Deceived - Part 2 Paris (7 page)

“Chloe, I feel badly about your blouse. Please, allow me to buy you a new one. I know just the place to get it.” Francisco continued, “Ryan, would you mind if I steal Chloe for a couple of hours this afternoon?” He leaned one elbow on the table, stroking his lower lip with his fingers, as his green eyes burned holes in me and said, “A man must make right, what he’s done wrong.”

Ryan threw his napkin on the table, like he was throwing in the towel. “Yes, that’s okay. I have a meeting anyway in about half an hour. Go ahead Cinderella, go to the ball,” he said sarcastically, but still managed to smile.

“Thanks Ryan, you’re a doll,” I smiled back, giving him a little peck on the cheek. “See you at the gallery later.”

If our eyes are the windows to our soul, then I had just spent the entire lunch, window shopping in Francisco's eyes. After scrutinizing him from head to toe, I discerned that his sex appeal was quite different from the hot guy on the plane. Jesse was gorgeous, but Francisco had him trumped with his panty-dropping foreign accent. When he spoke, he gave even the most mundane words, like “hello” and “Chloe” a sensual appeal, melodiously stretching each syllable until he practically sang my name. It sent chills riveting through my body and when the words were attached to those aqua green eyes, it was nothing short of spellbinding.

Francisco graciously escorted me out and we parted ways with Ryan to go in search of one of the many chic boutiques found in this section of the city, where one could find the perfect mix of bohemian and upscale, just right for shopping and cafe hopping. Along St. Germain Boulevard there were copious amounts of boutiques to pick from, including such standouts as Louis Vuitton, Ralph Lauren and Sonia Rykiel. Even the side streets like Rue de Four and Rue des Sts-Peres held flagship boutiques for Paris-based labels. The choices were overwhelming, but he finally decided to take me to Le Bon Marche, the quintessential Parisian department store to shop the couture collections.

Francisco was a true artist at heart, appreciating all things that involved the use of color, texture and form in the fashion world, as well as in his own world of paints and canvas. His passion and appreciation for any art form was a pleasure to watch, as I tried on blouses for his approval.  

After taking a couple selections with me into the dressing room, I paraded out in a soft white blouse with a flouncy ruffled edge. It fit my shape perfectly and complemented the curves of my breasts, where the neckline scooped low in the front.

“Ah, hermosa mujer. Beautiful!” He smiled extending his arm in emphasis with an upturned palm. “You are the picture of beauty. You fit in splendidly in this city of lights, as a beautiful diamond, shining brightly among all the classics of the past.”

Once again, as he spoke, the blood flushed to my face, a familiar shiver of awareness rippling my skin, as his eyes lingered on my visible form.

“Thank you Francisco. Do you like this one? Does it fit me well?” I asked turning side to side.

As he stepped closer, I could feel the heat of his body and smell the musky scent of his cologne. My skin prickled pleasurably. He looked intently and mystically over my breasts and then at my face. He reached out to touch a strand of my hair running his fingers along its length, as if he was studying the texture through his fingertips.  Our eyes, locked in an intense gaze, as he rolled my hair between his fingers and in a low voice said, “Chloe, you are magnificent. You have a face of exquisite proportions. Perfect, like a painting of one of the masters... a true masterpiece.”

I could feel my pulse quicken and my breathing became rapid. His hand trailed down my cheek and I felt an invisible magnetic pull drawing me closer to him. I was rendered speechless by his steamy maneuvers, his Spanish accent singing out the words like a melody. Suddenly aware of the heat index of the moment, I got nervous and took a step back to retreat to the dressing room. If he had stepped any closer, I would have spontaneously ignited.

“Oh...well...um...I guess I’ll take this top then.” I pivoted and slipped into the dressing room, fanning my crimson face, to change back into my own clothes.

Wow, I could not believe my life these days.
First, a fantastic opportunity of a lifetime to work and stay in Paris, then meeting a total hunk on the plane and now Francisco. I was on a roll. I couldn’t lose a hand if I tried. If I’d played the lottery, I’d probably win and the fates were certainly smiling on me, or maybe the fates were just horny these days, who knows. I sighed deeply and tried to pull myself back together.

Sheepishly stepping out of the changing room, I sauntered over to meet Francisco at the cash register. I had been very meek, but now my face flushed and he quietly looked into my eyes with a “do you forgive me” expression. He had the sales clerk wrap up the blouse and handed it to me like a gift.

“I hope this will make amends my sweet lady.” An easy smile played at the corners of his mouth.

“Thank you Francisco. Yes, this is more than enough.”

“You won’t hold a grudge then?” He said and cocked his head to one side, his long hair falling into his green eyes.

“All forgiven,” I sighed with a smile, as he walked me back to the gallery.

Once at the front entry, he bid me adieu. His glance was fixed upon the door of the old building, as beautiful to him as the portals of heaven and me, an angel perched on the threshold. Taking my hand in his, he pulled me towards him, leaning in close, only an inch from my lips and paused. With half hooded eyes he said, ”You are a ripe little tomato I must pick.” He turned my head, planted a chaste kiss on my cheek. He left me there, heart pounding, weak in the knees, with an undeniable magnetism growing between us and I wondered when I would see him again, as I slipped through the doors.

The sunlight, falling brightly on the carpet in the familiar lobby, was the medium so suitable for a romance in Paris. I was lost in a meditation, standing at the front window of the gallery, coffee in hand, inhaling its strong rich aroma. I contemplated the sequence of events that had transpired the night before, with one arm folded across my chest and the elbow of the other resting upon it, holding the smooth brown paper cup.

It was the next day and I had already been working at the gallery for a couple hours when my thoughts pulled me away from work duties. Staring out the window, I pondered the possibilities of my future. There was no mistake that Francisco was taken with me. I couldn’t deny that. I allowed my imagination to play the “what if” game. What if this turns into something more serious? What if we fall in love? What if he’s the
one
? It was exciting to think about, but despite Francisco's good looks, charm and velveteen accent, no one really compared to Patrick. I just couldn’t forget him. The connection I had felt was an immediate and total attraction. My heart still ached for Patrick, but I feared that any romance with him was a lost cause. Now I was in Paris and I couldn’t let the opportunities at hand be wasted.
Carpe Diem - Seize the day.
Francisco was here and Patrick wasn’t. It was time to stop feeling sorry for myself, start being an adult and get on with my life.

“Chloe,“ Ryan’s steady voice broke my reverie and I turned to face him. “Francisco is here with his paintings. He’s unloading them from the truck. Can you come help us?”

“Sure thing Ryan,” I put my cup down on the front desk in the lobby and followed him, not sure what kind of help I could be in my high heels and pencil straight skirt. My long auburn hair was up in a ponytail for the summer heat and I was wearing the top Francisco had purchased for me the day before.

The metal roll up door was open, letting the summer heat roll into the cool space as Ryan and another man wrestled a large 9 x 12 foot painting off the truck, while Francisco was yelling in Spanish for them to be careful. Well, at least I figured that’s what he was saying. The other guy was sweating profusely and yelling back in French.

I put my head down and stifled a grin as I walked across the back loading area towards them. Once Francisco saw me his whole demeanor changed, the dark anger faded from his eyes and they lit up. He left Ryan and the Frenchman to finish moving the large painting on their own and strode towards me with a smile. Ryan frowned, not entirely pleased to be left with Frenchie to wrestle the large pieces of artwork off the truck, like he was some kind of hired labor.

“Ah, Chloe, most beautiful lady. How are you today?” he said taking my hand and pressing it to his lips.  

“Oh Francisco, Good Morning. I see you have brought your art pieces to be hung today.”

Francisco’s charm was enigmatic. It oozed out of him like maple syrup from a tree, but I have to give the guy credit, it worked and I felt a little butterfly flutter in my stomach.  

“What can I help you with? Um...I can hoist that nine foot painting while you pound a nail,” I said totally sarcastically. There really was no way I could be of any help where physical labor was needed. These were big heavy pieces and besides, they had hired the Frenchman to hang the paintings. I was sure Ryan had just asked me to come to the loading area because he wanted me to know Francisco had arrived.

“Ah, I would never want your lovely hands to be bruised or dirtied,” he said as he took my fingertips to his lips and lightly kissed each one. The heat of his lips on my fingers was pleasantly arousing and I thought I might have let out a puppy dog whimper.

“I will go back to work so you can finish unloading the truck. Let me know when you are done hanging all of your pieces. I am excited to see your work. I guess I will be seeing it for quite a while but I want to get the entire effect, just like the customers, so come get me in the office when you are ready.”

“Ah, yes. That would be lovely. I want to personally escort you on your own private showing,” he said his eyes lighting up, a soft enchanting laugh floating from his smile.

I returned to my office, impatiently trying to get some work done, while I waited for a “first look” at his art. I was responding to emails when Ryan came in from the loading area, wiping the dust from his hands on his pants.  

“I can’t believe that guy,” Ryan said frustrated.

“Who, the Frenchman?”

“No, Francisco. He has a temper like a Spanish bullfighter.” He furrowed his brow.

“What do you mean? Really? I think he is quite charming.”

“Yea, I bet you would. Just be careful with these artist types. Especially those from the southern part of Europe. They have all this passion and sometimes that shows in other ways. You should have seen him yelling at the handyman I hired. The guy almost quit right there on the spot. I had to tip him extra,” he grumbled.

I pursed my lips and twisted them to one side. “Well, Francisco was probably just worried about his artwork. You know, they are like his babies. He put all of his life into those,” I said. Ryan was probably just rebuffed because Francisco wasn’t gay after all. Surely, he was overreacting.  

***

Hours later, after meticulously overseeing the hanging of all the pieces, Francisco and Ryan came to fetch me from the office.

“Allow us to present to you, Galerie Du Lumiere,” Ryan said proudly.

We stepped out to the front area to start our gallery walk from the perspective of the customers. The final effect was amazing. It all came together. The gallery space, the art and the lighting that spotlighted each canvas. I was proud of our work together, but mostly I was proud of Ryan. He was the mastermind behind all this and now I knew that everything Patrick had said about him was true. He really was a genius at finding unique artists and putting together a productive gallery.

We finished our perusal of the artwork and returned to the loading area where the sweaty Frenchman stood, loading his tools into the truck. Ryan approached him to discuss a few small details about adjusting some lighting that wasn’t to his liking. It gave Francisco the opportune moment to corner me out of Ryan’s hearing range. The afternoon heat was sticky and sweltering. I had learned to dress lightly and keep my hair up off my neck, as air conditioning couldn’t always be counted on.

“Do you really like it?” Francisco pried.

“Oh my God. I love it. You are so amazingly talented. I could stand here and admire your pieces for hours. The details and expressiveness of each piece are mesmerizing. Every time I look at them, I see something different.”