a sharp wit, mademoiselle.”

“Not as sharp as the end of your cane.” I cast my eyes downward. He’s sliding his cane up and down my butt. Sensuous. Provocative. No mistaking his visual cue. I wet my lips.

He laughs. “Allez, go!” he calls out, insisting I start climbing up the wall whether I want to or not. To my delight, I find it easier than I thought as I grab onto the rings embedded in the scaly stone wall and climb up the side of the well. My heavy breathing mixes with that of the man following me, the sound of our feet scraping over the broken stones filling the echo of the empty water hole.

“I love the smell of freedom,” Paul says, taking in a deep breath of air when we reach the top and vault easily over the side of the well. He turns and looks at me with a sensuality I find not at all disturbing. “But not nearly as much as I love the smell of a woman.”

“Don’t look at me. I don’t smell so good after crawling through that old tunnel,” I say, dusting off my cloak.

“Let me be the judge of that, mademoiselle.”

He leans down, his clean-shaven face so close to mine I breathe in the lingering odor of the strong liqueur. It makes me dizzy. His lips brush my cheek as he pushes aside my cloak and kisses my shoulders, then delicately up the sides of my neck. Little shivers of pleasure flow through me. I have to steady my nerves, slow my racing mind, get some answers.

God help me if he comes any closer.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask, not knowing what else to say. He shifts his attention lower. He caresses my breasts, taking the time to rub my nipples in such delicious circles, I can’t catch my breath.

“Where you will be safe, mademoiselle.”

Safe? With his hands doing this to me?

“To your studio in Montmartre?” I ask.

“How do you know I have a studio on the hill, mademoiselle?” He gives me a look that is neither friendly nor hostile, but probing.

Don’t stop circling my nipples! I want to cry out. Coward that I am, I don’t. Instead I say in a shaky voice, “Someone told me.”

“Who?”

He slides his hand down to my waist. He fumbles with the metal clasp on my petticoats. Damn this ridiculous outfit.

I say, “An old artist. He showed me your self-portrait.” I don’t tell him about the statue of Min and its prophecy. Why spoil his fantasy?

“Where did you meet this artist, mademoiselle?”

Still fumbling. Has he lost interest in my clit? Or is he more interested in his own self-portrait?

“In an art gallery in Marais,” I say, not giving away when I saw the painting. “The House of Morand.”

Paul shakes his head. He’s not even touching me. Oh, the frustration. “I know of no such gallery in Marais.”

I frown. My breasts feel cold without his touch. Is the whole thing a dream after all? Okay, let’s try again, appeal to his male ego. Better known as his dick.

“I did see such a painting,” I insist. “Life-size, in every way.” I can’t resist letting my gaze drift downward to the bulge between his legs. A movement that doesn’t go unnoticed by the handsome artist.

He moves closer to me, then whispers in my ear, “Ah, you mean the self-portrait I gave to La Comtesse du Chalons. Hélas, you must be mistaken, mademoiselle. La comtesse took the portrait with her to London.”

“No mistake, Monsieur Borquet,” I say, playing the game and enjoying it. Evidently the portrait I saw in the modern art studio traveled from one owner to another through the years. “I like the real thing better.”

“Pardon?” he says, not quite understanding me.

“American humor.”

“Ah, so you’re une Americaine, mademoiselle.”

I nod. “Autumn Maguire from—”

No, don’t tell him any more. Not now.

Paul raises his eyebrows, then laughs. “It doesn’t matter to me where you’re from, mademoiselle. You’re not like the English girls who raise their skirts in the dance halls. Cheap and bawdy with a smirk on their lips and fat arms and legs.” He leans closer, looking at me curiously. “You have the body of a goddess, made pour faire l’amusette, love play.”

He lifts my petticoat with his cane and rubs the inside of my thigh with his walking stick. What took him so long? I tingle all over, warm and happy and very aroused. I don’t pull back. I try taking slow, deep breaths. Instead, my breathing becomes wildly ragged.

Don’t get turned on, kiddo. You don’t even know where you are.

My eyes dart around the ancient courtyard. I can’t deal with this insane situation until I find the courage to accept the fact I’ve traveled back in time. I have to do it quickly before my angst swells into a panic I can’t control.

Face it.

This is Old Paris.

Grime-crusted towers and turrets, broken cobbles. A medieval atmosphere hangs in the air like an old tapestry fraying at the edges, its faded glory begging for a second look. I see several ramshackle town houses huddled together around a small square of broken stones with piles of rags neatly lined up in a row around the perimeter.

Suddenly the rags move, and tiny, taut faces peep out from underneath their dirty shells of clothing. The smell of unwashed, diseased bodies overcomes me. The scene is like a curtain opening on the final act, where the near-dead play at living.

This is Old Paris.

In a instant where I am, who I am, why I’m here, are all erased in one breathless sweeping moment when Paul draws me into his arms and does what I’ve been wanting him to do again. Kiss me. Hard. Deeply. Like a man who doesn’t like his pleasure to be hurried. A man who knows what he wants. It isn’t like any kiss I’ve ever experienced. His mouth moves slightly over mine, his tongue touching the insides of my lips, exploring. Damn him. I can’t move. Arms pinned behind my back. Breasts pressed up against his chest. My whole body is tense. I feel breathless but for all the wrong reasons.

I try to wiggle free but he pulls me closer.

“Don’t be afraid, ma belle.” The handsome artist laughs, spreading his arms wide, opening his black cape like angel wings reaching up to the heavens. “No harm will come to you with Paul Borquet as your protector.”

“Who’s going to protect me from you?” I look hard into his dark blue eyes. They hold secrets I must know, but they’re impossible to read.

“When the time comes for you to fulfill your part of our bargain…

That lascivious act I mentioned earlier.

“…I will arouse you to such heights you will feel no pain.”

“Why would I feel pain?” I have to ask. A whack on the butt, okay, but let’s not get carried away.

“Your cunt is hot and tight, even for a girl so young.”

Young? Can’t he see I’m a woman, not a virgin schoolgirl? Though I admit, I’m a woman falling ridiculously in love with a man younger than myself. Much younger. He can’t be more than his midtwenties. I haven’t given it much thought until now, due to the lingering effects of this entire fantasy on my brain.

Yet I have to admit I feel different. I put my hands on my waist—it is smaller—place my palm on my stomach—flatter. Damn, I wish I could find a mirror, find out if the Egyptian god Min worked his magic on me.

Paul has no idea what’s going through my mind and thinks I’m teasing him.

“Mademoiselle feels sexual excitement, n’est-ce pas?” he says, placing his hands on mine, squeezing my waist, moving his hand over my stomach, down…down…lower. Is he counting the rows of ruffles on my petticoat hiding my pussy from him? If he’s not, I am. Okay, I’m stalling. I can’t let myself get carried away. Who knows who’s watching us? All I have to do is part my legs and he’ll move his head between my thighs to my cunt. And you know what happens next. Tickle and tingle. Big-time.

I shake my head. “Not with everyone watching, monsieur,” I say firmly, looking around. “Where are we?”

“These are the homes of the truands, the beggars, the lame and the blind. They’re my friends.”

As if on cue a tiny rag-covered child—or is it an adult?—hurries up to Paul and whispers in his ear. I watch silently as he draws a coin out of his pocket and gives it to the beggar. Then he grabs me by the arm and pushes me into a tiny alleyway.

“Vite, quickly,” he says, “we must leave here.”

“Why?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”

“Word is out on the streets Monsieur Renard is looking for a girl with red hair wearing only a red velvet cloak. They will look for you here among the beggars. Vien, come—”

“Where are we going?” I ask. I won’t listen to the little voice in my head, telling me if I am young and beautiful, then I’ve sold my soul. Telling me what I don’t want to believe. All I feel is the sting of the artist’s kiss lingering on my lips.

I have no choice but to follow him, hugging the doorways and staying close behind the artist as he heads down the twisting rue des Halles toward the Seine. Everywhere I look citizens attend to their daily lives—going to the market, the cafés, the shops, their offices, cleaning the streets. I slip in and out of reality, a worrisome fear bobbing up and down in my stomach. A fear that grows with each moment.

After a few blocks, Paul slows our pace, though I stay close behind him as we walk along the edge of the Seine near the Pont Neuf. Standing on the quay under the trees shading the banks of the river, I look out over the Seine, puzzled. In my time, the river is filled with foam plastic cups, ducks, even used condoms. Now it ripples along its mile course through the city filled with boats carrying cargoes of grain going upstream, wine going down. Heavy traffic of brightly painted barges, bateaux-lavoirs for the city’s washerwomen, as well as commuter boats, congest the canal. People scurrying about, everyone is caught up in their daily lives.

I grow cold all the way through my cloak to my petticoat to my bones. I hug myself, shivering all over. “Tell me, monsieur, what year is it?”

“Alors, mademoiselle, it’s 1889.”

1889.

I start to laugh, choke on the laugh, then seek refuge in incessant babbling. I’m alive in 1889 Paris and the artist in the portrait is also alive and here with me.

Silly words, meaningless words to Paul Borquet. Puzzled, he takes a flask out of his jacket and the violent whiff of alcohol pushes through the stale air, its scent making me dizzy. The artist holds the flask of strong liqueur out to me, its heady bouquet making my eyes water. He passes his hand over it, as if to make it disappear, then sniffs it with approval.

“You need a drink, mademoiselle.”

“Why not?” I say. Something, anything that will help the throbbing in my head go away so I can think out this whole crazy situation.

I inhale deeply, then take the flask Paul offers me, drinking the liqueur down quickly, noting its bitter though licoricelike taste, hoping it will take away the chill in my bones and put some sense back into my head. I must play my part in this Parisian soap opera, though I wonder when I’ll wake up.

I blink several times, swallow. My head feels woozy, funny…

I want Paul to hold me again…in his arms…play with my clit.

Oh, I’m dizzy. My legs rubbery. A tingling sensation scrambles down my arms, running like trickles of rushing water to the ends of my fingers. I start breathing faster, yet I feel an overwhelming sense of fatigue grip me and not let go, as if my body is shutting down, exhausted by everything I’ve been through since that electric current zapped me. I can hear Paul’s voice talking to me, but I can’t see his face clearly. Fuzzy shapes—he looks blurry…so blurry. But, oh, so handsome.

“What is this stuff?” I ask curiously, licking my lips. Peppermint. Licorice. And something else I can’t identify.

“Absinthe.”

Absinthe. A strong anise-flavored liqueur illegal in my time because of its druglike properties. Powerful stuff. Addictive and known for causing madness. Toulouse-Lautrec, Baudelaire, Degas. They were all absinthe drinkers, as was Oscar Wilde. Didn’t the Englishman say something about absinthe making you see things as you wish they were, then as they really are?

I blink. Once, then again. It doesn’t do any good. Everything around me starts to move. Dizziness overcomes me, then a pounding in my head. I feel consciousness slipping away from me and I’m powerless to stop it. Powerless to stop Paul Borquet from suddenly pushing his fingers in between my labes, thrusting up into me. He’s caught me by surprise again, and the throbbing sensation blocks off my thoughts, my ability to enjoy the pleasure of his thumb rubbing my clitoris. What’s happening to me? Am I waking up? Is the dream over?

No, I don’t want to wake up, not when it’s getting this good. Oh, damn—

—damn!




CHAPTER SIX


Paul Borquet pushed open the window and hung out over the second-story sill. He looked down into the courtyard below where moss grew between the flagstones and the plants in the garden were covered with straw. Breathing in deeply, he cursed the grayness of the day. Merde, he needed more light. Only a faint glow stole through the open, airless window of his studio and hung over his shoulder, trying to enter his domain.

Containing his annoyance, though only barely, Paul pushed the low and broad divan with the unconscious girl closer to the window. She lay upon the couch, not moving. Pale, her eyes closed. He couldn’t tear himself away from looking at her, her glorious cloud of red hair floating around her head, her full pink lips, firm breasts. Her skin was so smooth, so flawless. Skin like perfect white clouds on a fresh spring morning. He couldn’t believe she was here with him.

He’d acted quickly after the redhead passed out from the effects of the strong liqueur, carrying her in his arms, then taking her by hansom cab back to his studio. Once inside the closed conveyance, Paul pressed himself against her, caressing her sleeping body, pushing aside her red velvet cloak while his other hand snaked around her shoulders until one of her breasts rested in his palm. Squeezing firmly, his thumb and forefinger found her nipple which, though she was unconscious, hardened under his touch.

Now, watching her with a mixture of pleasure and excitement, he drew renewed energy from her. He held her captive with the green enchantress as her manacles, but he couldn’t take the chance of her escaping him. He was still gripped by the fear she would disappear, vanish into some unknown dark shadow, an abyss of black magic that haunted the deepest recesses of his mind.

He picked up his cane and came toward her, wielding the handle about, as if he were painting the heavy air between them. Then he pulled the handle off the cane to reveal the silver blade of a knife, its sharp point catching the glint of the lighted candle overhead. He took the precaution of securing her by cutting the silken fringed cords from the pillow and wrapping them around her wrists, then tying her to the curved, closed opening on the gilded caning framework of the divan.

Next, with the sharp tip of his cane, he lifted off the piece of midnight blue silk he’d laid over her naked breasts, her chest heaving up and down so slowly that if he laid a feather between her breasts it wouldn’t move. He could see the trembling pulse in her neck and the bubbles of perspiration between her thighs. He must capture that purity, define the graceful, continuing line that swirled in elegant curves from her white shoulders down to her hips, then down to her ankles.

“I can deny my passion no longer, mademoiselle,” he whispered, admiration enriching the deep, hypnotic tones of his voice, though he knew she couldn’t hear him. The effects of the absinthe put her into a state similar to that of s’évanouir, losing consciousness during sex.

He dampened a clean, white, preprimed linen canvas and made a quick, deft pencil sketch of the redhead reclining nude on the couch. He could see in his mind her red hair scorching the canvas like brilliant fire, the pink of her nude flesh layered in rich, wayward strokes, her skin as luminous as a winter moon.

He wet his lips, then with the saliva on his tongue, licked the bristles of his sable brush until he formed a perfect point. He dipped the reed into the green-and red-orange mixture of oil paint and applied a flat plane of flesh tones to the cardboard canvas on the easel, filling in the empty spaces in his drawing and blinking several times to clear his blurring vision. He was near exhaustion, having not slept for two days. Or was it three? He didn’t know.

He marveled as the color from his brush was partially absorbed into the linen, giving the painting a curious fluidity and an effect of movement that came alive on the canvas. He could almost feel her breath on his face as he painted her. He must have more absinthe to continue his work. He swallowed liqueur from his flask, its wormwood flavor lingering on his tongue and dulling his appetite. He was feeding off his creative frenzy, a frenzy that forced him to put aside everything else but his need to paint this beautiful girl.

He dipped his brush into the pale ivory, blues and greens on his palette, oblivious to the strong scent of oil and turpentine that prevailed in his studio. His nostrils stung with a different scent. The smell of the girl. It was a sharp sexual odor, blending with the mixture of her perfume and sweet body smells. He sniffed the air, the headiness of her aroma overwhelming him.

He painted for what seemed like hours, never giving a thought to anything but the joyous parade of color taking shape on his canvas. Pink dawn, crushed yellow buttercups, the flyaway feathers of a bluebird. Listening to the dictates of his mind, his fingers had a will of their own. His brush fluttered impulsively but unerringly, finding a harmony of color that vibrated with energy.

He watched the girl, still in a deep sleep, stretch her arms upward, easing the tightly knotted tension in her shoulders. Her playfulness gave way to a moody restlessness as she struggled against the silken bonds restraining her, though not hurting her. He smiled, undaunted by the redhead’s show of defiance.

He gazed at the girl who called herself Autumn Maguire, her eyes closed, her long lashes resting against her cheeks like sooty smudges. Unaware of his personal torment, she twisted her body like a lazy caterpillar reveling in a floral paradise, pulling on her restraints, parting her legs to reveal the curly red hairs around her pussy, and arousing him. A light sweat sparkled on her nude body like the glitter of a perfect diamond emanating its own light, her mouth open, her wet tongue licking her lips.

He breathed in deeply. That’s what was missing in his work. He must capture that erotic expression on her face. He put aside his sketch, deciding to use her body as his living canvas. He took a dry brush with very soft bristles and painted her breasts with dribbles of her sweat, then down to her rib cage, over her flat belly and lingering in the soft thatch of her jouet, her toy. She took a deep breath as she spread her legs and a sweet, satisfied smile lighted up her face. Her mood was light, carefree as Paul continued painting bubbly beads of perspiration all over her smooth, nude breasts.

When she was fully aroused, he put his fingers into her pussy and wiggled them inside her until he felt her languette, clitoris, become hard and pulsating. His fingers pressed deep inside her, exploring the moistening contours with tender strokes. Although her voice was barely above a whimper, in the heat of the moment it was raw and husky.

“Oh…ooohhh…” she moaned, a look of ecstatic torment on her face. She squeezed her closed eyes tighter as a slow, warm pleasure filled her. Did she ejaculate? No, she couldn’t have, not yet. He wasn’t ready. He put his hand between her legs. Wetness stained the silk. Droplets. Not nearly enough.

Exhausted, he rested his head in his hands, but his body didn’t relax. His pupils were dilated, his breathing heavy. A cordon of muscle bulged out at the side of his neck and his passion steeped upward in a heightening spiral of anticipation. His painting was not done, though he felt godlike, all powerful, fueled by a terrifying but irresistible need to create. To do so, he must capture her fluids. But how?

The redhead was stirring. Bon. He ran his hand over her breasts, and was rewarded by a faint ripple spreading out from under his fingertips. Yes, that was it. He would pleasure her, every nerve ending in her body in tune to his touch.

He bent down and pressed a kiss to her peach-soft lips, his tongue pushing inside, then lingering on the hard bud of her clit. She responded with a guttural moan low in the back of her throat and grind of her hips. Yes. He would make her juices flow and flow until her whole body pulsated for want of his cock—

—and then he would take her again. And again. Every hour. Until his masterpiece was finished.



I awake into a reality that pushes the absurdity of my situation back into my mind, back into my body. In other words, I have a hangover. Dry mouth, achy eyes and the worst headache. Slowly I become aware of the hardness of the couch pressing uncomfortably against my back, the staleness of the air, an unpleasant taste in my mouth. An overpowering hunger makes my stomach hurt, as if I haven’t eaten in days. If this is 1889, it’s been a long time since I scarfed down those pommes frites at the flea market.

Not so fast.

It’s drafty in here.

I dare to peek down at—

—my belly button? I’m an inny, but whose flat stomach is that along with the tuft of red hair between my legs staring back at me?

Ohmigod, I’m naked.

Naked?

I’m simultaneously shocked and turned on. This is the second time I meet an artist and I end up nude. What gives? The last thing I remember was standing on the Pont Neuf looking out over the Seine and taking a drink of a pungent liqueur from a flask. Absinthe.

I vaguely remember taking the drink, then falling into a deep sleep, though I was conscious of Paul Borquet carrying me into what I suppose was a carriage and holding me close to him as we bumped over the cobblestone streets. I remember curling into that special space against his shoulder, his arm around me, my cheek leaning against his broad chest and listening to his heartbeat. I also remember him copping a feel…and my nipples hardening. Mmm.

Talk about a welcome mirage in my romance desert.

Between glances around his small studio in Montmartre—I assume that’s where I am—I take a deep breath and lay my head back, content to stare at the ceiling until my hunky dream guy shows up.

Mirrors. Everywhere above me. In my reclining position on the divan, I can see a girl’s nude body reflected full-length in the mirrored ceiling over my head like a digital pic on a giant computer screen.

Run that picture by me again. Yeah, that chick. The Playboy centerfold staring back at me from the mirrored ceiling. Gorgeous body. Tiny, nipped-in waist, full breasts, slim hips, sexy shoulders. Who is the bunny with the bod to die for?

Can it be me?

I close my eyes, believing when I open them again the girl will disappear; if she doesn’t and the beautiful girl is me, well, this is my fantasy, isn’t it?

Avoiding making any silly wager with myself, opening one eye at a time, I stick out my tongue. So does the girl in the mirrored ceiling. I draw in my breath. It is me. Interesting.

Still not believing, I blink several times, turning my head from right to left, each time catching tantalizing glimpses of my nude body in the mirror that makes me utter tiny sighs of disbelief followed by admiration, then again disbelief. I stare fixedly at the glass ceiling, amazed by my own vivid imagination and so very pleased with this free and independent spirit that has come to inhabit my mind and my body.

Thank you, Min, you naughty boy.

I watch the girl in the mirror on the ceiling draw her legs up, cross her ankles, press her thighs into the divan so her knees point in the opposite direction. I’ve never seen myself from this position and it’s quite interesting. I have no idea what to make of it. I can’t see my pussy up close and personal, but what I can see makes me appreciate the guy’s point of view when he heads south for a nibble.

A little tremor goes through me. I hope Paul Borquet also enjoys the view.

I lift my body up slowly, trying to feel if there’s any sensation in my arms, my legs. A tingling makes me aware of my limbs, although a supreme heaviness keeps pulling me down, as if wet sand traverses through my veins. What’s wrong? I can’t sit up, something is pulling on my wrists, making them numb. I pull again. What’s holding me down?

I lean my head back and, with a hopeless sigh escaping loudly from my lips, I collapse back on the divan. My God, I’m tied to the couch, my wrists bound by silken cords. This fantasy has taken a wrong turn. I’m in a danger zone. Helpless. Paul Borquet can do anything he wants to me and I can’t stop him. Anything. Lock a collar around my neck, secure my wrists in handcuffs, cover my head in a leather hood that cuts out every ray of light and nearly every sound. The only thing I’ll have left is physical sensation.




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