long and slow on her lips, his finger now sliding between the
elastic of her panties and her super-sensitive skin.
She gasped. “Alessandro! Someone might come
in.”
“No, they won’t. It would be more than their
life or their job is worth. But we can go to the bedroom if you
like. I’ll take off your clothes one by one and make love to you
under the brilliant sun of the Alps.”
She shook her head. “No. I’ll stay here if
you don’t—”
“That’s fine with me.” With one swift
movement he yanked down her panties. “Don’t move an inch. I promise
not to rumple your beautiful new clothes.” He flicked back her seat
and she landed on her back on the cushions with a yelp, that turned
into a sigh, that turned into a small cry of ecstasy that was
drowned by the thrum of the jet as it flew high across Europe.
She took a deep breath and smoothed down her
jacket and skirt.
He dropped a kiss on her head as she bobbed
down to enter the limo. “You see, not a wrinkle.”
“You’re an expert at this, obviously.”
“Everyone has their talents, cara, what can I
say?”
“Nothing. Actions speak louder than
words.”
He took her hand and squeezed it in a
demonstration of affection and warmth that thrilled her. There was
something in the familiarity of the gesture that made her very
happy. She looked out the window at Paris: soft, grey, drizzly and
impossibly beautiful. She’d been there only once before and had
loved it instantly.
“First stop, the hotel bedroom.” His whisper
tickled her ear. He turned to instruct the driver but Emily put a
hand on his arm and pressed the intercom instead.
“Musee d’Orsay.” She turned to Alessandro.
“Please. It’s years since I’ve been.”
He sighed. “You’ll simply have to make up for
lost time later Miss M.” He turned to the driver. “Musee
d’Orsay.”
Emily knew exactly where she wanted to go.
She drew Alessandro on, beyond the immaculate sculptures, beyond
the huge scale of Monet’s paintings and the blistering impact of
the Picassos, to a dimly lit corner of the museum.
There she stopped and felt the atmosphere
take her back, back to her early days of convalescence when she’d
come here and first seen the Lautrecs.
Would it be here? Her favourite picture, the
one that spoke to her the most. It wasn’t always on display. But
today?
“Ah. So it’s Toulouse Lautrec who has
captured your heart.”
“Everything is wonderful in here but there’s
something about these that get to me.” She stood in front of the
painting for which she’d been searching. “Look.” She must have
conveyed something of the awe she felt because he didn’t look at
the painting first, but at her. Then he turned to the painting.
“The colors are extraordinary.”
“Greys, mauves, pale golds and then there’s
her red hair. Apparently he liked redheads best. And it’s, well,
just ordinary. An ordinary scene—La Toilette—but made
extraordinary. He’s not doing the ‘I’m a great artist and painting
this masterpiece’ thing. He’s there, in it, like he is that
woman, he feels for her so.” She stepped away from the picture as
she felt her emotions beginning to run away with her. “I don’t
know. Silly really.”
“Not silly at all.” He pulled her close to
him, his arm tight around her as they both stood in front of the
painting.
“It’s there, in everything, even in the
hatching of the crayons or oils or whatever he used. It’s an
empathy with the subject. He’s not trying to own it, do something
to it, just to reveal it. Don’t look at me like that. I don’t know
anything about paintings. Just,” her hand hovered, “it’s so moving.
And he’s not even showing her face.”
“No, he has no need. Her bare back shows
everything—a slight tension in the shoulders coming down to a
sensuously soft middle and her skin, creamy yellow, is
beautiful.”
“Flawless.” She pulled her light coat around
her, tying the belt more
elastic of her panties and her super-sensitive skin.
She gasped. “Alessandro! Someone might come
in.”
“No, they won’t. It would be more than their
life or their job is worth. But we can go to the bedroom if you
like. I’ll take off your clothes one by one and make love to you
under the brilliant sun of the Alps.”
She shook her head. “No. I’ll stay here if
you don’t—”
“That’s fine with me.” With one swift
movement he yanked down her panties. “Don’t move an inch. I promise
not to rumple your beautiful new clothes.” He flicked back her seat
and she landed on her back on the cushions with a yelp, that turned
into a sigh, that turned into a small cry of ecstasy that was
drowned by the thrum of the jet as it flew high across Europe.
She took a deep breath and smoothed down her
jacket and skirt.
He dropped a kiss on her head as she bobbed
down to enter the limo. “You see, not a wrinkle.”
“You’re an expert at this, obviously.”
“Everyone has their talents, cara, what can I
say?”
“Nothing. Actions speak louder than
words.”
He took her hand and squeezed it in a
demonstration of affection and warmth that thrilled her. There was
something in the familiarity of the gesture that made her very
happy. She looked out the window at Paris: soft, grey, drizzly and
impossibly beautiful. She’d been there only once before and had
loved it instantly.
“First stop, the hotel bedroom.” His whisper
tickled her ear. He turned to instruct the driver but Emily put a
hand on his arm and pressed the intercom instead.
“Musee d’Orsay.” She turned to Alessandro.
“Please. It’s years since I’ve been.”
He sighed. “You’ll simply have to make up for
lost time later Miss M.” He turned to the driver. “Musee
d’Orsay.”
Emily knew exactly where she wanted to go.
She drew Alessandro on, beyond the immaculate sculptures, beyond
the huge scale of Monet’s paintings and the blistering impact of
the Picassos, to a dimly lit corner of the museum.
There she stopped and felt the atmosphere
take her back, back to her early days of convalescence when she’d
come here and first seen the Lautrecs.
Would it be here? Her favourite picture, the
one that spoke to her the most. It wasn’t always on display. But
today?
“Ah. So it’s Toulouse Lautrec who has
captured your heart.”
“Everything is wonderful in here but there’s
something about these that get to me.” She stood in front of the
painting for which she’d been searching. “Look.” She must have
conveyed something of the awe she felt because he didn’t look at
the painting first, but at her. Then he turned to the painting.
“The colors are extraordinary.”
“Greys, mauves, pale golds and then there’s
her red hair. Apparently he liked redheads best. And it’s, well,
just ordinary. An ordinary scene—La Toilette—but made
extraordinary. He’s not doing the ‘I’m a great artist and painting
this masterpiece’ thing. He’s there, in it, like he is that
woman, he feels for her so.” She stepped away from the picture as
she felt her emotions beginning to run away with her. “I don’t
know. Silly really.”
“Not silly at all.” He pulled her close to
him, his arm tight around her as they both stood in front of the
painting.
“It’s there, in everything, even in the
hatching of the crayons or oils or whatever he used. It’s an
empathy with the subject. He’s not trying to own it, do something
to it, just to reveal it. Don’t look at me like that. I don’t know
anything about paintings. Just,” her hand hovered, “it’s so moving.
And he’s not even showing her face.”
“No, he has no need. Her bare back shows
everything—a slight tension in the shoulders coming down to a
sensuously soft middle and her skin, creamy yellow, is
beautiful.”
“Flawless.” She pulled her light coat around
her, tying the belt more
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