Page 27 of The Paris Trip

‘Put that back on,’ he rapped out, averting his gaze. ‘I told you, I’m not interested.’

She came towards him, smiling sweetly, her eyes shining with mischief and excitement.

‘But Leo, look at me… No, look at my body. Not my face. Don’t you want to paint this?’ Her voice dropped, low and husky. ‘Don’t you desire this?’

‘Now you’re just embarrassing yourself,’ he said coldly, knowing the words were cruel but needing to shock her out of this madness. ‘And me.’

Her confidence faltered at last. The big eyes searched his face and her smile became fixed. ‘You… You don’t mean that, my darling.’

‘Oh, don’t I?’ Leo bent to retrieve her dressing gown and was just straightening, the green silk bunched in his fist, when he caught a blur of movement out of the corner of his eye, and staggered backwards, arm raised to shield himself. Liselle had launched herself at him, fingers stretched wide, swiping at his cheek as though hoping to shred his skin with her painted talons.

He grabbed for her wrists but missed, and they tumbled together onto the floor, mere inches from his fallen canvas.

‘Dammit, Liselle,’ he growled, lying on his back and struggling to hold her at bay, her dressing gown somehow tangled between their bodies. She was almost demented, her bare breasts bouncing in his face, strong thighs gripping his middle…

A sudden noise alerted him to the horrifying realisation that they were not alone anymore.

A voice exclaimed in English, and he stared over Liselle’s shoulder at the door to the studio, which had creaked open.

Maeve stood frozen on the threshold, dressed in another of Bernadette’s shapeless garments. Her face was blank with shock, her gaze fixed on the two of them wrestling on the floor – and Liselle’s nudity.

He swore under his breath.

Turning her head, Liselle gave a wild burst of laughter. ‘Oh dear,’ she said in English, her tone mocking. ‘Oh dear, oh dear. Poor Maeve.’

Maeve did not even seem to have heard her. Her gaze was fixed on his face. He saw vulnerability there, and hurt accusation. A shudder seemed to run through her. Then she turned and fled.

‘Get off me, Liselle, for God’s sake,’ he snapped and lifted her off him while she was still cackling. This time Liselle didn’t resist but lay on her back on the studio floor, limp with laughter, while he scrambled back to his feet.

‘Here.’ Leo chucked at the silk dressing gown over her. ‘Cover yourself up and get back to bed. We can talk about this later.’

Without waiting for a response, he strode after Maeve.

She was nowhere to be seen. He stood a moment in indecision, unsure whether he should chase her back to her bedroom, or whether that would make matters worse.

In his mind’s eye, he was replaying what had just happened… Liselle pitching herself at him, stark naked and vicious as a polecat, his struggles to dislodge her as gently as he could, and Maeve’s horrified expression as she opened the door.

He ran a furious hand through his hair, wishing he felt fresher and hadn’t spent all night slaving pointlessly over that ruined canvas…

Maybe then he might have spotted earlier what Liselle intended when she turned up at the studio door at such an early hour. Because he saw now that the whole thing had been engineered by his former lover, an incident designed to embarrass and warn off Maeve before she could sit for him. Liselle had known when Maeve was due to arrive at the studio, after all. She’d always been on the cold and calculating side, but this was extreme even by her depraved standards.

By contrast, Maeve was an innocent, not part of the unholy circus that revolved around their artistic community, especially in certain areas of Paris. That lack of sophistication was precisely what had transfixed him and made his growing urge to paint her irresistible, despite not having put paint to canvas in years…

He took a few determined steps towards the stairs leading up to the attic rooms, and then forced himself to stop. Perhaps this was not the best moment to talk to Maeve about what she’d seen. Besides, he felt odd and off-balance. And not just through lost sleep.

What was this sinking feeling, so heavy in the pit of his stomach?

Shame.

His breath caught in his throat. Was he… Could he be ashamed of himself?

The realisation struck him like a blow and he turned on his heel, swearing ferociously as he headed to his own bedroom instead, deciding to sleep it off.

What the hell? He’d never felt like this before. Shame simply wasn’t in his range of emotions. And it hadn’t even been his fault, but Liselle’s.

Though if you had cut Liselle loose years ago, it wouldn’t have happened.

That sharp little voice in his head left him angry with himself. Because it was true. He could have insisted that Liselle return to the South of France and never see him again. But she’d proved too useful as a manager, always there by his side, always devoted to his cause, and if she had sometimes read more into his approving smiles than was really there, he had ignored those danger signs and let the situation slide.

---