The Art of Seduction by Katherine O'Neal Read Free Book Online Page B

whirlwind, he swung her around, knocking others out of his way, and swooped her through the melee.
    She kept hold of him dizzily, feeling the bump of bodies strewn in their path, feeling the rigid, corded muscles of his arms anchoring her to his chest. His shoulders were so wide they seemed like the rampart of some medieval fortress protecting her.
    Before she knew it, he’d stormed out the door and up the sunlit street, away from the gallery, from the racket, from the crush of human bodies and greed.
    As he set her down, she swayed on her feet. The whole experience had left her feeling breathless and exhilarated. She’d never experienced anything like this in her life. It was extraordinary enough to don a disguise and watch as people went berserk for her work, but on top of that, to be appreciated, understood, by such an incredible man who’d literally swept her off her feet…She couldn’t believe it.
    As they strolled toward the Boulevard Haussmann, Mason stared up at Richard Garrett with dazed fascination. But then it occurred to her that she was being ridiculously transparent. One look and he would read her dazzled feelings in her eyes. She lowered her newly trimmed lashes, trying to get her bearings and think of something to say that wouldn’t sound as giddy and girlish as she felt inside.
    Garret saved her the trouble. Grinning, he said, “We appear to have caused something of a commotion.”
    She smiled at the understatement of it—so charmingly British—and replied, “I hope I did the right thing.”
    His gaze flicked over her. “What can I do to persuade you?”
    The gleam in his eyes was warm and vaguely suggestive. It curled her toes. She swallowed hard and said, “You understand, Mr. Garrett, that I don’t know much about the business of art.” A slightly disingenuous statement, but basically true.
    â€œMy name is Richard. And it just so happens I know quite a bit about this peculiar business. I’d be happy to be your guide. If you’d permit me, of course.”
    Again, his gaze swept over her, promising all sorts of delicious possibilities. Clearly an overture, but what sort: business, pleasure, or both?
    â€œMy guide,” she repeated, liking the sound of it. “That’s very kind of you. I’m sure there’s a great deal you can teach me.” Looking at the breadth of his shoulders, she felt a shiver race up her spine. “About art,” she added, then almost kicked herself.
    â€œSplendid. We’ll start right here then, shall we?”
    He stopped in front of a picture window displaying large canvases in gaudy frames. “This is the Onfray Gallery, the most successful in Paris. Tell me. What do you see here?”
    She forced her attention away from him to try and focus on the paintings in the window. What would Amy Caldwell—who knew nothing about art—say about them? “Well, they’re not very colorful, are they? All brown and grey. And they all seem to be pictures of…historical events…mythological scenes…pompous businessmen straining to look successful…”
    â€œPrecisely. This is what we call academic art. It’s what gets displayed in the Salon every year—that’s the government-sponsored art show. It’s also what the critics rave over and well-heeled patrons buy. Let’s walk on, shall we?”
    They continued down half a block until they came to what Mason well knew was the Durand-Ruel Gallery. This window was filled with vibrant canvases by Monet, Degas, Pissarro. “But twenty years ago,” he told her, “there was a revolution in painting.”
    â€œImpressionism.”
    â€œYes, this gallery is one of the few that handle Impressionist paintings. What do you think of it?”
    â€œAfter what we just saw, they’re like a breath of fresh air.”
    He gave her a pleased smile. “With new, brighter pigments available