His Ransom 5 by Aubrey Dark

Author:Aubrey Dark [Dark, Aubrey]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2015-03-31T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seven

By the time I’d finished the plate of crepes, Jean-Luc had poured me two glasses of the most delicious Chardonnay and I was well on my way to the third.

“I never knew I liked white wine before,” I said. I hiccupped and covered my mouth. “Excuse me!”

“Nothing to excuse.” He leaned closer to me and lifted his own glass. “It’s a very full body of wine, don’t you think?”

I had no idea that wines had bodies, but I nodded in agreement. Jean-Luc smiled, a kind smile that reached his eyes. He seemed like a very kind person.

I decided that I needed to stop drinking. I needed to be professional. But his body’s nearness set off a feeling inside of me that made me feel warmer than any alcohol could have.

“Jean-Luc?” A woman’s voice interrupted our lunch, and I remembered that I was there for an art workshop.

“Come in!” he cried. As though on cue, two more art students came in behind the first woman. It was a young group of artists, more women than men.

“We shall get started. You will paint today with us, yes?”

My mouth dropped open. I’d thought that I would be watching a class, not painting. I had no idea that this was what Jean-Luc had in mind for me. My tongue fumbled around my mouth for an answer.

“I—uh—I didn’t bring any of my brushes or anything,” I stammered. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize—”

“Of course, you are on a trip! You will use my brushes.”

Jean-Luc spoke in a way that made any thought of arguing with him seem utterly impossible.

He set up an easel for me with oil paints and brushes. I stood nervously, waiting for him to be done. I hadn’t thought that I would be painting today, let alone painting in front of a bunch of students.

And my dress! It had cost more than my entire wardrobe back at home, and I was sure to get paint on it. No. I would have to be careful. I could be neat and tidy if I wanted to be.

Jean-Luc was speaking to me again as he finished setting up my brushes on a stand next to the easel. All of the other artists were ready, their easels set up in a semi-circle around the middle of the room.

“Perhaps you will sign a deal. I would be interested in commissioning a mural piece here in Paris.”

“A mural?” I was so dumbfounded that I could only repeat his words.

“Yes. Public art is very important to the French, you see. A two-week project, fully funded for three hundred thousand.”

“Three-three hundred thousand dollars?”

“Euros. But the price is negotiable. You must sign.”

The rest of the artists seemed to be waiting for us to finish our conversation. I opened my mouth to speak.

“I—sure,” I blurted out. “Sure. Let’s talk about it later.”

“Excellent,” Jean Luc said, smiling. “Yes, we will.”

He clapped his hands and any remaining noises stopped.

The first woman who had come in stepped into the front of the room. It was then that I saw she was wearing a robe—and nothing else— under her coat.

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