by Avery Scott
“Don’t tell me you’re one of those people.”
“What do you mean, ‘those people’?”
“So-called ‘artists’ who drop a can of paint on top of a canvas, give it a pretentious name and try to sell it for a million dollars.”
Ms. Levesque scrunched up her nose. She was not amused by the attempt at humor. “People who say things like that are missing the point. There are thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands of painters skilled enough to produce an image that looks exactly like a photograph. Pure representationalism is more about craft, not art. The measure of a work isn’t how real it looks or how much technical skill it takes to render. It’s about whether or not it speaks to your soul.”
“Well, I guess paint splatters don’t speak to my soul.”
“Why am I not surprised? You’re probably a Nagel fan.” Now her tone was feisty.
Hudson loved it even though he was pretty sure that she had just insulted him.
“My soul is more into the Dutch masters.”
“Name one Dutch master.”
“Uhm…Da Vinci?” Hudson pulled up the only name he could think of.
It was obviously a wrong answer. His assistant sighed and rolled her eyes. “I don’t know if I want to take you to Musée d’Orsay with me after all.”
“Why not?”
“It’s one thing to denigrate Jackson Pollock. Bad-mouthing Gauguin is blasphemy.”
Hudson did his best to look contrite. He had only the vaguest idea who she was talking about. “I promise to be on my best behavior.”
They crossed the bridge and headed for the door of the great museum. It was an imposing gray stone structure that inhabited an entire block. The far edges of the left and right wings looked like a normal, slate-roofed Parisian apartment block, but the middle was distinguished by a symmetrical array of vast windowed archways that rose halfway up the façade.
“The building used to be a railway station,” Hudson’s assistant explained. “It was converted in the early 80s. The tracks used to run through there.” She pointed toward the windows.
The center of the building was dominated by a massive clocktower. The main entrance was located directly beneath it. Gabrielle frowned when she saw tourists streaming out.
“They’re closing,” she said mournfully.
“It doesn’t matter.” Hudson nudged her forward and they threaded their way inside to an admissions desk.
A lone attendant was seated behind the desk, reading a crisply folded copy of Le Soir newspaper. Thin-rimmed glasses were perched at the end of her sharp nose, giving her the appearance of a small-beaked bird.
“Tell her that we would like two tickets,” Hudson said, reaching into the breast pocket of his coat to retrieve his wallet.
“Nous voudrions…” Ms. Levesque began, but the attendant cut her off.
“We’re closed,” the French woman responded, in perfect English.
Hudson frowned, “We just want-”
“Fermé! Closed! No more visitors!” the woman insisted, returning her eyes to her paper.
Hudson rolled his eyes and opened his wallet. He peeled a 200 euro note off a stack of bills and set it on the counter. “A very brief tour will do. I’m sure that your cleaning staff will-”
Behind her glasses, the museum worker’s eyes narrowed and seemed to darken. She pushed the Euro note away with the edge of her paper, as if the money was too dirty to touch. “I am sorry, monsieur,” she said, not sounding sorry in the slightest. “You and your friend will have to come back tomorrow.”
Hudson didn’t turn his head, but he could feel Gabrielle’s body deflate in disappointment. She started to turn toward the door, but he caught her elbow and held her in place.
Gabrielle furrowed her brow in question, but Hudson merely held up a finger, indicating that she should wait as he took out his phone and punched in a number.
Hudson held the receiver to his ear. His lips twitched in satisfaction when the call was answered on the second ring.
“Hello, Imogene? This is Hudson. Yes…I saw those emails come through…” He waited politely as his father’s assistant returned the greeting and gave him a quick verbal update on her progress with the Marché d’Été research. “We’ve got a few wrinkles to work out over the next few days. That’s for sure…listen, Ms. Levesque and I are at the…Dorsey Museum? Did I say that right?” He waited patiently as both Imogene and Gabrielle corrected his pronunciation at the same time. “We were hoping to look at some paintings, but the nice lady at the desk is insisting that they are closed.”
The “nice lady” at the desk sniffed and continued to read her paper as Imogene offered to assist him.
“Could you? That would be perfect. You’re the best, Imogene!” Hudson said warmly and ended the call.
The woman behind the desk cleared her throat and shot a significant glance toward the door. Gabrielle obediently tried to edge toward it, but Hudson continued to hold her back.
“It’s fine,” Hudson told her with a smug grin. “We’ll just wait here.”
“Wait?”
The woman started to rise from behind her desk, no doubt intending to physically escort them off the premises, but she was interrupted by a cry of “Monsieur Quinn!” from inside the museum.
Everyone turned to look toward the sound, which came from the direction of the main hall.
A few seconds later, a harassed looking man wearing a museum lanyard appeared in front of the desk. He was unmistakably French with olive skin and strong, dark features. His impeccably tailored suitcoat had been misbuttoned and looked as if it had been pulled on in haste. His arrival made the desk attendant stiffen. She began to speak. Although he couldn’t understand her, Hudson had the distinct impression that she was trying to tattle on him. Her expression quickly changed, however, when the newcomer shot a fierce glare in her direction and held up his hand for silence.
Ignoring her sullen frown, the man scurried purposefully toward Hudson and extended his hand. “Monsieur Quinn?” A heavy accent made him difficult to understand. “I am Monsieur Bourreau, director of the museum. I am so sorry to keep you waiting.” He waved the Americans past the admission desk, capturing Gabrielle’s hand as she walked past and raising it to his lips. “Enchantée, mademoiselle.”
Hudson felt a flare of something hot and uncomfortable at the gesture, but he quickly shoved the thought aside.
“Apologies for dropping in on you like this.”
“C’est rein! How do you say it in English? It is nothing! I am so happy you are here. Thank you for visiting us. Of course, the museum is very interested in hosting your collection of Mondrian paintings.”
“You have a Mondrian collection?” Ms. Levesque whispered as the director whisked them into the museum.
Hudson smiled to himself and didn’t answer. Instead, he put his hand on the small of Gabrielle’s back and guided her into the main hall.
It was an impressive space. Past the vestibule, they stepped into a soaring, glass-topped atrium that flooded the museum with natural light.
Hudson immediately thought about how much the building would be worth as a piece of real estate. It was in a prime location along the banks of the Seine. The building had been immaculately restored, combining all the best of modern architecture on the inside with the Belle Epoque stylings of the original shell. He could almost imagine high-end boutiques and elegant restaurants filling out the space. Then he noticed his companion and felt embarrassed for his thoughts.
Gabrielle looked as if she had walked into a great cathedral. She craned her head from side to side, trying to peek inside the various rooms and galleries that they passed while Monsieur Borreau herded them forward.
Hudson ignored the other man, coming to a dead stop to face his assistant. “Do you want to start down here?”
“I’m not sure if-?”
The museum director interjected before she could finish. “If you don’t mind, Mademoiselle, Monsieur Quinn, the space that I wo
uld like you to see is…”
“I do mind, actually,” Hudson said. “We’d like to get a feel for the place. You don’t mind if we look around for a bit, do you?”
“Of course not, Monsieur, but the museum closes in…” The director’s voice trailed off when he noticed Hudson’s narrowed eyes. The Frenchman wavered in indecision for a moment, but eventually, he stiffened his spine. “Please, take all the time you want. I will notify the night staff that you will be here after hours. I’ll let you continue on your own.”
Hudson dipped his chin in acknowledgment, and the director scuttled away, barking something in French toward the front desk. Hudson waited until they were alone before turning around to face Gabrielle. He took both of her hands in his, marveling at how small and soft they were. “So?” he asked. “Where to first?”
Chapter Ten
Abby stared at Hudson in silence for a moment, struggling to process what had just occurred.
“How long do we have?” she asked when she regained the power of speech.
“As long as you want.”
Famous last words, Abby thought, suppressing a bemused grin. She had wanted to visit the museum for as long as she could remember. The great galleries didn’t open until the 1980s, decades after Bette Levesque moved to the United States, but Grand-mère always promised it was the first place they would visit on their long-planned trip to France. Abby was certain that she could wander through the hallowed halls for days. She appreciated Hudson’s gesture in tagging along, but she didn’t think for a moment that his stamina for admiring artworks could outlast hers.
“The fifth floor,” she said, after consulting a map. That was the heart of the museum, charting the development of Impressionism and its influence on the art that followed.
“Fifth floor it is!” Hudson led the way to an elevator. “Going up.”
Abby felt her heartbeat speed up as they ascended. She didn’t know if it was the anticipation of seeing paintings that she had only read about in books or the fact that Hudson’s hand remained on her back. His attentiveness was a pleasant surprise considering she’d been plotting his death just a few hours earlier. Now, he was standing just a fraction of an inch closer than necessary, near enough to keep her painfully aware of his magnetism.
Until this moment, Hudson Quinn had been an obstacle to her happiness. Abby was too aware of what he might do to her, too terrified of what could happen if her charade was uncovered to appreciate him as a man. She knew that she shouldn’t admit it, but there was something deeply erotic in seeing his confidence and power turned on someone else.
Abby had never been with a man like Hudson before, the kind of man that exuded confidence no matter the situation. Even when he had dealt with his father after the Marché d’Été meeting, Hudson remained cool and collected until they were alone.
You’re not with him now, she internally scolded herself for the momentary flight of fancy. Offering million-dollar paintings in return for after-hours tours was probably nothing out of the ordinary for a man like Hudson Quinn. Abby knew that he was just trying to assuage his guilty conscience for the way that he erupted with her after the meeting, even though she had clearly earned it. Still, it was impossible not to get a thrill from the gesture. Abby tried to imagine what it would be like to have that kind of money and power.
The elevator reached its destination and the doors slid open. Abby shivered as Hudson increased the pressure on her back, guiding her out of the elevator. Her senses tingled with anticipation as they moved toward the first gallery. Then all she could think about was art.
Abby had visited the famous museums in New York more times than she could count, but she never stopped feeling a great swooping sensation in her chest whenever she saw a masterpiece firsthand. No matter how closely she had studied paintings in books and on websites, she was always struck by the scale of the canvases, by the intricate pebbled textures of the paint and even the faint turpentine smell of recent restoration work.
She stepped toward a depiction of a family picnicking in the shade of trees, admiring the way the dabs of pigment mimicked light-dappled leaves. She moved on to a portrait. It was a woman sitting at a table. A railing was behind her and, beyond that, a lake. This time, the colors were fainter and the brushstrokes were feathery, giving the whole thing a hazy, dream-like feel.
“It’s a Renoir,” she breathed reverently, without needing to check the nameplate on the frame.
“Your favorite?”
“No,” Abby said, “I prefer Monet.”
“Isn’t he that water lilies guy?”
Abby sighed. “Yes. He’s that ‘water lilies guy’. He’s also generally regarded as the father of Impressionism.” She scanned the room. She knew that Musée d’Orsay had dozens of the painter’s works. It was just a matter of finding them. She moved to the next hall and squeaked in delight when she saw a painting of an arched bridge, framed by draping willows and hovering over the same water lilies that had been mentioned a moment before. “See? Isn’t it wonderful?”
“Don’t you think that’s a little…?” Hudson let his voice trail off, but his skepticism was clear.
“A little what?” Abby said, offended and ready to defend the painting from whatever criticism he was about to bestow.
“Boring? Cliché? Commercial?” Hudson shrugged his shoulders. “I had you pegged as a modern art girl. I think I saw that painting in a bathroom at a diner.”
“You’ve never been in a diner,” Abby snapped back, unable to hide her annoyance. “And you’re just repeating something that you read somewhere, trying to sound smart. Maybe it is one of the more…commercialized pieces, but that’s only because so many people relate to what he did. People have no idea how revolutionary Monet was when he started painting.”
“What’s revolutionary about pretty pastel pictures of flowers?”
Abby couldn’t tell if he was teasing her or not, but she felt honor-bound to explain her position.
“Impressionists painted what they felt when everyone else was still painting what they saw. Monet’s gardens are open to the public now. Grand-mère went there. She said that you can stand at the exact spot where this was painted and it feels just like this,” she swept her arm toward the canvas, “Hushed and cool and hidden and...You’re laughing at me!”
“I’m not!” Hudson threw up his hands to proclaim his innocence. “I’m just enjoying my art history lesson and the chance to see another side of my assistant. I had no idea you were so…passionate.”
Something about the way he said “passionate” made Abby think that he was no longer talking about painting. A flush spread over her cheeks and she turned to move away. “We should probably go,” she whispered. “Monsieur Borreau can’t go home until we leave.”
Hudson caught her arm and held her in place.
“A few more minutes. I’m sorry. I won’t tease anymore. I’m really enjoying this. I don’t know anything about art except that it’s expensive. Your excitement makes me want to learn.”
Abby bit her lip uncertainly. She didn’t really want to go, of course, and Hudson looked contrite.
“Okay, a few more minutes,” she said at last, smiling brightly.
Hudson and Abby moved through the galleries. Abby pointed out some of the more notable works. It seemed like they had just arrived, but a glimpse at the huge clock at the end of the gallery reminded her that it was getting late.
The ride back to the hotel was brief but silent. Abby tried to hold on to the magical feeling of looking at the paintings, but her thoughts and her eyes kept drifting back to Hudson. He really was handsome, with his dark hair and haunting eyes. He started typing on his cellphone the moment they were picked up by the limo from the George V and he barely stopped. She watched him in her periphery, wondering what he was up to, but sickly certain that he was still trying to sort out her mess.
Imogene wouldn’t have switched up the reports.
Abby had never met Walker Quinn’s administrat
ive assistant, but the other woman had already left a strong impression. She imagined Imogene as an older woman, matronly and prim with her hair pulled back in a severe bun. Imogene was no-nonsense, proactive and indispensable. Imogene could salvage an international business meeting from four thousand miles away and could obtain after-hours private access to a world-class museum with a phone call. No wonder the Quinns were so disgusted with the Levesque sisters’ services. Then again, Abby had an inkling that Gabrielle hadn’t been hired for her business skills. Abby didn’t want to think about it too closely but couldn’t stop herself from wondering just how much fun her sister and her boss had during the workday. She put her hand on her stomach when it churned at the thought.
“Are you hungry?”
Hudson’s voice jarred Abby back to attention. The car was stopped in front of the hotel and the driver was holding open the door.
“No,” she said quickly, gathering her handbag and following Hudson onto the pavement. “I don’t think so. I think I’d prefer an early night.
Something unreadable flashed behind Hudson’s eyes. The blue irises looked nearly black as they settled on Abby’s own, sharing a look that made her feel suddenly hot and squirmy.
“Sounds good to me.” Hudson slipped a Euro note to the driver and then followed Abby to the elevator. They didn’t speak as they rode to the penthouse apartment.
Just inside the doorway, Hudson shrugged off his jacket and loosened his tie.
“I’m going to change,” Abby said, carefully hanging up her own suit coat and slipping off her heels. “May I use your bathroom?” She had carried all her makeup and face creams into the powder room that morning, but the maid had moved them back.
“Of course,” Hudson answered, but he followed her into the bedroom after she collected her nightgown and slippers.
Abby paused in the open archway that separated the marble bath from the sleeping area. She waited for Hudson to do whatever it was he came in there for, but he stood near the corner of the bed just looking at her.