Page 8 of The Devil Wears Orange
“Don’t turn around,” a voice tells me.
“MonsieurNorbette?” I say though I don’t recognize the accented voice. I’ve spent enough time in Paris to understand the Frenchman’s penchant for lots of PDA, and sometimes I forget I’m not in Kansas anymore. French men express their interest straight away with none of the Western slog of casual dating, of late-night conversations with girlfriends wondering “is he into me?” And right now, I’m thinkingMonsieurNorbette is most definitely into me, but there’s boundaries and consent,Monsieur. I tilt my head and, in a sidelong glance, catch snippets of a waiter’s fencing uniform.
“Lovely,” he says.
“Thank you.” I feel a rush of heat. It’s sad, really, that one compliment from a stranger makes me flush.
“Look at how she smiles slightly at her lover.”
I turn to the painting.
“The woman is Lady of Sheffield, a Lady in Waiting to Catherine of Aragon,” he says.
“Yes, I read something about her in a brochure. All very interesting.” The small talk is flimsy, my mind preoccupied with the waiter who stands so close that I can smell his minty breath on the nape of my neck.
“Her beauty so transfixed the King that he had to have her. As a gift from a Chancellor, the great painter Mario Foligari was commissioned to paint her portrait. It was during these times spent alone that the painter and muse fell in love. So deep and dangerous was their love that they kept it hidden; otherwise, word would travel back to the jealous King and–”
“–And the King would have him killed.” I join in.
The stranger enraptures me with his story. “Foligari knew every detail of her body, so he began to paint by memory, creating shades of red to capture the texture of her dress.” He runs his hand gently up the side of my raincoat. “A new shade of white to capture the fine porcelain skin of her neck.”
His smooth fingers caress my neck, and a tingle runs down my back. I lean into him. This sizzling chemistry with a stranger confounds me, but this is Paris, and, according to Harriet, hot sex with a stranger is mandatory.
“And a new shade of coral for her lips.” He works his fingers along my jawbone.
A heavy breath escapes me. “Please tell me they ran away together.”
“Foligari secretly planned their escape to Italy, where they would be free from the King’s reach and that of the court’s. But on that fateful night, Lady Sheffield was betrayed by her father, who wanted to see his daughter please the King and, in turn, bring favor to himself.”
“He’d do so well in Hollywood,” I quip. I reach out my hand until I brush against his fingers.
“Out of jealousy, the King dispatched his horsemen and, in a rage, it is said that he had the painting of his Lady destroyed.Thankfully, this proved false. Centuries later, the painting was found in the cellar of a home in Leeds where Catherine of Aragon was once exiled.”
“And the lovers?”
“It wasn’t their fate to be together. Having lost his muse, Foligari never painted again.”
It’s been months since a man stood that close to me, his hand pressed against the small of my back. Perhaps it’s his accent or his close proximity, but whatever the reason, I’m turned on and want him in my hotel suite right now. Should I ask him to wear the uniform to bed? What am I thinking! Damn the accent. Damn the cologne. I must be ovulating.
“And what of Lady Sheffield?”
“She remained with the King until he tired of her.”
“That’s not a happy ending,” I gripe. It is only then that the significance of the painting dawns on me. Lady Sheffield wasn’t looking at her lover, but at the ghost of him, for she knew one day, she would lose him.
The stranger tilts his head towards me and whispers into my ear. “Do you see your friend out there?”
Jarred by the change in topic, I whip my head in the direction he’s gesturing to see Anne through the opening I created earlier. I want more of the sexy whatever-is-happening-between-us, and talking about Anne is an arousal kill. How would he like it if I brought up his mother?
“She has a lovely little boy, Chase. It would be a shame if something were to happen.”
“I don’t understand.” I attempt to look at the face of the man, but he pushes my head forward.
“Keep your eyes on your friend. Now, do you seemyfriend?”
As he says this, a short man of medium build and wearing a baseball hat walks up to Anne. My mind races, heart thumping.
“Right now, he is telling her that unless her friend, Ms. Milton, obeys every instruction she is given, her life is in grave danger.”
