The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin (13 page)

"I was at the Louvre yesterday afternoon," I said, as I set my purse in the old locker designated for employee items.  "And I think Mona Lisa told me the answer to your riddle."

"
La Joconde
can be sneaky like that.  An epiphany, eh?"

"I did some research on Leonardo for an author last year.  I recalled seeing the symbol, so I dug out my notes.  Sure enough, it matched.  Leonardo was into knotwork because of the pun on his surname. 
Vinco
translates as
osiers
.  Osiers is roundabout related to wicker, and the knotwork involved with that.  He had a period in the early 1500s where he sketched some folios featuring interlaced knotwork.  But really?  If this map is an original—do you know how valuable it would be?"

"Priceless."  Richard leaned over the map.  "I've put a call in to a private authenticator out of London.  He verifies the historical significance and origins of lost artworks.  He said without clear provenance that he’d need the map for at least a year.  I told him I couldn't part with it for so long."

"Richard.  But if it's real?  How will you ever know?  Why does he need it for so long?"

He shrugged.  "Who knows?  To take little pieces of it and test the age and ink and all that?  They use radiocarbon dating on the paper.  He also mentioned he’d have to send it to Switzerland for that.  I know it's real.”  He tapped his chest proudly.  “Isn't that all that matters?"

"Well."  Sure, if he wanted to hang the thing on his wall and be done with it.  But the map could be worth millions.  Or we could both be wrong, and it could be a copy done by one of Leonardo's students, or even a clever forgery.

"What would you do?" he posited.

"I'd have it tested."

"And then sell it if it was genuine?"

"Perhaps.  Maybe not.  I don't know.  The maps you sell in the store are gorgeous, and they have so many tales to tell.  Since taking the job here, I've begun collecting maps, but only those of Paris."

"Milan wouldn't be of interest to you."

"No, but a Leonardo da Vinci…"  I sighed and crossed my arms, joining Richard's side as we stared at the possible masterpiece.  "He did draw maps.  There's a picture of one he made of southern Tuscany in the book I have at home.  How could this have gotten lost and then suddenly resurfaced?  Where did you get it, Richard?"

"From an old Scottish family.  They'd inherited their great-grandfather's castle in Peterhead, and set to cleaning it to the bare walls so they could fix it up and sell it.  They found the rolled map in a storage room filled with dusty old prints and newspapers.  They hadn't any idea what they owned."

"But you did?"

He shrugged.  "I wasn't sure.  I thought I recognized the symbol, but I’m no expert on Leonardo da Vinci.  I've been doing my own research though.  Paid two thousand euros for this."

"Wow.  That's a steal.  If it's real."

"Indeed."

Out front someone knocked on the window.  I checked my wristwatch.  Five minutes after opening time.  "I'll get that.  And I'll spend the day considering ways to convince you to have it authenticated," I called as I walked into the front of the shop.

"You can certainly try!"

***

I'd walked home in the light rain, forgoing the Métro because the air smelled electric and fresh.  I loved skipping through the rain, and by the time I got home, I had to wrap my hair in a towel to leech out the wet.  I slipped on my robe, sans wet underthings.

The stereo had been playing Def Leppard since supper.  I’d enjoyed a savory leek and carrot soup that I'd made at the end of winter and had frozen in a few ziplock bags to serve later.  I could do the Martha Stewart thing when I wanted to.  But my domestic bone was rarely eager for exercise so I employed it with caution. 

Sipping a deep red wine, I strolled through the kitchen, putting away the silverware that had air-dried in the sink, and the single bowl and glass I'd used for supper.

Def Leppard's lead crooner asked me over and over, 'Have you ever needed someone so bad?'

I nodded.  "Why yes.  How did you know?"

It had been two days since I’d opened the bedroom curtains.  Surely Monsieur Sexy had gotten over my absence and was now firmly ensconced in a happy, touch-filled relationship with the buxom redhead.  Including sex.

Pressing my forehead to the fridge, I thudded it gently against the stainless steel.  I know.  I'd tried to stop angsting over this, and had been doing well until I glanced toward the living room window.  Seriously, could I avoid windows for the rest of my life?

I was being silly.  And really?  I could handle this.  I am a grown woman.  I'd had a fun fling.  I would move on.  First item on tomorrow morning’s list?  Shop for window blinds.  Maybe something in black?

I didn't necessarily want to move on, though.  Which is why I strode into the bedroom and over to the window.  It was around nine in the evening and I could see the glow of his bedroom light through the sheers.  I just…had to look at him one last time.  To stare into his eyes and…know.

I pulled aside the curtain and stood there, drawing in a breath through my nose.  Setting the wine glass on the night stand, I pressed my palms to the window and closed my eyes, concentrating on the coolness of glass marrying to skin.  Even though it had hit the eighties today—unusual for Paris in autumn—the glass still felt cool.  How quickly the shadows erased the muggy heat.

I wished they could erase what I had seen across the street two days earlier.

Opening my eyes, I observed.  He sat on the bed, legs extended and back against a folded pillow, reading another computer textbook.  The laptop sat open near his thigh.  Those black, thick-rimmed glasses were so sexy.  The man must do some kind of computer geek work.  The appeal of a smart man ranked alongside chocolate and Louboutins.

I sighed.

When he finally noticed me, he jumped off the bed.  Putting up both palms in a 'wait' gesture, he dashed to the nightstand for the notebook.

I sucked in another inhale, preparing myself.  This was it.  The big kiss-off.

Glasses tossed aside, he slammed the notebook to the glass.  I didn't fuck her.

Or maybe it wasn't a kiss-off.  He waited for me to meet his gaze, and so, I did.  He shook his head fervently. 

He flipped the page.  Words had already been written. 
She's a student.  I teach fencing part-time
.

My shoulders relaxed.  Heat coiled in my belly.  For a moment I'd suspected he was a teacher.  And then I'd started to think.  Too much.  Why had I let that first intuition slip away and become less important than imagining the worst, like him fucking her?

Crazy flirt
, was the next message.  He tapped his chest and shook his head. 
Not interested in her
.

I chewed the corner of my lip.  I'd moped for two days, only to find out that I'd let my imagination carry me away again.  So foolish. 

He flipped another page.  Apparently he'd written this in preparation for when he might next see me.  Had he waited both nights for me to show at the window? 

I am an idiot
.

I'm interested in you
, I mouthed the next message.

I nodded and pointed from me to him to indicate agreement.

He flipped another page. 
We have something…

Page flip. 
Fun
.

Flip. 
Intriguing
.

A little odd
.

Crazysexy
.

He flipped another page. 
Amazing
.

I caught my palms against the glass again.  My eyes strained to fight tears.  Heartbeats thundered.  I didn't know what to say.  It didn't matter what I said; he wouldn't hear it.  A teardrop spilled down my cheek.  I tasted salt at the corner of my mouth.

He turned the page, and this time picked up the sharpie and wrote.  I swallowed, and swiped away another tear while his attention was on the paper.

I'm sorry
.

I shook my head side to side.  "No, I'm sorry."

I dashed to the nightstand to grab my notebook and wrote swiftly, then turned it to him to read,
No reason 4 U to B sorry.  I was foolish
.

He shrugged sheepishly.  Writing, he then turned it to reveal:
Panties
.

"Well, yes," I said.

He paged back. 
Crazy flirt
.  Then he underlined the word crazy.

I nodded, and let a smile overtake me.  It gushed a wave of relief through my body that loosened my tightened neck muscles and spit out a few more tears.  I'd almost lost him in my worried file drawer.  But his corner was still bent. 

He wrote again.  This time I hesitantly took a step back after reading what he'd written:
Will we ever go beyond the glass?

Yes, I immediately thought. 

And then I vacillated, bouncing between all the problems that face-to-face could bring.  We'd have to talk to one another and maybe I wouldn't like the sound of his voice.  Or worse, maybe I wouldn't like him up close.  He might smell wrong.  Or his voice could be grating.  Or maybe he'd be boring.  Hell, what if he was married?

No.  Don't go there.  I hadn't seen a wife.  Wasn't so easy to hide a wife, either.  He was not married.

Up close, I could learn so much about him.  Surely he had nasty habits and quirks, and—  Oh, stop it!

Obviously I was a great pessimistic imaginer, and could create problems that didn't exist.  Look what had happened because I'd allowed my imagination to construct an affair?

He wanted to know if we could move to a level most normal people hit on their first date. 

I rubbed a palm up and down my arm.  The room was not cold, humid, in fact.  I shrugged.

He nodded, and wrote. 
2 soon.  I'm good with slow
.

He was?  That felt incredible to know.  And it also felt binding.  Like we were sealing some kind of deal between the two of us.  I know, I'd just convinced myself that I didn't need a relationship.  But what we had was a new definition of relationship.  And I wanted to see where it would go.  Slowly, and then, eventually—perhaps even soon—I'd feel comfortable with that next step up to normal.

I picked up the notebook and wrote.  I pressed the paper against the glass. 
So you teach?

He nodded.  Made a motion of
en guarde
, stabbing his opponent with an invisible sword.  Then he held up three fingers.  I assumed to mean three days a week. 

Oh, my musketeer.  How I adored him.

He grabbed the book from the bed and held that to the glass.  I had no idea what PHP meant, only that it was some kind of computer stuff.

He wrote on the paper: 
Day job.  Work online.  Consulting
.

In but a few words and gestures I'd learned so much about him.  Things I had mostly guessed at, but now they'd been confirmed.  A step across the threshold.  A kind of welcome into his life. A semi-commitment.

He pointed to me and said, "You?"

We were upping the stakes.  Moving beyond anonymity by doling out personal information.  I teetered on the edge of slamming the curtains shut, and wanting to rush outside, run across the street and up the stairs to knock on his door. 

Slow, I reminded.  I felt as if I could trust him.  And he had offered a genuine apology for a silly misunderstanding that I had blown way out of proportion.  More and more, the serious like I had for him was settling into my pores and fixing in my bones.

I nodded, and wrote on the paper:
Research assistant
.

Then I quickly wrote:
Enough chatter
.

He lifted a questioning brow. 

I tossed aside the notebook and let the silk robe slink from my arms to puddle about my bare feet.

His grin was the loudest yes I'd heard in days.

***

Monsieur Sexy sat on the bed, naked, his cock in hand.  If I thought about it too much—and you know I like to think—men liked to handle the main stick.  Must give them comfort.  And a hard-on. 

He gestured that I sit in the chair, and I was happy to oblige, but once seated, I felt as if we'd done this one before.  I needed to mix things up.  Couldn't have this window relationship grow stale.  I mean, wasn't variety the key to a healthy relationship?

I was not going to analyze whether or not I should have used the word healthy in that last sentence.  It was what was working at this moment, and that was perfectly fine with me.  And him.

Tapping my bottom lip, I made show of looking upward while I gave the notion of variety some thought.  I wasn't much of an actress, so I wondered how he always understood my gestures and actions.  Maybe I had a stage career ahead of me, after all.