Page 70 of The Paris Trip

‘My mother… She’s…’ Maeve gave an exasperated gasp. ‘Oh, this is ridiculous.’ She leant sideways and put her mouth to his ear, whispering, ‘I think she’s a spy.’

The warmth of her breath so close to his ear made him shiver. He was aware of a wave of urgent desire. Only what she had said stopped him from turning and kissing her mouth.

‘What?’

‘I know it sounds crazy. And she wasn’t really that clear about it. She didn’t say that in so many words… But I understood what she meant. That is, she told me she works for the French government. But can’t talk about it.’ She was still close, speaking in a whisper, and he sat very still, breathing in the subtle scent of her perfume. ‘It’s all very complicated and hard to grasp. But she suggested that might be why I’ve had so much trouble at the British Embassy since losing my passport. Because of my connection to her.’

He frowned. ‘Mon Dieu.’

‘Apparently, she’s going to try and sort it out for me. I hope she can, but…’ She shook her head. ‘Oh, I don’t know what to think.’

He quirked a brow. ‘You’re not alone in that.’ He considered what she’d said, then asked delicately, ‘And did she explain why she left England while you were still so young? And never got back in touch?’

‘She said the French government had demanded her return. That she had no choice if she didn’t want to fall foul of her bosses. So she asked my dad to live with her in Paris instead. Only he refused point-blank and said he’d fight for custody if she took me away.’ Her voice wobbled. ‘She claims Dad was worried it would be too dangerous for me, growing up with a mother like that… And that he was the one who told her not to keep in touch.’ She bit her lip. ‘Dad was probably right to try and protect me from all that. It does sound like a precarious existence. But knowing that doesn’t make any of this easier to bear.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

Maeve merely bowed her head, saying nothing more.

‘What can I do to help?’ he asked after a moment’s silence, warring with the desire to take her in his arms. He knew she was unlikely to welcome that kind of attention, and besides, they were in a taxi, and everything just felt wrong. But he knew this thing he felt for her was more than just a passing attraction to a girl he wanted to paint. It wasn’t like his relationship with Liselle, which had been tortured and yet oddly compulsive at the start, until it had finally burnt itself out some years ago. This was on a completely different level and he didn’t know what to make of it.

Deep-down, he was a little unnerved by his growing interest in Maeve. If he was honest with himself, and he did prefer to be honest with himself, this feeling had him poised to run away. Yet something was stopping him from doing precisely that. In fact, everything seemed to be tugging him further towards her…

‘Nothing,’ she said simply, but there was a desolate look on her face. ‘I met my mother at last. And my grandmother. It should be the happiest day of my life. And yet I feel like everything is falling apart. Be careful what you wish for, they say.’ She gave a crack of laughter. ‘Well, I wished for this. So that serves me right.’

‘I want to paint you again,’ he said on impulse, and saw her head turn towards him in amazement. Remorse swept through him. ‘Sorry… Feel free to say no. Bad timing. I’m just being selfish.’

But she shook her head. ‘No, it’s okay,’ she said. ‘Actually, I’d like that. I expected to be bored, modelling for you. But there’s something strangely calming about sitting still for hours. Your mind drifts away, and yet everything feels so centred.’ She looked out of the window again, blinking, a curious half-smile on her lips that had him transfixed. Her Mona Lisa smile… ‘That probably makes me sound a bit odd.’

But he understood perfectly, dismissing her suggestion with a gesture. ‘As soon as we get back to the château,’ he promised her, ‘we’ll grab something to eat and then go up to the studio. A longer session this time.’ His gaze caressed her, already imagining her in that small space, posing for him, the brush gliding silkily across the canvas. ‘Maybe you could wear something a little more revealing this time…’ Again he realised how that sounded, and cleared his throat, straightening up. ‘Unless that would make you feel uncomfortable?’ he asked in a more professional tone.

She had knitted her hands together in her lap, and now sat still, staring fixedly down at them. ‘No,’ she said slowly, ‘something more revealing would be fine. If you think that’s necessary?’

Heat rose inside him and he struggled to suppress it. ‘Oh, quite necessary,’ he agreed, his voice unsteady.

‘But not nude?’ she queried, still not looking at him.

His brain spun.

Now he was on fire. Or one part of him was, at any rate.

Oh, for a fire extinguisher, he thought wildly.

‘Nude?’ He gulped at the thought of her in his studio without a stitch on her nicely rounded body, and then swallowed hard, carefully not looking at her either. The back of the driver’s head was suddenly fascinating to him. ‘Erm, no… Not this time. That won’t be… necessary.’

‘I see.’

Thankfully, the driver slewed to a halt near the château a moment later and he was able to focus on payment while she climbed out.

What on earth was wrong with him? He was behaving like a schoolboy with his first crush. He had painted beautiful women many times before, both clothed and in the nude, and thought nothing much of it, except to acknowledge the glory of the sitter. And, when it had been Liselle sitting nude for him, in the first flush of their toxic relationship, to take her to bed afterwards…

But this was Miss Maeve Eden, a sensible and well-behaved Englishwoman.

No, feeling anything beyond friendship for this woman was out of the question.

Nothing was ever simple, he found himself thinking shortly after their return to the château. Grabbing snacks for himself and Maeve in the kitchen, keen to get back to work, he had found Bernadette fuming and silent, bending over something bubbling on the stovetop, and got his head snapped off for asking what was wrong.

‘As if you don’t know,’ his sister snarled.

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