“It’s a bit far-fetched, but the story is this. A piece of jade was discovered by a man known as Bian He, circa 300BC. Eventually, they created something known as the Imperial Seal of China from that very stone. Prior to being turned into the seal, it was crafted into a bi, called the He Shi Bi. Or so the facts would lead us to believe. There are some who think this bi is the actual seal. Notice the raised edges here?”
He points to the edges and then finds another photo. This one is a close-up of the small, thick-rimmed square filled with the Chinese symbols I noticed earlier.
“Experts agree that its translation is the same as is supposed to be inscribed upon the seal. ‘Having received the Mandate from Heaven, may lead a long and prosperous life.’”
“Hang on a minute, I think I read something about this.” Rummaging through my memory banks, I think back to the many archeological magazines I’ve read over the years and summon up the copy that included an article on an ancient Chinese artifact, supposedly a legend but one in which the interest is still current, as new pieces keep on coming forward for verification. “The seal was supposed to be lost between dynasties, am I right?”
“Yes. By the time of the Ming Dynasty, it was lost.”
“I’ve seen pictures of seals before. Especially seals used by Emperors. A bi wasn’t made for that purpose.”
“No. But we’ve no idea of what it should or could look like. We’re blind. It could be this, or it might not. There are very few references to the actual Imperial Seal outside of the legend itself. Both from the origin of the He Shi Bi, as well as the eventual loss which occurred after being passed through the dynastic houses of China as they went to war and slaughtered each other.
“But whether it is or isn’t the real artifact, it doesn’t actually matter.”
“It doesn’t?” I ask and he shakes his head, frowning at the pictures. “So who do you think stole it?”
“A man named Pierre Rousset. He’s a collector of all things expensive, but he’s also a fence. His particular Achilles’ heel is jade. I believe he commissioned the robbery, and I’ve put feelers out to see if he’s trying to sell it on or if he intends to keep it.”
“It’s a large bi, isn’t it?” I ask, absent-mindedly. I know some bi have been discovered that weigh up to six or so pounds and this one is just a bit smaller.
It’s also less ornate than I’d have imagined.
In fact, it’s downright dull. Not something I could see playing an integral part in ancient history.
“Disappointed?” Jake’s question breaks into my thoughts.
“I thought it would be more impressive. Something with all that history should be, I don’t know, more ornate? Whether or not it’s the seal or something stuffed into a tomb.”
“I think that’s the major argument against it being the Imperial Seal. Its simplicity. But as I said, we don’t know. The jade has been tested and it’s from the area that was once known as Mountain Chu and from the polishing technique, it has all the makings of a piece from that time period too. We’ll never know if it is the real seal or not. It’s not a sound investment for Rousset to make.
“The bi itself isn’t worth all that much. A couple of thousand dollars. The insurance company I’m working for insured the museum structure, the actual building, from top to bottom, including the alarm system. I need to figure out how they managed to sneak in and out without detection, and take the perp into custody and return the artifact to the museum.
“So far, the local police have come up with a few hypotheses, but no real concrete evidence as to how the crime went down. And before the insurance company I’m working with will pay out, they want hard evidence and reassurances that the security system can be recalibrated so this kind of theft can never happen again.”
“Okay, so why do you need me?”
“Rousset is homophobic.”
“He is?”
“Yes. Very homophobic. Any whiff of my sexuality or of my marriage and I’ll have no chance of working my way into his circle.”
“And that’s what you want, to get close to him? Is that wise? I mean, isn’t he dangerous?”
Jake shrugs. “Minimally so. I doubt I’d be in any danger and if you decided to help me, then I doubt you would be either. Of course, there’s always an element of risk, but that’s life, wouldn’t you say? No risks, no prizes.”
I ponder that for a moment and let my fingers run over the smooth lines of the photographed bi. For all my disappointment, it’s still a majestic piece. To think that this was crafted from a hunk of rock and carved into something as soft and with a sheen like silk is a marvel. “Why do you need my help? I get that this guy’s anti-gay, but what could I do to help you?” My voice is low, my eyes still fixed on the bi.
“You could pretend to be my wife.”
“Your wife?” Now that has my eyes jerking up to meet his and my fingers dropping the photos in my hand. They scatter on my lap and around my feet. I bend down and gather the now-bent and scarred stills, flushing at his very audible sigh.
“Is there a reason you’re always astounded whenever I ask you anything?”
“You make the craziest propositions and you expect me not to be shocked?” I scowl at him, as I try and force the photos back into a neat pile. I start to get pissed off when they don’t behave how I want them to. “I’m not a mind reader. I don’t know what the hell is going to come out of your mouth next.”
“Well, this is hardly a normal situation. You need to expect the unexpected. And I’m only asking, not demanding. If you’d prefer to wander around Paris by yourself, then be my guest. But this way, you get to see a lot more than the average tourist.”
He’s annoyed at me and it’s the first time I’ve seen him be anything other than placid.
My reaction wasn’t that outrageous. My voice rose in astonishment, but that’s only to be expected, right? It’s not every day I’m asked to take part in a hoax involving criminals and insurance agents as well as museum break-ins and ancient and potentially legendary artifacts.
“Look, I didn’t mean to offend you. You just surprised me, is all.”
“I’m sick of you flinching around me like I’m going to beat you. Slinking around quietly to keep out of my way. I’m not an ogre, Simone. And I’m not going to beat you. I wanted your help to save my marriage and you’ve done that for me. If anything, I’m going to thank you. Not hurt you.”
“I’m not slinking around anywhere, and I’m not afraid of you.” It’s the truth. I’m not frightened of him. Wary. Cautious, yeah. But I think any sensible woman would feel the same. “You can’t deny this is an awkward situation, Jake. What am I supposed to do? Act like we’re friends? Best buddies? Or fellow members of the we-heart-Zane fan club?”
My lips twitch when he chuckles at my last comment. “We-Heart-Zane? Seriously?”
I shrug. “Why not?”
“Well, you’re not wrong. We are fellow acolytes.”
My eyes wander to the gorgeous new world that is Paris. They absorb the epicurean delights of this alien country, as I ponder his words: the ‘I wanted your help to save my marriage and you’ve done that for me’ part. Even as I question how I’m helping, I only murmur, “I wonder where he is.”
I must have sounded more plaintive than intended, because he shoots a look at me and says, “He gets you that way, doesn’t he?”
“Yeah.” The admission isn’t pulled from me with pincers, but it’s a solemn one nevertheless. It’s indicative of the confusion I feel over my current situation—even if Paris is more than I ever dreamed—as well as the desire I have to be in Zane’s company once again.
It’s weird even talking about him to Jake, odder still how he’s commiserating with me.
In fact, the more I think about it, the more perplexed I am.
This love triangle has to be one of the most complex in history. I get the feeling not a one of us knows what the hell’s going on. It’s like being in a maze and as soon as you reach t
he center, it shifts somehow, and you’re lost again.
But then, as I’m slowly coming to realize, love is blind. It flattens the barriers that are race, sexuality, gender. And as complicated as my love life currently is, it’s nothing in comparison to the state of Zane’s.
He’s the one who is most fucked up by it all. I guess that’s what you get when you fall in love with a guy, when you’re straight.
Talk about the fates fucking with you.
Jake breaks into my thoughts. “Look, we both love the same man…” I shoot a glare at him, but he just shrugs. “Pretend you don’t, or admit that you’re an inch away from tripping down the same path as me, but we both have feelings for the same guy. We must have something in common.
“I don’t intend for this stay to be complete torture for either of us and if you can help me, if you’re willing to help me, then all the better.”
“What do you need me to do?” I concentrate on that part of his statement rather than any other aspect. It’s easier to think about putting my life in peril with dangerous criminals, than it is to think that I actually love Zane, and that there’s potential for a friendship to brew between Jake and myself.
His cocked brow and fierce stare tells me he’s noticed the evasion, but he replies, “I just need you to pretend to be my wife. To help me become a part of Rousset’s circle of friends for the duration of our stay.
“I have a contact over here and he’s managed to let me know what Rousset’s doing for the next few weeks. His socializing is notorious, even for Paris. Spends a small fortune on holding hunting parties down at his place in St. Tropez–Christ knows what he hunts. Up here, his wife holds a ton of events for charitable foundations.”
“What’s your gut instinct on the bi, Jake?”
“I think he has it down at his villa in St Tropez. According to local planning permission records, the security system is worth a couple of million in itself. It would be the perfect place to hide something like the bi. Especially if he intends to market it as the Imperial Heirloom Seal.”
“So you want to get invited to one of these hunting parties?”
“Yes. That’s the intention. My contact says he’s holding one in three weeks, so we don’t have that much time to get an invite. Will you help?”
Screw it.
“Why not?”
Chapter Ten
The strangest part about being Jake’s pseudo-wife is being rich, and being comfortable playing that role. Take tonight for example. I’m at the first event on Rousset’s social calendar, surrounded by skinny chicks dressed in barely there gowns but dripping in jewelry. And am I the odd one out?
No.
I’m drowning in emeralds, of all things. Mostly because Jake said they’d offset my coloring. And do you know what? He isn’t wrong.
He hired a hairdresser who styled my hair into a chignon, but rather than just have it neatly tucked under as is usually the case, the stylist interwove it into a snood. Not your average snood, either. This has tiny emeralds that twinkle and glisten in the light at every woven joint so that my hair, wrapped in the glorified hair net, is alive with color.
At my ears I have emerald cabochons, and the matching set is at my throat and wrist. The shops I’ve drooled over in NYC but have never been able to afford, well, these last few days, I’ve been shopping in them with an open checkbook. And the only thing holding me back from buying the whole store is that everything is about three sizes too damned small.
I’ve found a couple of garments my size and tonight’s dress is one of them. Heart-shaped bodice with stays that are, at this exact moment in time, digging into my hipbones. Tomorrow, I’ll have a bruise. They’re also sweaty as hell, but it looks good and that’s all that counts at this soiree. The skirt skims over my hips and thighs, then swishes out into a mermaid’s tail so I can walk. The midnight black bodice cascades into scarlet swathes of material that cling to my curves without highlighting the fact I’m no size zero.
For a small event, there’s a hell of a lot of people. But I can hold my head up high and be proud, because I look damned good. And I’m with someone who looks equally dishy. It’s hard to deny that we make a good couple, looks-wise. Beside Jake, I’m dainty and feminine.
And if he looked good in a suit, it’s nothing to what he looks like in a tux. Phew-ee. The moment he stepped out of his bedroom and I took a look at him, well, it would be dishonest to say anything other than the truth. I stared at him for countless seconds, my tongue cleaving to my mouth in surprise as well as a teeny-weeny bit of attraction.
That makes me feel so disloyal, but I have eyes and those eyes appreciate attractive objects. Be they a glittery, sparkly necklace in a glass case, or a well-dressed man in a tuxedo tailored to his every line.
But no, I don’t feel out of place. For once, I’m very integrated into the night and I’ve even managed to practice a bit of my high-school French and not come out looking like a dumbass. But then, it always was one of my favorite classes and I’ve tried to maintain my level by reading French papers online.
“He’s over there.”
“Where?” I hiss in retort to Jake’s low whisper.
The event is being held in a hotel’s function room. But this is like no function room I’ve ever seen in my life. Back in Fountain Springs, Georgia, there was a country club a few miles away from our street. My father was a member and he used to take my mother there on special occasions. I was never invited, save for once, when mother requested I be present at her birthday celebration.
I can remember thinking it was the grandest place. Red velvet curtains in swags and tails ran around the circumference of the circular room, which had a glass façade that looked on to the club’s swimming pool and tennis courts. Matching tablecloths were embellished by brilliant white linen, and the amount of knives and forks either side of the plates as well as the gleaming crystalline glasses… I’d felt like a princess.
This makes that look like a dump.
Gilt-edged cornices decorate a ceiling that has a Renaissance fresco leaping over it, involving frolicking cherubs at play. The sky is a faded duck blue that is mirrored down the walls, before cream panels, edged in gold, take center stage every now and then. They house huge portraits of people that are long since dead. Jake told me this hotel had, once upon a time, been an aristocratic pied à terre.
Parquet floors shine underfoot and as a cleaner, I wince at every step I take and every step every other stiletto-sporting woman takes too. Our heels notch and bite into the polish, and I pity the poor women who have to tend to it in the morning.
At the compass points of the room, there are huge fireplaces topped by enormous gilt mirrors that reflect the ceiling and the sparkling chandeliers hanging overhead. Housed within the hearths are enormous bouquets of royal blue flowers. Gardening has never been my thing so I don’t have a clue what the names are, I can just recognize ten different toning kinds within the one bunch.
Beside the fireplace at the east of the room there is a bar, and people to and fro from it, sipping drinks as though they were water and not strong liquors.
“Look at the bar. The man in the black tuxedo with the silver shirt?”
Silver makes him sound like Liberace, and I gaze about for someone similar and come across a man in a tasteful pearl-gray shirt. “Are you sure you’re gay?” I whisper, my voice furtive.
I can feel his scowl as he glares down at me. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Silver? Are you color-blind?”
“Because I happened to mistake the color you question my sexuality?” His incredulity has my cheeks flushing.
“Forgive me for stereotyping,” I mock. “But that is definitely not silver. The lady in red’s his wife, I assume?”
“Yeah, that’s Renée Rousset. She’s one of the fundraisers for tonight’s event. And I’m bi, not gay.”
My cheeks flush all the brighter at his amendment of my assumption, but I ignore his words. A part of me wonders why
he bothered to correct me, but before I can tumble further down that path, I clear my throat and bite out, “I did read the file you left in my room, you know.”
“Oh. Well, I wasn’t sure if you would or not. Thanks for preparing.”
“You’re welcome.”
Christ, it was the least I could do in repayment for the small fortune he’s spent on me. As well as the time he’s given me by showing me around Paris and guiding me as I purchased a mountain of stuff to play the part of a rich man’s bauble. And now I know what part I’m playing in this masquerade, I feel much better. All of those gifts he showered on me at the airport… all to play this role. That knowledge fills me with relief.
Together, we’ve walked down the Champs-Elysées and dreams are no more as I’ve perused each and every single shop’s contents and bought several pieces. We’ve supped coffee and broken into steaming hot croissants in narrow cafés where the seating takes up the most minimal amount of sidewalk imaginable.
Squished together, we’ve chatted about nothing in particular. What happened in the morning’s paper, because Jake is as obsessed about being current and up-to-date as Zane is, or the world that passed us by.
One particular conversation had revolved around, of all things, dogs.
Neither of us has ever had a dog, nor do we want one but of all the crazy outfits I’ve seen in New York, for some reason, near our hotel, there seems to be a mass of dogs dressed as human beings.
“That isn’t a dog,” Jake had commented one morning, over a steaming café crème. Buttery flakes of pain au chocolat had dusted his fingers and he’d wiped them on a thick napkin before pointing at a particular pooch dressed, and this is no lie, like a beauty queen.
“Maybe there’s an insane asylum close to here.”
For a second, he’d contemplated the thought and nodded. “You could be right.”
“I was joking, Jake. Christ.”
He’d ignored my shake of the head and said, “No. To dress a dog that way indicates some level of psychological depravity.”
Sinfully Theirs: Naughty Nookie Part I Page 15