Peyton Riley (6 page)

Chapter 7

When Peyton had filled in Gustave on her plan over the safe phone, she did not imagine she'd be whisked off to Belgium to wait in a countess's drawing room in two days' time, face to face with her "employer." (Even in her head she said it with air quotes.)

But she wasn't imagining the straight-backed gilt rococo chair that was starting to make her ass feel like pancake at this very moment, or the too-tight bandage making her forearm itch, or Carson following the swirling lines of the thick antique carpet under their feet with serious concentration, or Gustave—the man himself—pacing the brocade-wallpapered, fussy jewel box of a room.

It was the first good look she had of Gustave aside from the dark, momentary glimpses during the interrogation. She observed him warily. He wore a well-cut suit of exquisite, smoky gray fabric. His shoes were impeccably shined; and though his hair was longer than what was conservatively expected, it was brushed out of his face and carefully primped with product. But under the suit his body was powerfully built, coiled and tense, and there was darkness to his features that underlined an internal intensity that put her on her guard.

He obviously knew his way around the room, snaking past a collection of low coffee tables, crystal étagères and swirly-limbed three-seaters to a polished oak table that, within its plum velvet depths, concealed a bar. He extracted a gold-rimmed crystal tumbler, on which he poured out a finger from a bottle half full of what looked like whiskey. It didn't escape Peyton's notice that neither she nor Carson were offered refreshment despite their two-hour wait.

Suddenly the carved double doors on the far end of the room opened with a crash. In burst a spindly old lady, mouthing off in French and English.

"
Airports
! How horrible! How I deplore commercial travel! I do this all for you, Gustave, you damned man!"

The woman was skinny but stool erect, hooked nose and chin pushed up to the air, striding across the room like a destroyer. She had a cloud of silver hair shot through with a streak of black. Ropes of pearl and jet hung from her thin neck, swaying against her classic black-and-cream Chanel suit.

"You're already on the booze," she said sharply, throwing black silk gloves at the table between Carson and Peyton before spreading her arms wide and hugging Gustave. "Ah,
mon ami
, it has been too long!" she enthused between kissing him on both cheeks. "How are you! Looking quite the hippie, are we?" she brushed the tips of his hair with her spindly pale fingers.

Gustave responded to her questions with polite, cheerful chatter. As she gushed once again in his arms, she smiled and asked, in French: "And who are these two little shits you've brought?"

"Careful, my friend," Gustave replied. "They understand you."

She turned and regarded them with sparkling gray eyes and not a trace of embarrassment. "Is that so?
Tant pis pour toi!
"

Disentangling from Gustave, she settled on a large, red velvet seat which seemed to engulf her tiny form: white and black against the crimson throne. "I'd ask you to sit but you're already well settled in my things." Her eyes roved around the room. "My word, but I haven't been here in ages. Has this parlor always looked this poorly? Darling Gustave, you must remind me to take it up with that beastly old Belgian lady who looks after this place. Simply
horrid
!"

Gustave smiled with his shark eyes and motioned Carson and Peyton to stand. "May I introduce to you, Anastasia Walsingham de Paravell, Countess of–"

"Oh Gustave," she rasped in her deep, nicotine-roughened voice. "There's no need for such formalities, not with this crowd."

"Of course," he said, smiling placidly. "Lady Anastasia, may I introduce my associates Carson Varis and Peyton Riley?"

"You may," she said, eyes dancing. She held out her hand. Peyton shook it quickly, not wanting to prolong the feel of the old woman's papery skin and delicate bones. Carson stepped forward and, bending low, kissed Lady Anastasia's hand.

She roared with laughter. "My, my Gustave! How
amusing
!" Burbling and croaking with mirth, she groped around a side table for a small golden bell and rang it. A hidden side panel opened and a short be-aproned staffer entered, carrying a tray with a silver pot and goblet. The staffer was young and handsome—Peyton thought, height aside, that he looked like a goddamned runway model—and he was stoic as Lady Anastasia beckoned him forward. The goblet was placed in Lady Anastasia's hand, the staffer disappeared just as quickly as he arrived (Gustave's eyes on him the whole time), and the old lady drank deep, drowning her laughter. She emerged from behind the goblet, grimacing painfully, and impatiently waved at them all to sit.

"Oh, Ana," said Gustave disapprovingly.

"Oh hush yourself, Gustave!" she snapped. "A woman's got to surround herself with beauty, or what else am I rich for if I should stand for ugly servants?" She turned to Carson and frowned.  "I'm not a young girl anymore. You shouldn't make me laugh like that!"

"I-I-I'm sorry."

"Hmph," she sniffed, yet the corners of her thin mouth shifted slightly. "Associates
indeed
. What have you got up in those sleeves of yours?" She rummaged in her black leather pocketbook, pulled out a gold cigarette case and lit a stick of Gitanes.

Gustave tugged on his pristine cuffs and leaned back on a peach damask chair. "Quite simple, really, my old friend. We have come here to ask your help to thwart a certain undesirable event from occurring."

Lady Anastasia surveyed them with eyes as hard and gray and shining as pebbles in a streambed. "I find many things undesirable, Gustave, but does this pertain to–?"

"It does."

"Well." The word hung in the air as she stared at Carson and Peyton for many minutes. "I say, they certainly do not look that impressive. Good-looking, as the young go, but how do we know they know how to think?"

"You would be surprised. Peyton, come and tell Lady Anastasia what you told me."

Lady Anastasia's eyes narrowed slightly and exchanged the merest slip of a questioning glance with Gustave. "Go on then. One does not have all day."

Peyton steadied herself with a breath. "Lady Anastasia. As you know–"

"Do not assume, girl, what I know or do not know."

A burst of temper flared in her chest but she quelled it. Peyton could not shake off the feeling of being in the presence of a fairy tale witch. "I apologize. As I was saying. Gustave hired me and Carson to stop the sale of the
Vida Dolor
by the painter Tamsin Magraith."

Lady Anastasia sat imperiously in her red velvet throne, perfectly still but for the smoke curling from her cigarette.

"We believe it is in the possession of an art dealer named Anja Rubinstein, residing currently in Jordaan," said Carson, voice slightly hoarse from lack of use. "Based on our surveillance and the intelligence we've gathered, we are confident she intends to sell it to Anders Van Der Luyden, a–"

"I know who Van Der Luyden is."

Peyton nodded at Carson. "Our goal in this is to halt the sale of the painting, and it seems to me that the most efficient way of accomplishing that is discrediting the dealer."

The countess raised a thin gray eyebrow. "And how do you intend to do that?"

"By having her sell a fake painting."

"Indeed?" A mocking smile settled over her features. "That is all? Why Gustave, this girl is a genius!"

Peyton licked her lips. "It's really the most efficient way, Lady Anastasia. We pass on a fake painting for her to sell and convince her of a ready, high-profile buyer. The sale takes place, a scandal ensues. Credibility destroyed. She will not sell the Magraith, nor any other, soon."

Smoke billowed down the countess's nostrils like a particularly irate dragon. "I am beginning to realize exactly why you are all here in my parlor."

"There really was no other choice," said Gustave silkily, leaning over to pet Lady Anastasia's papery white hand.

"Somehow I find that hard to believe," she sniffed. "How much are we talking about?"

"It must be a sizeable figure to be believable," interjected Peyton.

Gustave named the price.

The Countess let out a high bark of a laugh. "Consider any possibility of disbelief gone."

Gustave sipped at his Scotch and smacked his lips. "The accounts are all set up. The sale money comes to me." He smiled wider than ever. "Come on, Ana, you've worked with me countless times before. This is a simple transaction. The sale goes through, it is wired to my account, in two weeks it goes back to you. Easy."

"Goes back to me with a 25 percent, mmm,
service compris
."

"Five percent."

"Twenty."

"Fifteen."

"Done," said the Countess, blowing a plume of smoke directly on Gustave's face. "After all, what should one do with loads of wealth but spend it on foolhardy endeavors?" She faced Peyton. "Now tell me, girl. What is it that you are called again?"

"Peyton."

"How do you propose to do this?"

"Carson will interface with Anja. He's the art man."

All eyes went to him. The Countess looked up and down his smart blue suit and tan Oxfords and the rumpled easiness of his curls.

"Quite the charmer. Very wise," said Lady Anastasia.

Carson tried a humble, wide-eyed tack. "Lady Anastasia, I did help you with an acquisition—a few years back—"

"Of course I remember, my dear boy, you kissed my hand then as well. So
amusing
."

Carson turned scarlet.

"Dear me, and he blushes like a maid too." Laughter danced in her pebble eyes as she turned to Gustave. "I've always admired your eye for this sort of thing, Gustave; I believe he'll do nicely." She puffed once again on her cigarette. "I don't do appearances though."

"Of course, Lady Anastasia, all done through wires and the magic of technology," said Gustave.

"Good. Then I believe this meeting is at an end. Talk to my boy and all that." She stood, brushed off her skirt and picked up her pocketbook. "I must be off. I do detest Brussels."

She proceeded to the double doors, Gustave, Peyton and Carson following her wake like obedient children. Suddenly, Lady Anastasia turned to Carson. "May I ask? This Anja character. What does she look like?"

Carson fished inside his breast pocket and pulled out her black and white picture.

Lady Anastasia donned a pair of black-framed spectacles and peered at the image of the beautiful blonde girl. Slowly her thin lips stretched into a predatory smile, and then she handed back the photograph to Carson with a flourish.

"
Cherchezz le femme
," she croaked, and then sailed off in a cloud of flowery old lady perfume.

Chapter 8

They wandered the city streets in the pale light of the late afternoon. Much as Lady Anastasia disparaged the city, Brussels was a gorgeous old European town. Or at least they were in the part of the city that still retained that Old World feel, with cobblestones and intricate architecture. Gustave was off entertaining Her Ladyship in some private dining hall or other, leaving them both to their own devices.

"So where do you think they are?" asked Peyton, slurring slightly. They had found a pretty little eatery inside a 19th century townhouse and proceeded to get well and thoroughly sloshed at the delicious red wines on offer, all on Gustave's tab.

"Probably back in that stuffy old room," sniffed Carson. He drew her arm and threaded it through his elbow.

She let him. "And what do you think they're doing?"

Carson smirked and shot her a smug look. "He has her spread on that red velvet throne, giving the Countess oral pleasure."

Peyton's shriek bounced off the tram that had just stopped in front of them. Passers-by gave her curious stares; she ducked her head and lightly punched Carson's arm as he pulled her away.

"What?" he laughed.

She pulled a face. "
Fuuuck
. Gross, but true: he probably is. If that servant of hers isn't."

"You liked him, did you?" He waggled his eyebrows at her.

"He was cute."

He clutched her hand against his heart. "That hurts, my darling. You should have eyes only for me."

"You're full of it." She stuck out her tongue at him. "I feel sorry for him though; cute as he is. You know the Countess has him doing weird sex shit."

"If anyone needs it…?"

"She seem pretty tense to you?" she deadpanned.

"Oh yeah."

"You'd know." They paused at an intersection to let a group of Japanese tourists pass. "Mr. Kiss Her Hand."

He laughed again. "You think she bought the Boy Ingenue routine?"

They crossed the street and slowed down as they neared the busy Chausee d'Ixelles crossing. "I don't think so," she wrinkled her nose. "But she tried to convince herself she did."

"Good-looking men tend to short-circuit women's good sense."

"You're telling me," she said drily. "So how'd you train yourself to blush on cue? If I could do that I'd probably have Van Der Luyden eating from the palm of my hand."

"Stick around me kid. I'll teach you tricks you didn't know you needed."

"I wouldn't trust anything you had up your sleeve."

He squeezed her hand against his body, but stayed silent as they crossed the street. She could feel the warmth of him even in the slight chill this late in the day, and hurried to keep pace. The wine still worked its magic on her—she felt flushed and warm despite the waning sun, or perhaps it was the gorgeous man on the other end of her arm.

"Where are you taking me again?"

"We're nearly there."

A couple of minutes later and they stood in front of an eggshell-colored square building. A six-foot-tall black coin stood in front of them, framing the building sign.

"A museum?" 

"You sound unimpressed."

"Museums aren't really my jam."

"Give it a chance," he said, tugging her by the hand and leading her in. He had a wide grin and his waves stuck up in different directions as they approached the ticket counter. She wanted to play spot-the-dimple and run her hands through his unruly hair at the same time.

"Two, please," he told the brown-haired girl behind the table.

She frowned —Peyton hadn't seen such a sour expression in quite some time. "The museum is closing in thirty minutes," she tutted in French.

"We'll be quick," he replied, turning on the high-voltage grin. Ticket girl looked a little less sour as she handed them their change.

"You shouldn't charm the pants off
everyone
," said Peyton.

"Jealous?"

Yes
. "You wish."

They made their way to the galleries, briskly walking past the last stragglers heading towards the exits, Carson's hand clamped around hers as he led the way.

"You know your way around, huh?" she said.

"Shh. I really want you to see this."

Up the stairs, past a few galleries, around the corner and through a white passageway, and they were in a room filled with turn-of-the century hand-illustrated posters. The smile on Carson's face was as wide as though it was his birthday, and he led Peyton from poster to poster, remarking on the artist, drawing her attention to a flourish here, a block of color there; the shape of a dancing woman's leg, the sinuous curve of a
demimondaine's
neck.

After a while he shut up, sat on the bench in the middle of the room and watched as she walked around, looking at the pictures—of midnight-dark cats with bewitching yellow stares, at cowboys with gigantic scarves, and ladies—so many ladies—dancing and laughing with expressions of glee or else clad in classical shifts and heaps of blossoms.

"What do you think?" he asked softly, after her second turn about the room.

"They're beautiful," she said. She stopped in front of the black cat. "Which one of these is your favorite?"

"That would be like asking me who among my kids is my favorite."

She shot him a dark, questioning look, which he returned with interest.

She studied the ceiling. "Do you have any? Kids, I mean."

It took him a while to answer, and Peyton held her breath.

Finally: "No."

"Are you telling the truth?"

"As much truth as is possible." He scooted over the bench and beckoned her beside him. "As much truth as I can tell you."

"So no kids." She settled beside him but kept her eyes trained on the walls. "Tell me something else that's true."

He sighed and she felt his shoulders shrug. After a few moments of silence, he spoke.

"I'd always wanted to be an artist. My father, he also…worked with art." Their eyes met and she caught a sweet grin on his face; she could guess how his father made his living. "You could say I got my appreciation from him."

"Ah."

"He was very skilled, my father; he mastered many techniques. He could do you a mid-Century cubist piece and whip out a Spanish medieval the next day." He looked at her again as his cheeks reddened. "Maybe I'm bragging."

"You think?"

"Anyway. He trained me very well. And then when I said I wanted to go to art school, he surprised me by saying yes. And I left home for college, determined to be A Real Artist."

His dark brows drew together and his tidal pool eyes darkened like the sea in a storm.

"You know why I like these posters so much? They're from the Belle Epoque. There was such respect for craft, such celebration of skill in–in everything, from the clothes that the courtesans, the demimondaines, wore, to the fantastic hats on their heads. There were monthly exhibitions and annual art fairs and people would argue, really have these impassioned debates, on the value of what artists created with their brushes and canvas. And when you went and opened a play or wanted to advertise something as mundane as soap, you could have these amazing, incredible artists doing your posters for, I don't know, a shot of absinthe and a couch to crash on. Toulouse-Lautrec, Cheret, Tissot—you could walk down the streets and see literal works of art plastered to the walls. Anyone could see it! Can you imagine? It was the age of beauty, and if you had the ability to catch that beauty and pin it down between paper and pen, well..."

There was real sadness in his face, a real ache in his voice, and when he looked she could almost see the scene in his mind, and in her head it was like the movie Moulin Rouge. It was not real, but it was Carson's own fairytale.

Everyone needed a fairytale, but not everyone understood that fairytales were never meant to come true.

"Of course, it's different now," he said, with a touch of bitterness. "I learned that the hard way. I went to school and I had all these skills, and you know what they told me? 'Paintings are passé.'  Passé! Would you call
Portrait of Madame X
passé?"

"Not that I know what that is but I'm…guessing…not?" smiled Peyton.

Carson turned from contemplating his past to look into her eyes. In a moment, the intensity passed; only to be replaced by a look of bitter resignation.

"My skills…they're not really essential. Save to help rich people make smart purchases. Today, if you wanted to be a celebrated artist...? You could encrust a human skull with diamonds, or obsessively gnaw on a giant block of lard, or sit silently across the table holding hands with someone until they cried or whatever. But paint something? When there's Photoshop? Why would anyone bother?" He sighed. "I was born too late."

She could not think of anything to say, so she ran her cold fingertip against his strong jaw and pulled her hand through the pleasant abundance of his messy curls. She leaned close to touch her lips to his and kiss the pain of that sigh away.

He closed his eyes at the touch of her mouth, and a soft moan escaped him as he kissed her back. He kissed softly and haltingly, his lips velvet, his tongue tentative. He kissed like he had all the time in the world to kiss her, and for her, time did stop.

Then his hand was threaded in her red tresses while the other found its way through the opening of her coat and stroked her waist and belly. His fingers crept to the hem of her blouse and dipped inside to trace patterns against the charged skin of her torso.

She gripped his jaw tight and pressed him against her, surrendering to the kiss, shutting her eyes tight against the room of beauty—her awareness alive only to the feel of his tongue dancing against hers, the heat of his mouth as his kisses grew more insistent, more needy, and the strong grip of his fingers on her waist and inching ever higher.

He tore his mouth away from her and pressed his forehead so that all she could see, her whole world, were his eyes: brown and translucent and speckled with green and gold, tidal pool-eyes. Who knew what spun in their depths? His hand caressed her curls as he murmured: "Crimson. Vermillion. Scarlet."

"Ginger," she whispered back.

He kissed her again, as deep as he could, and she sighed into his mouth as his hand dropped from her hair and traveled down her neck like a warm, fluttering leaf. It brushed against her chest and paused to cup each breasts, before his other hand tightened against her waist.

It was like an unspoken command, a connection between them that had been resurrected, and at the feel of his hand gripping her waist, she leaned back and placed one leg over the edge of the bench, straddling it.

He groaned as she pulled him back against her, her kisses turning into fire as she clenched her fists against his suit. He gave as much as she got, and the hand that had stopped to cup and caress her chest now traveled down and under her skirt.

His hand brushed against her inner thigh, his thumb pressing into the creamy flesh, traveling to her center. Then the hand jumped and caressed the other leg, and Peyton whimpered at the miss. Carson smiled against her mouth, and then his hand made its way back to her panties, brushing up and down the damp fabric.

Peyton sighed and leaned back, releasing her grip on him, giving him more space to work with, and his mouth left her lips to pay homage to the column of her neck. The hand against her waist pinned her in place, and between her legs his other hand crept inside her panties to stroke her aching wetness.

She shivered with pleasure, leaning against her palms, and shut her eyes tight—partly to focus on the pleasure he was drawing out of her, partly to turn away from the klaxons blaring in her mind. Something in her screamed YES at how his fingers entered her and teased her while another cried in dismay of letting him in again.

"Ehe-hem!" a loud cough sounded from the far end of the room. Peyton opened her eyes and found a very amused-looking security guard leaning against the entrance, watching them with a critical—if satisfied—eye.

"I'd hate to stop you," he said simply in heavily accented French. "But the museum is closed."

They hurriedly disentangled from each other, Peyton drawing the coat around her while Carson smoothed down his jacket and hair. He took her hand and marched past the guard, who watched their exit with the most avid leer. Out they walked, blissfully haughty expressions upon their faces and noses proudly (though admittedly red) thrust in the air, even as the sour ticket girl looked on eagerly at their exit.

Carson was grim as they made their way back across the city to their hotel room, silent save for the terse directions he'd given their taxi driver, eyes focused with burning intensity that Peyton did not understand. Throughout their silent journey he kept his hand entwined in hers, his grip tight, his thumb stroking the back of her hand urgently, like he was telling her something she had to understand, and understand now.

They pulled up into their hotel. The bellhop opened the door. Carson paid the driver and led her inside, her hand still in his. He remained silent in the elevator, staring unseeing at their distorted reflections in the gilded doors, while his hand continued to communicate something deep and elemental to hers.