Page 58 of The Paris Trip

Perhaps it was just as well.

The Rémy family was wildly complicated, and their troubles were none of her business.

My son used to paint only nudes.

Artists ought to come with a warning label, Maeve considered. ‘Fascinating but dangerous.’ To her peace of mind, at any rate.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

‘I still can’t believe you did that,’ Maeve said in a discreet hiss, then pursed her lips, her head tilted at a disapproving angle as she studied the vast, gilt-framed painting on the wall before them. ‘He’s your father. It was… Well, it was rude.’ She glanced at Leo sideways. ‘And forcing me to come with you today… That was rude too.’

Leo ran a frustrated hand through his hair, but turned on his heel, studying the framed paintings on the other side of the gallery.

They were at the Louvre, meandering slowly and without purpose through the vast network of art galleries. He had escaped the Château at the earliest possible opportunity that morning, after a horrifying evening spent dining with his father and Chanelle, making small talk to honour his grandmother’s wishes, rather than exploding at his father’s reappearance in their lives after all these years.

Not to have even attended his own son’s funeral… Nonna had said wisely at one point, it did no good to rake over the cold ashes of the past. But he had so many questions, and so much fury still boiling inside, it was hard to keep it all bottled up.

And now his father was back, in Paris, with a new bride who was almost the same age as Bernadette.

Why?

It had to be about money. What else could it be?

Sébastien must be hoping somehow to persuade him into parting with some cash or position within the family business. But he wouldn’t do it. It would be going against his grandfather’s wishes.

Besides, he knew his father would either quickly squander the money or make a mess of whatever job he was given.

‘If I was rude, I had good reason for it,’ he responded, more curtly than intended. ‘You don’t know the whole story. There’s a difficult history between me and my father. But I’m sorry if you had other plans for this morning. I thought you enjoyed looking at art. I certainly didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.’

‘I do enjoy looking at art. But you could try simply telling me the whole story.’

‘I brought you here to look at art, not talk about my father. Besides, we’re short on time,’ he said practically. ‘A quick look around the Louvre, then a river trip for lunch. We’re due to meet my grandmother and Nonna at a café on the left bank at two o’clock, and we’ll walk together to your grandmother’s apartment, which isn’t far. So there’s not much time for lengthy explanations.’

It was a pathetic excuse and he knew it. But the past was so painful, he couldn’t bring himself to discuss it. Not when his father had just turned up out of the blue and his wounds were still smarting and raw.

‘Maybe we could talk over lunch on the river?’ Maeve suggested.

He almost ground his teeth. He had brought her to the Louvre because art soothed him. Plus, coming here on his own would have drawn too much attention, not just from the paparazzi but his own family. He didn’t want people saying he was upset by his father’s arrival, even though he was. He might be an artist, but he’d outgrown the dramatic tendencies of his youth, increasingly now a private person.

In particular, he hated people poring over his every reaction and trying to second-guess what he was thinking and feeling.

This way, he could study the paintings and lose himself in the art, and nobody would question it, for he was here to introduce Maeve to the greatest treasures Paris had to show. Though she’d already admitted to having been here before, which rendered this visit almost obsolete.

‘If you insist,’ he said testily, not sure why he was agreeing to share intimate family details with a stranger, except that she had an excellent way of getting under his skin. ‘First though, you asked me to teach you something about art. So let’s look at the old Masters. Here, for instance,’ he said, pointing up at the nearest painting, ‘what you think of that?’

‘Erm… a woman with her boobs out, surrounded by men with guns?’ Maeve pulled a face. ‘Yes, I know it’s a famous painting. Delacroix’s Liberty Leading the People. But honestly, why do men always feel this ridiculous urge to paint women topless? You’re not going to tell me it’s necessary.’ She indicated the rest of the revolutionaries. ‘None of those men are topless, are they? Only the woman.’

Leo suppressed a burst of wild laughter. It really wasn’t funny. Delacroix had painted the goddess or personification of Liberty topless to indicate her uncompromising, revolutionary spirit, not simply to titillate the viewer. Or had he?

But she had a way of making him smile, this fussy, eccentric Englishwoman. And not merely smile but think. Yes, she challenged his way of seeing the world. And not just the world, but her too.

With a shock, Leo realised he was looking at her in a way he’d never looked at any other woman. He didn’t know exactly what he meant by that. Perhaps that when he looked at her, he saw more than a face and body, or a female mind with ulterior motives behind it, or the person he had to deal with in a business situation, or any of that.

With her, he saw the whole package. He saw Maeve Eden. Whole and complete. Fully rounded, as it were, with nothing missing.

Except how it would feel to hold her close and make love to her. To merge and become one with Maeve. And that was something he wanted. Not just for sexual satisfaction, but to experience her. To discover who Maeve was behind the neat bob and pursed lips and occasionally frivolous replies.

The epiphany of such an unfamiliar longing struck him dumb, and he stood staring at her, his mouth slightly open.

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