Marked by Passion (6 page)

I carried over the two delicate china cups. "How does it look?"

"Tu l'as lu?"
she asked, accepting her coffee.

"Pas vraiment.
I just flipped through it."

"Bien."
She waved a hand to the cupboards. "
Il ya des biscuits dans le placard."

Because I'm not one to turn down sweets of any kind, I went to fetch the tin of cookies from the cabinet. So Madame couldn't complain that I was a barbarian, I put a bunch on a china dish before I set them on the table. Then I took two. "So will I be signing my life away?"

She shrugged in her expressive Gallic way and set the contract aside.
"Je ne sais pas.
The language is confusing,
non?
I will give it to my lawyer and he will tell us."

I nodded and lifted my cup to my face to breathe in the aroma. I could feel Madame's eagle eyes studying me, and I wondered how long it would be before she pounced.

Exactly eleven seconds. "You do not seem content. Are you not happy about
le contracte?"

It wasn't the contract I was down about. I just shrugged. Shrugs went a long way with the French.

Not this time, though. Her fine eyebrows furrowed and her lips pursed.
"Mais pourquoi tu n'es pas contente?
This is all you want all these years,
non?"

"Yes." I sighed. It was. It was what Mom wanted for me, what she'd wanted for herself and would have accomplished if I hadn't messed up and killed her. I should have been overjoyed.

Hard to feel overjoyed when you had the crushing weight of a curse on your shoulders. It'd be one thing if I could expect
tu ch’i
to unleash predictably (like with every full moon or something), but it was completely random, as far as I could tell. I did a small internal nudge to test it and it barely flared.

"Ah, je comprends.
You are in shock, and maybe a little scared,
hein?"
She patted my hand knowingly. "You will be
merveilleuse.
You will see. Madame La Rochelle is never wrong."

I smiled at her modesty. "Of course you're not."

"How is work on the next painting coming?" she commanded as she reached for a cookie. "You have started it this week,
non?"

I pretended to be engrossed in my coffee.

"Gabrielle." She set her cup down with a sharp clatter that made me wince. "You have very few weeks left. The contract is for the series as well as the twelve other canvases. There is no series if you do not finish the last three paintings, and you cannot finish the paintings if you do not start them."

"I know. I'll finish them." I frowned at a cookie before I bit it.

"Sitting here eating is not finishing them," she pointed out.

I imagined trying to paint with Wu's ghost standing over my shoulder and criticizing every brush stroke while he chastised me for not living up to my obligations. Yeah, that was going to be real successful. "I just have a few things on my mind. Some personal business."

She sat up straight like a tenacious little dog catching a scent—a scent of something distasteful. "Personal business? What is this personal business?"

"The thing about personal business is that it's usually personal," I said with a smile. I set another cookie on Madame's saucer as I took another for myself, hoping it might distract her.

She made a sound only native French people could pull off—something between a snort and a harrumph. "There is no personal business between us. You tell me everything."

Not quite. And especially not this time. I clamped my mouth shut and lifted an eyebrow.

Her eyes narrowed.
"Je le decouvrai, ton secret."

Hell, no, she wouldn't discover my secret. But a statement like that would only have made her more determined, so I smiled enigmatically and poured the two of us more coffee.

She was silent all of thirty seconds before she started in on me again. "I worry,
mon chou.
This is—how does one say?—a lifetime chance."

"A chance of a lifetime." I corrected.

"You must work hard now. Harder than ever." She frowned. "Unless you change your mind and do not want this."

"I want it." Every fiber of my being went behind the words.

"Done,
you must be serious, because there will not be another chance. If you lose this opportunity, it is lost.
Tu comprends?"

"Oui, je comprends."
Basically she was saying if I blew it I could give up any hope I had for ever becoming a known artist.

My heart felt sick at that thought. I rubbed my chest and tried not to think negative thoughts, but Madame had augmented the frisson of doubt I'd been feeling all day.

No—Madame had done nothing. It was Wu that screwed with my confidence. Wu, the scroll, and
tu ch’i.
Since they came back into my life I'd been spiraling chaotically. I could deal with chaos as long as I felt like I was in control.

I didn't, though.

Madame clutched my hand, bringing my attention back to her. "I worry,
mon chou,
that your mind is not where it should be.
Pour réussir, il faut être complètement dédiée.
You must be completely dedicated."

"I am." Even to me it sounded like a half-assed reassurance.

"You must clean your mind from distractions and paint." She pointed a wizened finger at me. "That is most important."

"I know." Except I had the mother of all distractions tucked away in my refrigerator—and a ghost to prove it.

♥ Scanned by Coral ♥

B
y the time I'd gotten to work the next evening, I'd decided Madame was right—I couldn't afford to be distracted now. I had to focus on the goal and push everything else aside.

So wouldn't you know it that the biggest distraction I could imagine walked back into the Pour House that night.

Carrie (the other bartender on duty with me) was the one who noticed him first, given that I was bent under the bar stacking clean glasses. She nudged me with her foot. "Gabe, get up here and check this guy out."

"You, too?" I asked with a grin. "I'd expect Vivian to go crazy over a guy, but I thought you were immune."

"My studies may not give me time to date, but I'm not immune." She sighed. "You'd have to be dead not to drool over this guy."

I chuckled.

"And if I were Vivian, I wouldn't have offered to share him with you," she stated. "In fact, I would have knocked you out with a bottle of bourbon to take out any possibility of competition."

Carrie
was
night and day from Vivian, and I loved working with her. A history doctoral student by day, she worked part time to supplement her financial aid. She had great stories about her professors, she didn't insult Manuel the busboy, and the customers loved her. Best of all: she didn't pry. She respected boundaries enough not to push them.

She hinted a few times at getting together outside of work, and I'd actually been tempted. I hadn't had a female confidante since—well, since my mom. Madame was great, but not quite the same thing.

"Come on." Carrie prodded me again. "He's headed this way. You don't want to miss out on this. And on your way up, can you pull out a Sierra Nevada from the fridge?"

Shaking my head with amusement, I stretched to grab a bottle.

"Hurry." She kicked me this time.

"No man is worth this harassment," I muttered as I stood up. I rolled my eyes at the dazed look on her face. As I turned my head to see what the big deal was about, my gaze collided with dark crystalline blue eyes.

Him.

"I told you," Carrie murmured under her breath. She grabbed the beer and left me alone with the British guy.

Just like the last time, I had the sense that I knew him—more than just from having seen him before. My body came to attention, but at the same time it relaxed. The vague headache that had plagued me since I received the scroll eased. Even
tu ch’i
seemed to recognize him, calming to a gentle ripple from the seething burbling of the past few days.

Weird.

His gaze trained on me, he sat down at the same table as before, in the darkest corner of the bar. I had the impression he expected me to drop everything and go to him, and the impulse to do just that pissed me off. I wasn't any man's beck-and-call girl. I bent to no one's will—not anymore.

So I took an order of froufrou drinks from a gaggle of young women. I'd decide when I was going to go over there. I was in control.

Not that he was going to appreciate that. I covertly glanced at him. He looked like he was used to being in control, too. I bet it'd be quite an experience butting heads with him.

A shiver that felt an awful lot like anticipation crawled up my spine. I was going to get that opportunity—I just knew it.

Aware that his gaze remained focused on me, I took my time whipping up the drink order. Then I helped the next patron and the next, until everyone waiting for my attention had been served.

Except for him.

Wiping the counter, I shot him another surreptitious peek. Then I slipped out from behind the bar and went to him.

He watched me approach, thoughtfully stroking his scar with a long finger. "Games like that won't work with me, love," he said.

I tipped my head to the side and insulted him. "If
\
you thought it was a game, you aren't as observant as I I thought."

He casually lifted one eyebrow, but his gaze sharpened with renewed consideration. "I don't believe anyone has ever called my powers of observation into question."

"Consider yourself no longer a virgin. If you want a drink, you need to order it at the bar." I sauntered back to the bar like my heart wasn't pounding in my chest. I felt like I was baiting a tiger. The trick was not getting mauled in the process.

As I ducked under the counter, I hoped I hadn't irritated him into leaving. Something that felt very much like panic flared at the thought. I didn't want him gone—I just wanted him to know I wouldn't bow down to him.

But it worked. He slid into the barstool directly across from me as I pulled two beers for another customer. I glanced at him, careful not to show my sense of triumph. Not even I was that stupid.

After I delivered the beers and rang up the transaction, I turned to him. "Scotch?"

"Please."

"Coming right up." Turning around, I stretched to get the bottle off the top shelf. I could feel his eyes roving my body, so I wiggled my butt a little extra. I poured a fat finger of scotch into a crystal tumbler and set it in front of him.

He raised the glass. "Thanks for the show."

I shrugged. "Figured a suit like you could use the thrill."

"Know many suits?"

"Fortunately, no." I smiled sweetly.

"You don't know what you're missing, love." Taking a sip, he watched me over the rim of the glass.

"Somehow I don't believe you're like most suits. If you'll excuse me." Before he could reply, I went to help the guys farther down the bar. They flirted with me as I drew their beers. While I'm friendly, I never flirt back. Causes too much trouble.

I glanced back at him. To flirt with him would be like flirting with a wolf—dangerous and plain foolish.

Because he stared at me, I wandered back over to him.

Once again, he beat me to the punch. "Working here you must get a lot of men asking you out."

The edge to his statement surprised me. I thought I misinterpreted his tone—wishful thinking on my part— but I leaned into the bar and really looked at him. It was right there in his eyes. He tried to mask it, but I could see tinges of it in his blue eyes. A hint of reluctant jealousy and something darker.

Against my better judgment, I pulled a Vivian (minus the abundant cleavage and the bitchiness) and leaned over the counter so my top gaped. I was playing with fire and knew I should back off, but I couldn't. In a caressing whisper, I said, "It must really burn you up knowing I won't be leaving with you."

Okay—maybe with the bitchiness.

A hint of amusement replaced the jealousy. "I don't recall asking you to."

"You didn't have to."

"Be careful, love. I might take that as a challenge."

Then he leaned in so close I could feel the heat of him and smell his sexy maleness mingled with scotch. His finger whispered into my cleavage—a chaste brush against the skin at the draped vee of my top.

A delicious shiver ran down my body, and I felt my cheeks flush. God, I hoped he didn't notice how my nipples just woke up and said
Bonjour!

I took hold of his finger and leveraged it backward to peel it off me. Not because I didn't want him to touch me—quite the contrary—but he needed to know that I wasn't going to let him do whatever the hell he wanted. "I'm not that kind of girl. I don't even know your name."

He was silent a moment, as if he were wondering what kind of girl I was. Then he stretched his hand across the counter. "Rhys Llewellyn."

"Gabe Sansouci." To my credit, I didn't hesitate in shaking it. Nor did I gasp at the sparks that shot from the contact—though I would have been justified. I'd never felt anything like it. It was like
tu ch’i
flowed from me to him and back. No boundaries, no beginning or end. A limitless connection.

More importantly, for the first time since I received the scroll, I felt like
tu ch’i
was under control. His touch somehow siphoned some of the excess from me—at least that's what it seemed like to me.

Staring at him, I waited for him to keel over, but his face betrayed nothing. How could he not feel
anything?
It felt like thick molten lava blanketed us. I wanted to fan myself with my free hand, but I didn't want him to think he was the one affecting me so badly. Not when
he
looked so unaffected.

"Gabe." He held my hand in his in such a way that I knew he was intimating I wouldn't be released until he wished to do so. "Is that short for Gabrielle?"

Chills raced up my arms at the way he drawled my name, like a sinful dessert to be savored. "Everyone calls me Gabe."

"I make it a point never to follow the masses." He let go of my hand.