The Paris Game (29 page)

“The pyramid?”

She nodded.

“But it does wonders for the light inside,” he remarked. “You’ll see.”

“I suppose it must.” Sophie glanced at the crowd heading down into the museum. “Looks like we weren’t the only ones thinking this would be a good day to visit.” They descended the stairs to the centre of the museum and joined the queue at the admissions desk.

“Do you know what you want to see most?” he asked.

“Everything. But we could start with their collection of Italian paintings. That will fit best with my thesis work.”

“If we’re lucky, there might not be too much of a crowd around the Mona Lisa,” he replied, “but it’s not much to see behind all the glass.”

“The Mona Lisa isn’t my priority, though I’d love to have an hour alone with it to study up close.” She smiled. “Wishful thinking.”

“I wish I could arrange that for you.”

“Maybe you could create a distraction,” she suggested.

“What did you have in mind?” He chuckled. “Setting off the fire alarm?”

“I suppose we’d end up in deep trouble for that,” she said as they stepped up to the clerk at the desk.

“Two, please,” Marc requested.

“Students receive free admission with identification,” the woman informed him, looking at Sophie. She fumbled in her bag and brought out her wallet, pulling out a card. She handed it to the clerk.

“Très bien. Merci, mademoiselle.” She handed over their tickets after Marc paid, giving them a fold-out map of the museum. Once they were away from the desk, Marc opened the map.

“Don’t you remember where things are? I’d come here all the time if I lived here,” Sophie said.

“I haven’t been in years,” he replied. “I’ve been too busy. But I was here often when I was younger.”

“It must have been overwhelming.”

“Yes, but my mother held my hand, and Henri’s, and we saw so much. She loved Napoleon’s apartments, but I wanted to see the Egyptian mummies.”

“And Henri?” she asked.

“He didn’t care much for art. He was a lot like my father.” He found what he was looking for on the map. “Here’s the wing we need.”

Sophie glanced around the central hall, spotting the sign to the Denon wing. “Over there.”

“Shall we?” He started to hold out his hand, but caught himself.

“Are you sure you don’t want to start in the Egyptian section?” she asked.

“Not unless we have time. I can come see them any time, after all. Which paintings do you especially want to see?” he asked as they joined the crowd.

“Everything by Titian,” she said immediately. “And Veronese’s ‘Wedding Feast at Cana.’ And the works by Delacroix. And David’s ‘Consecration of Napoleon.’”

“I used to want to sit for hours in front of the David,” he replied. “There was so much to see.”

“Then you’ll understand if I want to take all day in this wing.”

“A woman after my own heart.”

She glanced at him and then looked away. As they traversed the hallway, she kept sneaking glances at him, though he pretended not to notice. The crowd moved slowly and he was content to match its pace, but when she wasn’t looking at him, Sophie was craning her neck to try to see ahead.

“If only I were taller,” she lamented. He chuckled.

“We’re nearly there,” he assured her. She stood on her tiptoes, grasping his arm for balance as the crowd came to a standstill. She paled and shrank down, her fingers digging into his arm.

“He’s up there,” she muttered to him in alarm.

“Who?”

“That man from the other night. I’m almost sure of it.”

“How far ahead?” Marc asked.

“Twenty feet, maybe more. To our right.” Her voice was barely a whisper. As the crowd shuffled forward again, Marc was able to see the man she’d spotted. At first, it did seem that Jeremy Gordon had come to the museum, but upon a second, closer, look, the man’s hair was darker and his build leaner. It wasn’t Jeremy at all.

“It’s not him.” He gave Sophie a reassuring squeeze and she didn’t object. She leaned into him for a moment. He didn’t press his advantage and let go when she shifted her weight away from him.

“Are you sure?”

“Very.”

Her hand lingered on his arm until she realized what she was doing and let go. He pretended not to notice.

They passed into the gallery and the crowd finally fragmented. Sophie stared down the length of the hall in awe. The sun streamed through the skylights and brightened the dark, burgundy-painted walls hung with canvases. Even this first section held enough art to occupy a visitor for hours.

“I don’t know where to start,” she admitted.

“Anywhere you like, ma chérie.”

“The art books don’t do this work any justice.” Sophie lingered in front of Jacques-Louis David’s ‘Consecration of Napoleon’, retreating several paces to try to take in the entirety of the massive canvas.

“My mother said the same thing,” Marc replied.

“Was your mother an artist?”

“She was a pianist, but she loved all art. This was one of her favourites, though she used to say that what Napoleon had done was sacrilegious.” He remembered his mother explaining the significance of the painting to himself and Henri during one of their visits.

“He crowned himself, didn’t he? Instead of allowing the Pope to do it?”

“And then he crowned Josephine,” Marc replied. “But I’ve always been amused how he ordered David to paint in people who weren’t even at the coronation.”

“And look how it’s remembered.” Sophie studied the painting, moving forward to sit on the bench in the middle of the gallery. Marc followed. “Has it always hung here?”

“I can’t remember. Quite possibly. We never spent as much time in this wing as I would have liked. Henri used to complain.”

“Did he get his way?”

“Usually. He was older.”

“Is he your only brother?” she asked, shifting closer until they were shoulder to shoulder on the bench.

“The only one that lived,” Marc replied. At Sophie’s questioning look, he elaborated. “My mother had several miscarriages before and after my birth. Eventually they had to stop trying.”

“How awful for her and your father,” Sophie said quietly.

“She had a little girl when I was only a couple of years old,” he recalled. He didn’t like remembering, but Sophie’s gentle heart was so easy to exploit. “I didn’t even remember, but Henri told me later. She was stillborn.” He could see her name etched on the family tomb. Frances Camille. “What about your family, Sophie? Any little brothers or sisters to tag along on your museum visits?”

“Four younger brothers. I don’t think they’ve ever seen the inside of a museum.”

“They didn’t follow in their sister’s footsteps?”

“No. Alex and William are more like my father—they’re working in Alberta on the rigs. My grandmother was so disappointed. And the twins are still in school, but they’re more interested in math and physics than art.”

“You’re lucky to have such a large family.”

“I guess so.” She shrugged. “I’d never thought about it. Do you see your brother often?”

“He was with the Foreign Legion,” Marc replied. “Unfortunately he was killed in Algeria when I was eighteen.” He didn’t have to fake the tightness in his throat, or the thinning of his lips.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Sophie looked stricken.

“It’s all right,” he assured her. “I’m the only one of my family left, but I’ve gotten used to it. There are a few distant cousins somewhere near Lyon, but that’s all.”

Sophie took his hand and he stifled a satisfied smile. “Aren’t you lonely?” He gave her hand a squeeze.

“I have my business, and my friends. There’s not much time to be lonely.”

“And your music,” Sophie added. “I wish I was musical, but I’m not.”

“Every musician needs an audience,” he noted.

“That makes me feel better. I’m good at being the audience.” She gave a final glance to Napoleon and rose, letting go of his hand. “We should continue on. I’ll never get to see the rest of the Denon wing today at this rate.”

“We have until the museum closes at six. We’ll manage.”

“As long as I can see the Titians,” Sophie replied. “And Tintoretto’s ‘Coronation of the Virgin’.”

“Of course. That and more.”

Sophie smiled at him, and he thought that all was not yet lost.

“I should head home,” Sophie remarked as they left the restaurant on the rue Saint-Honore after an early dinner.

“Already?” Marc let disappointment lace his next words. “I’d hoped to spend the evening with you.” He saw her indecisiveness and decided to push. “At least come for a drink. You can look over my books and see if there’s anything that would help your thesis.”

“I don’t know. I really ought to get back.”

“Are you sure? I have a good book on the Paris Salon that you would find very useful.”

“I guess I have a couple of hours before I need to go.”

“Très bien. I also have a nice port I think you’ll enjoy.” He flagged down a taxi.

“I don’t remember seeing your books,” Sophie said as the taxi sped along the Champs-Élysées.

“It was dark, but there are quite a few.”

“An academic’s dream?”

He laughed. “Quite possibly. You’ll have to tell me if it matches up with your dreams, ma chérie.” He laid his arm over the back of the seat, his fingers brushing her shoulder.

“I won’t be very good company with my nose in a book,” Sophie said.

The taxi drew up outside Marc’s building and he paid the driver as Sophie slid across the seat and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

“It’s much nicer than the hostel,” she said as they climbed the stairs.

“I should hope so,” he replied with a laugh. He turned on the hallway light as they entered the apartment and Sophie’s eyes widened.

“I might be here all night,” she said, running her fingers over the spines of the nearest few books.

“That’s quite all right if you are.” Another couple of drinks and a late hour and she would be in his bed. He brushed her as he went by into the kitchen, letting his hand linger on her back as he went. He poured two glasses of port and returned, finding her engrossed in a book on Delacroix.

With his free hand he drew her hair back from her neck and stroked the exposed flesh. She gave a shiver and turned to look up at him.

“Your port, ma chérie,” he said. She set the book down on a shelf and took the glass. She took a cautious sip of the liquor.

“That’s quite nice. Thank you.”

“You’ve never had port before?”

“Never. This trip has been full of experiences.” She took another sip.

“I’d like to add to your experiences,” he replied, drawing her closer. She lifted her head and he took that as consent. Her mouth was sweet from the port, and soft. He deepened the kiss and heard the quiet moan in her throat. When he drew back, she was flushed. He set his glass on the shelf behind her and she took another sip of hers before clutching it to her.

He moved to embrace her again, but she stepped back. “I can’t.”

“What’s stopping you?” he asked. She swallowed.

“I don’t want to be unfaithful to Edouard.”

“You’re exclusive already?” He could hardly believe it. “You’ve only just met him.”

Sophie stepped away from him. “And I’ve only just met you.”

His phone buzzed in his jacket pocket. He ignored it, but Sophie heard it.

“You’re not going to answer that?”

“I hadn’t planned to.”

“Go ahead.” She took up her glass of port and turned her attention back to the books.

“I’m sure it’s not important.” He pulled out his phone anyway, glancing at the display.

“Perron.”

“Good evening, monsieur,” Françoise said.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, moving away and into the living room.

“Mr. Gordon asked me to call you,” she replied.

“Did he?” He didn’t succeed in keeping the irritation from his voice. “He couldn’t have called himself?”

“Mr. Gordon asked me to pass on a message. He says that the assignment is complete.”

“Does he have proof?” Marc asked sharply. He wouldn’t believe it until he’d seen photographic evidence, or at the very least, a coroner’s report. He’d prefer that, along with an obituary.

“He didn’t elaborate, monsieur,” Françoise replied.

“I won’t accept just his word.” He heard Françoise sigh. “Give me his number and I’ll call him myself.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“Then I’ll have to speak with Monsieur Royale.”

“He’s unavailable, but you could call him tomorrow?”

“I suppose that will have to do.”

“Bonne nuit, monsieur.”

He slid his phone back in his pocket and returned to find Sophie waiting. He caught her hand. “Where were we?”

“I should go. This was a bad idea.”