know. But think about it. If we wait, and the interest continues to build, you might end up with three or four times the commission you’d get today.”
A thoughtful look crossed the dealer’s pasty face. “It would be unprecedented, to be sure, and yet…They are your paintings now, so…” He gave a Gallic shrug. “So I suppose I must do as you wish.” He lowered his voice and shook his head in appreciation. “You Americans. So shrewd at business, n’est pas?”
He clicked his heels together and gave a crisp clap of his hands. “Messieurs et mesdames,” he called. “Gentlemen and ladies, you are welcome to view the paintings, but for the time being, they are no longer for sale.”
The announcement was met by a roar of protest.
“Not for sale! I’ve been waiting in line for three hours!”
“But this is an outrage!”
“How can this be? The paintings are not for sale?”
In that instant, Dargelos the gangster stepped forward. “You can do what you wish with the rest of them, but I am purchasing these three pictures. Here is your money.” His henchmen clustered around him to make the point.
Lisette stormed to Dargelos and grabbed hold of the paintings, pulling them away. “You stupid oaf! These are not for you!”
“But, sugarplum, who should own them but he who loves you with all his heart?”
Someone else called out in a maligned tone, “So you bow to ruffians but deny the decent citizens of Paris!”
Another called, “You close the door on the public so the speculators can move in and make money off the dead woman, eh?”
This seemed to strike a chord in the crowd and instigated a chain reaction of pushing and shoving as people rushed to the walls, took possession of the nearest painting, and began to form a queue behind the gangster with billfolds in hand.
Falconier gulped, screwed up his courage, and called over the noise, “Monsieur Dargelos, I respectfully remind you this is Rue Lafitte, not Belleville. If you do not put down those paintings at once, I will summon the police.”
“Police?”
The word was picked up by others and echoed through the incredulous crowd.
“That goes for everyone here,” Falconier declared.
Instead of quieting what was becoming a mob, it enraged those already inside and panicked those who were coming in the doors. Afraid they might be locked out, they began to push their way in. Within moments, there were so many people that there was no room to move or even breathe. More people, caught up in the agitation, were bolting over others in an effort to squeeze inside.
By now Falconier was shrieking for order. But the horde was not to be dissuaded. Mason looked about her at the ensuing bedlam. But instead of feeling fear or trepidation, her face was aglow with an amazed, delighted grin.
They’re fighting over my paintings!
Outside, the sharp sound of a police whistle pierced the air. Obviously, some of Falconier’s staff had run for help. This only added to the chaos.
This is getting better and better!
Mason turned in a semicircle, taking it all in, relishing every rousing moment. She had to battle the impulse to laugh out loud. Never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined such a spectacle, and all on account of her paintings!
But then she noticed a different sort of upheaval before her. The crowd began to part in a channel that was rapidly moving her way from the direction of her self-portrait. And then she saw Richard Garrett towering above the throng, coming toward her with a determined gleam in his eyes.
What is he doing?
As he drew closer, she could see that he was firmly and resolutely taking the arm of each person who stood in his way and moving them aside to create a path for himself. His actions were decisive, even aggressive, but he kept up a litany of polite salutations, uttering each with a wry twinkle in his eyes. “Excuse me. Thank you very much. Lovely hat, Madam. We’ll move you just there, shall we?”
Until at last he’d brushed away the bystanders that separated them, scooped Mason up into his arms, and swept her through the multitude toward the front door and safety. Large, magnetic eyes with a touch of irony in them crinkled in amusement as he spoke. “I don’t always get this chummy on first acquaintance. You’ll forgive me, I hope.”
Before she could reply, the police swarmed inside, whistles blaring, pushing their way through. As they did, the wall of people surged like an angry sea, teeming in alarm, nearly knocking Garrett off his feet. He swerved her around, and as he did she was nearly pitched from his hold.
She felt herself tumbling. But then, like an athlete, he righted himself and his arms tightened about her, catching her fall. He heaved her up and into his embrace so powerfully that she had to throw her arms about his neck. And then, like a 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.
“My 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?
“My guide,” she repeated, liking the sound of it. “That’s
