Naughty Paris

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MILLS & BOON

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To my husband, Len LaBrae, an artist in his own right.

Acknowledgments

My love affair with Paris began years ago when I visited the City of Light as a struggling art student and fell in love with everything Parisian, including the world of the Impressionists. I visited the Louvre, the art studios, the cafés where the Impressionists had hung out and an idea began to form in my mind: what if I could travel back in time and become part of their world? Now that idea has become a novel, but not without the hard work and perseverance of three special and dedicated women.

I wish to thank my editor, Susan Pezzack, whose artistic sensibilities helped me fine-tune my manuscript; Leslie Wainger, the editor who opened the door for me, and my friend and agent, Roberta Brown, who loved this story from the first time she read it and never gave up on me. Merci.

I loved the film Moulin Rouge about Paris and La Belle Époque and wondered what it would be like to be slim and gorgeous like Nicole Kidman, fall in love with a handsome hunk, and sing on key when I’m having an orgasm. I thought about it at lunch when I dieted on herb quiche with low-fat cheese and gulped down latte without whipped cream. I thought about it when I showed commercial properties to boring old men with lust in their eyes and soft putty in their pants. I thought about it when I got jilted at the altar and went to Paris for my honeymoon sans the groom.

Then I didn’t have to think about it anymore because it happened. To me. Autumn Maguire.

It all started with:

Désir (Desire)

I am not a woman—I am a world.

My garments only have to fall

and on my body you will find

a whole series of secrets.

—Gustave Flaubert

(1821-1880)

CHAPTER ONE

Paris Today—An Art Studio in the Marais District

The Model

“You want me to take off my T-shirt?”

“Yes, mademoiselle.”

“And my yoga pants?

He nods. “Yes, mademoiselle.”

“Hold on a Paris minute,” I protest, glancing over at the old artist with a Gauloise cigarette hanging out of his mouth like a limp penis. He takes a drag without taking his eyes off my wet T-shirt sticking to me like a Post-it. “I ducked in here to get out of the rain, not sign up for strip aerobics.”

Husky voice, low in the back of my throat. Jeez, is that me? Got to be nerves.

I had the same catch in my throat when I swallowed the mint in my mouth after David, my ex-fiancé, insisted I give lousy BJs and he couldn’t go through with our wedding because he had issues with us.

The jerk.

As if flunking a postgraduate course in blow jobs is a top-ten reason to send me into therapy and sic my mother on me for the prepaid, nonrefundable honeymoon to Paris. But here I am, wandering around the Right Bank in the rain like Jean Valjean in squishy Nikes. Jilted and miserable.

And wondering how I let silver-tongued David—a guy who knows how to use that tongue to trigger my starter button—talk me into charging everything on my credit card. I’ve worked my ass off climbing the corporate ladder since college, putting my dream of opening my own art gallery on hold. Now I’m not only groomless but I had to dip into my 401-k account to pay for twelve bridesmaids’ dresses with matching dyed Jimmy-what’s-his-name stilettos, not to mention more than two hundred pounds of prime rib. Rare.

After I cut up my maxed-out credit card, I guzzled down the last bottle of champagne then tossed my white satin Vera Wang knock-off into the closest trashcan. The next morning I took off for the birthplace of Godiva chocolates to sweeten the bad taste in my mouth. And I don’t mean spending time on my knees sucking on a guy wearing a raspberry-flava condom. I mean something dramatic and wonderful, heart-stopping and sizzling with pent-up energy. I want to feel alive, desired.

Who am I kidding? I want to be a drop-dead-gorgeous sex goddess.

Youth and a fab bod aren’t everything, you know.

Ha! David thinks so. That’s why I’m not all snuggly and warm with him between the sheets in my Paris hotel instead of sneaking through the city like a rat in an underground sewer.

You’re not young anymore, kiddo, and you are, oh, so not thin. That’s why you lost David to that Aphrodite, an insipid skinny-as-a-toothpick, not-old-enough-to-drink-yet blonde. Your assistant, yet. How could you be so dumb?

Dumb? I was stupid, insane, a complete idiot for letting that bitch take David away from me. I got punked.

Zap! As if agreeing with me, lightning rips through the long multipaned window, hitting me in the eye like a redlight camera, illuminating the faint light in the studio and diluting the smoky atmos.

I blink, then blink again. A B horror film mentality creeps me out, making me shiver. It can’t get any worse. Storm clouds hide the afternoon sun. A rush of rain falls outside, banging against the windowpanes shimmering with a wet sheen. Thunder cracks like a boombox bursting with outta control volume. The old building shakes. I cringe. Do I really want to go back outside into that stormy mess? That’s why I don’t protest when the old artist hustles me toward the platform in the back of the art studio.

“Hurry, mademoiselle, we’re losing the light.”

A pungent whiff of burnt tobacco shoots up my nose. Who is this putz? For sure, he’s no panting Adonis who can seduce a woman to take off her clothes with a smile. He’s short, balding, sporting a little paunch and he smokes too much.

“Watch those hands, monsieur. I know karate.” I’m bluffing, but it works with the geek corporate types I deal with every day who think a physical workout is something you do by yourself with one hand.

By the way, did you notice the old artist was impressed when I said kah-rah-tay with the accent on the tay? I may give lousy blow jobs, but I’m not Gallic challenged. I got an A in French in college. I can rattle off enough swear words to impress the surliest taxi driver, from calling him a salaud, bastard, to a quel casse-couilles, pain in the ass.

“You made a mistake, monsieur,” I continue, now that I’ve got his attention. “I wouldn’t look as soggy as over-cooked lasagna if I owned an umbrella, which I don’t. Nobody from the O.C. does. It ruins our image, not to mention Nielsen ratings.”

He makes a face. Silly me. As if he understands my pop-culture rhetoric to explain why he doesn’t want to see me naked, why I slap on phony tanning stuff rather than sport a citrus-yellow bikini on a SoCal beach. I don’t tell him cellulite and I are as tight as sorority sisters. Not to mention my stomach is upset and I feel like I’m going to pass gas from the greasy pommes frites I gulped down at the flea market.

“Then you’re not a model, mademoiselle?” The old artist gestures with his two hands like he’s feeling up melons in the supermarché.

I shake my head emphatically. “No.”

“Pity.” He coughs, tosses his cigarette into an empty saucer, then does a mental strip search of my bod from the top of my red Angels baseball cap to my DKNY white cotton T-shirt, mauve yoga pants with a white stripe running up the side, and comfy walking shoes. “I’d still like to draw you.”

I tilt my head to one side, thinking. What’s holding me back? Posing in my bra and panties isn’t any different from sporting a bikini at a pool party, right? So why not go for the win?

I nod. “Okay. It’ll be a fun souvenir to take home.”

He smiles, then drops the bombshell. Right into my lap.

“Bon. Good. You must pose in the nude.”

“Are you sure Madonna started like this?” I ask, holding on to my panties, pulling on the elastic waistband until it snaps against my bare skin. Ouch. I’ve already taken off my wet clothes and left them hanging on the tall black screen standing in the corner, along with my waist pack with my money and passport.

“Mademoiselle?”

“You know, the pop star? ‘Like a Virgin’?” I sway my hips like the superstar diva. Somehow it doesn’t have the same effect. The old artist shrugs.

“I don’t care if you’re a virgin—”

I’m not, but I smile anyway.

“—I wish to sketch you, mademoiselle, not make love to you.”

That did it. Can my ego get any flatter? Ever seen a used condom?

Well, here goes.

I wiggle my peppermint pink panties down over my thighs and let them drop onto the small platform. There. I’ve done it. I’m nude. No turning back, even if I haven’t shaved below my bikini line.

Vive la nue me.

I glance over at the old artist wiping down his posterboard with a damp cloth. The look on my face says, What do I do next?

He coughs, wipes beads of perspiration off his forehead, then points to my feet. I look down. I’m up to my ankles in pink nylon. I shift my weight from one foot to the other. The wooden platform creaks. Loudly. Urging me to hurry. Okay, okay. I scoot my panties off the platform with my bare toes. Wearing nothing but my sweat, I grin.

The old artist nods, picks up a Conté carré dessin, drawing charcoal, and waits for me to get into position. I hold my hand over my crotch. What a silly thing to do. I must relax. Relax. Keep up my courage. A chill slithers up the back of my neck, making my nipples harden and point straight out. I know now how guys feel when they get a hard-on in the middle of a heated business meeting. They can hide it behind this week’s market stats report. Me? I’m as naked as a low-carb burger going solo.

I know you’re sitting there all comfy in your sweats, shaking your head, pinching your thighs, wondering how a thirty-something woman could even think about taking her clothes off in front of anybody but her gyno. Brace yourself. It ain’t pretty. Here’s the skinny, which I’m not, so it’s even more outrageous.

I’m desperate for excitement, a cheap thrill, and if it cost me a new pair of La Perla panties, then let them fall. Nothing exciting ever happens in corporate real estate sales, though I keep hoping I’ll run into Donald Trump between bankruptcies and wives.

Unfortunately, time is running out for this apprentice wannabe. I’m thirty-four with more than a little tummy since David took off with my heart and my willpower stuffed into his back pocket. The idea of posing nude evokes a sexual charge in me, an irresistible allure of the forbidden without putting myself in danger or jeopardizing my corporate reputation, a unique twist to my personality I never dared explore.

Until now. This moment. My world is so frustratingly normal, so conservative in every way, that although I’m shocked at the artist’s request, I’m also terribly intrigued. It’s my nature.

Besides, I want to show my ex-fiancé I’m still hot stuff.

I grind my teeth. Just thinking about David makes me cringe. When I discovered he used me to get info on a major land development deal in Wyoming, I should have broken up with him then. But he was so convincing in his “I’m doing this for us” speech, I put aside my fears and didn’t protest when he proceeded to slide my panties down between my thighs and do more with his sexy mouth than give me spin.

Even my mother warned me about David, said he was looking for a hot body with a trust account, but I didn’t listen. She oughta know. My mother and her talking mirror just divorced their third husband.

I’m not in the mood for advice so I clicked off my cell phone. Mother drives me insane with her text messages that resemble the bottom-of-the-screen news headlines on CNN. Don’t get me wrong. I love my mother, even if she collects marriage licenses like some women clip grocery coupons.

For your information, I left her blissfully engaged in bringing down the French national debt single-handedly on the fashionable rue Saint-Honoré while I wandered around the Marais district. I was looking for a poster or painting to take home to add to my collection of lowbrow work by undiscovered artists, or to put it bluntly, cheap, when a summer storm hit. A refreshingly cool rain blew in from the west, twirling over the blue-tiled rooftops and pelting down the narrow alleyways. The raindrops fell in bunches and splatted on the stone streets like water balloons. I got drenched. Not a pretty sight. I took refuge in an art studio with faded lettering over the arched entryway: House of Morand.

House of Wax is more like it.

Looking around the studio, the place looks like something out of a scary movie. Dirtballs fill every corner, mustard-yellow newspapers sit piled up on chairs, and a bookcase filled with art books stands alongside a tall, ebony pearl-inlaid screen. A hotplate with dirty red pots sits atop a Chinese coffee table alongside paint brushes sitting in trays in a liquid that smells like turpentine.

I hear the old artist clear his throat.

“Are you ready, mademoiselle?”

I nod.

Wetness drips down the insides of my thighs, a wetness which makes me twitch when I see him smoking and humming to himself, waiting for me. I can’t back out now. I exhale deeply. This is it. My destiny on canvas. I’m hot, sweaty and perspiring.

I strike a pose.

Who knew standing still for twenty minutes would be so difficult, especially since I was trying hard not to concentrate my energy on my throbbing pubic area? Okay, my pussy. Yes, I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I got turned on posing nude. No, the old artist didn’t come on to me. He’s very professional.

It’s me.

I’m sexually frustrated, and not even a stiff neck—oh, for the delights of a stiff dick instead!—and achy back can stop me from daydreaming about moving my body in a brisk rhythm, my lover licking my clitoris, then the lips of my pussy, digging his tongue into me, and then back on my clit. Back and forth until I’m buzzing down there with an undulating energy that never stops…never stops…

Mmm…keep dreaming.

I take a break behind the screen to soothe my sore muscles and wipe off the sweat between my legs. That’s what it is, isn’t it? I smile, then sniff. Maybe not. Letting go of a sigh and a little gas—I couldn’t help it—I grab a faded smock off a coat hook. Gray-tinged and splattered with dried paint, it looks like it’s been hanging there since Paris was liberated but it’s dry. My clothes are still wet. Drip, drip. I tiptoe through puddles of water on the wooden floor. Or is there a leak in the roof?

I look up. Unlike the rest of the studio, the ceiling is a square skylight. High over my head rain beats down against square glass panes framed with lead, blocking out what little gray daylight can slide through the pelting drops. I shiver. It’s creepy back here. I wonder what the old artist is hiding under the black velvet drape covering the wall? Dorian Gray in his jockeys?

Before I can pull back the curtain to find out, I see an object that intrigues me. It’s about a foot high, battered bronze, and grimy looking: a statue wearing a feathered crown, carrying a flail, and with his erection protruding straight out in front of him.

Did I say erection? As in penis? A dick? Oh, yes, I did.

This is way better than any hotel souvenir. Oozing with curiosity, I reach down and wrap my fingers around the statue’s penis and continue to hold on to it. I have no idea why, I just can’t let it go. I smile. It’s been a while since I’ve held such a hard penis in my hand.

I peek over the screen and ask the old artist about the statue.

“You’re holding la gaule, the erection, of the Egyptian god Min,” he says, tapping his cigarette pack. It’s empty.

“He should be the poster boy for Viagra,” I say, trying to make light of my awkwardness. The statue’s kinda cute, if you dig a walking Egyptian with spiked hair.

“Min is the god of fertility, mademoiselle. His symbol is the thunderbolt.”

Thunder cracks. How apropos.

The old artist never misses a beat, as if he’s told this story a hundred times. “He has the power to grant youth and sexuality—” he pauses, then lowers his voice “—if you’re willing to pay the price.”

“Price, monsieur?”

“You must sell your soul, mademoiselle.”

I cock an eyebrow at him. “Sell my soul?”

“Yes. You’ll be young and beautiful—”

“Get out!” He’s kidding, isn’t he?

“—but you can never fall in love.”

No chance of that happening. Not after David.

I ask, “What happens if I do fall in love?”

“You change back to the way you were.”

In other words, middle-aged and overweight. Thinking, I run my fingers over the statue’s, um, dick. The statue is for sale, according to the old artist. It’s tempting. No more vanity sizing? A flat stomach? Perky breasts? What a fascinating idea, a tantalizing, sexual black magic. FX to the max. But is it worth braving an airport security search? I shake my head. I still have not-so-fond memories of smirks and pat-downs when my ex-assistant—yes, she and David are now a twosome—sneaked a lipstick vibrator into my carry-on bag when I flew up to San Francisco last month. I don’t want to go through that again.

Smiling, I tell the old artist I’ll think about it. He shrugs, then disappears to get another pack of cigarettes. I look around to see what other goodies I can find. Nothing here. Cracked vases, old books, a Tiffany lamp and a charcoal-tinged red pot emitting a weird odor. Not unpleasant, just weird. I take a sniff. Coriander, wine…and is that ginger I smell?

Within seconds dizziness muddles my mind as if the wine gremlins have invaded my head and are using my brain for a grape mosh pit. Is it the bottle of Pinot Noir I washed down those fries with? Or the smelly stuff in the pot? The bile in my stomach crosses paths with frying grease and adds fruity alcohol to the mix, flipping out my equilibrium. Whatever, my knees go weak, as if I’m moving in slo-mo. I try to focus, but everything looks blurry. What if I pass out? Go into a coma? Without a prince to wake me up with a French kiss? No frickin’ way! I sink to my knees, but I refuse to succumb to the sleepytime trolls dancing in my head. I grab on to the black velvet drape to steady myself when—

Swwooosh!

My hands fly up as a heavy thump of velvet comes down on top of my head, suffocating me. Gasping, I struggle to wipe the soft darkness from my eyes, free myself from the giant bat cape covering me from head to toe. Loud breaths, husky, panicky, invade my ears, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I hold my breath and listen. Who is it?

I let out my breath. Damn, it’s me. Panting like a porn star having a fake orgasm in cyberspace.

Okay, so now I can relax. I’m not trapped in here with some spine-tingling apparition chatting me up with nocturnal moans, but I can’t get this velvet drape off my head. Every time I pull one way, the drape goes the other, making me queasy. I gotta shake this nausea. Breathe in then out. Two, three times. I’ll never dip greasy French fries into red wine again. What was I thinking? Then…

…over my rapid breathing comes another sound. Laughter. Laughter? Is the old artist back? I have the odd feeling he’s choking on his ciggie sans filtre, enjoying this. I’ll give him something to laugh about when I unravel this velvet mess and—

—ooohhh, wait. That’s not him. The laughter is low and sexy and so close to my ear a chill slithers up and down my vertebrae knocking together like Lego pieces that don’t fit. Something creepy is going on here. Drops of perspiration form between my breasts, wiggle down my ribcage, then drip down my thighs as I pull and tug on the black velvet drape. I can’t thrash loose. My breath becomes sharper. The back of my neck is damp. Finally, I rip the heavy fabric off my face and—

—I see him. Staring at me with his eyes. Dark blue eyes that intrigue me.

A life-size painting of a man over six feet tall.

I grin, relaxing the tenseness in my face. So that’s what the drape was hiding. A superstud. Arms crossed, feet spread apart, and wearing tighter-than-tight pants that outline his impressive cock and he’s—

Laughing?

Creepy bumps pop up on my bare arms. The more I think about what I heard, the more I believe I must have imagined it. Hearing the man’s sexy laughter stirred carnal desire so dormant in my female psyche that I can’t tell what’s real or in my head. Well, look at him, will ya. He’s a painting, dammit! Touch him, no, not there. There. On his hand. Cold. See? He’s not human, so get off this goth kick and get the hell outta here. Oh, I forgot. I can’t. I’m naked.

So, girlfriend? He can’t see you.

I smile. Yeah.

So why not have a little fun and flirt with him?

With my eyes still on the man in the painting, I trace the fullness of my breasts with my fingers, cupping them in my hands. Playfully, I rub my nipples, hard and brown and pointy, licking my lips again, then as I become more comfortable with my teasing game, I move my fingers down to my belly, then between my legs. I sway my body gracefully, in a classy manner. This is art.

Art? C’mon, a lifetime of Cosmo signals to me loud and clear this is sex, pure and simple. My juices flow and the fullness in my groin swells as I hear the old artist scuffling out front.

He’s back.

I hear him strike a wooden match. He’s lighting another stubby Gauloise cigarette. A wavy swirl of smoke snakes over the screen. Smoke has no effect on the man in the painting. He’s still smiling. Me? I cough.

Not taking my eyes off this macho pin-up, I call out from behind the screen in what I hope is an I’m-just-curious voice, “I found a painting I like.”

“Mademoiselle?”

“The good-looking guy in tight pants under the black velvet drape.” I wet my lips. Ooh la-la.

“Ah, you found Paul Borquet.”

“Who is he?”

“He was considered a genius in his time, mademoiselle. The painting is a self-portrait he did in his studio in Montmartre.”

“I never heard of him.”

“After his strange disappearance in 1889, the art world forgot about him. I covered him up years ago.”

“Covered him up? Why?” I lean my hip against this lost artist. So close our thighs touch. I tingle. He has an electric charisma that transcends three-dimensional space. Or am I just horny?

“The models spend too much time looking at him—” the old artist laughs “—and arousing themselves.”

Even in the murky light, I can see why. The man is dark, dangerous looking, with a raw aura of lust about him that makes my skin crawl with ideas of back alley cafés, strong liqueur and sweat-drenched nights of passion. An erotic hero.

My eyes travel down to the big bulge between his legs, confirming my suspicions. No doubt he has an ego to match. He’s handsome with chiseled, though slightly misaligned features, giving him a cocky air. He stands with his legs apart, his longish dark hair swirling around his open collar and contrasting with the musculature of his chest, visible under his white ruffled shirt.

Looking at him starts a slow burn down in the unexplored area below my phony tan line. He makes me squirm. I remind myself he’s just a painting. Then a sneaky thought hits me. How would it feel to make love to him? Why not? After David gave me the heave-ho, a girl’s got to rev up her mojo even if he is a two-dimensional hunk in tight pants.