that all he heard was the sound of his own ragged breath. What was happening?
The nightmare.
Quickly, he turned on the lamp. Fumbling, he reached for the book of color reproductions he kept at his bedside and opened it. The page he’d turned to featured a Chardin still life: a silver goblet, a bowl and spoon, three pieces of fruit on a tabletop. He forced his mind to sink into the tranquil picture, and it calmed him.
They were the curse of his existence, these nightmares. He’d had them every week or two since he was a boy, and though they’d varied in detail, they were basically the same. Trapped in apocalyptic darkness, desperate to escape, surrounded by unseen terrors, reaching out for him, pulling him back. In the distance, a dim blue light—so radiant, so pure—that he knew it was his salvation from this pit. But the harder he tried to get to it, the faster it receded from him, until he was struggling with all his might, the light vanished completely, and he was engulfed by the unspeakable. Then he jolted awake.
When he did, he felt as terrified as he had in the dream. Until he could turn on the light and find a piece of art to look at. To soothe him, to bring him back to reality.
He tossed back the sheet, threw his legs over the side, and rose naked from the bed. Stepping over to the dresser, he took the pitcher of water in hand, holding it high, letting it pour down like rain over his head. It cooled his throbbing head and washed away the last remnants of the dream, trickling down over every tight muscle of his body. With his hands, he plastered back his wet hair, then rubbed the water over the sinews of his chest, his fingers ruffling the thick damp hair. Then he went back to the bed and sprawled upon it, his naked body still taut from the stress of the dream, letting the world settle itself around him.
Gradually, it came back to him. Paris. The Grand Hotel. The gold suite. And, finally, the extraordinary day he’d just experienced. Just when he thought he’d seen it all and the rest of his life was going to be routine, a day like this one came along.
He’d been asked to come here to have a look at the Caldwell paintings and the phenomenon that was building around them. Frankly, he hadn’t expected much, so it had all taken him by surprise.
He still wasn’t sure what to make of it. But as he lay there, reliving the experience, he was even more sure that, buried in this phenomenon, was an enormous opportunity for him.
Then he thought of the woman and felt himself stir once again. She, too, had taken him by surprise. Christ Almighty! He’d just intended to lay on a little charm. But the situation had exploded into one of the most intense carnal experiences of his life. Something about her brought out the beast in him, stirring feelings he couldn’t even define. For someone who liked to be in control of every situation, she was a perilous proposition. He’d have to be careful with this one.
Had his overture been an unwise move? In retrospect, probably so. Why had he made it, then? Obviously, because she said she was leaving and he had to prevent her from slipping out of his fingers. Still, she’d been more than he’d bargained for. Once again, he cautioned himself to be careful.
Well, here I am. What am I going to do now?
Some decisions had to be made.
For some time he remained there, propped against the pillows, letting things play out in his mind, beating down erotic thoughts that kept popping up about the delicious interlude in the coach, knowing there was no way he was going to walk away from this.
Suddenly, the spark of an idea hit him. An ambitious idea. An outrageous idea. So ambitious, so outrageous that he couldn’t take it seriously, but…he couldn’t let go. It would take patience, meticulous planning, all his skill and dedication. But maybe…just maybe…
Slipping into a robe, he felt such a surge of creative satisfaction that he knew he was hooked.
He walked the long path to the double doors and threw them wide, opening up the bedroom to the sitting room beyond. A sliver of light stealing through a crack in the curtains helped him see the shapes and shadows of the tasteful furnishings of the suite. He yanked back the drapes, letting in the golden glow of the lighted façade of l’Opéra across the street. His fourth-floor French doors put him in line with an exhilarating view of the gilded angels that graced the rooftop of Garnier’s palace, as if they were soaring before his eyes.
He looked at them for a moment, these muses that seemed to have been placed there just for him on this auspicious night. Then, going to the bar and pouring himself a brandy, he pulled a chair to the window and sat facing it.
He stayed there for the rest of the night, sipping the brandy slowly as his eyes caressed the view and his mind began to unfold his exhilarating plan.
Mason awoke the next morning feeling strangely happy and at one with the world. It was such an unusual feeling that, for a moment, she couldn’t figure out why. Then she remembered. The show…the riot over her paintings…and him…
Richard Garrett.
She stretched her limbs, smiling dreamily, feeling the sweet afterglow flood through her. Snuggling deeper into the feathery folds of the bed, she luxuriated in the majesty of her good fortune.
Her discretely luxurious surroundings served to reinforce the dreamlike sensation. Falconier’s suite was a large, high-ceilinged space at the front of the block-long building consisting of two levels: a comfortable sitting room with a mezzanine bedchamber above overlooking it. Striped wallpaper of cranberry and plum created a backdrop for the maroon and hunter green furnishings. Pictures of celebrated race horses adorned the walls.
But for Mason, the most extraordinary aspect of it was the fact that her phenomenal streak of good fortune had placed her directly across the narrow Rue Scribe from the Grand Hotel and Richard Garrett.
As if it was meant to be.
She heard the key turn in the door downstairs and sat up in bed. Then she heard Lisette’s voice, “Thank you, mon cher.”
A young male voice answered, “But it is my pleasure, Mademoiselle Lisette. I have delighted in your artistry many times at the circus.”
“Aren’t you sweet,” Lisette said. “Here’s something for your trouble.”
“Oh, no, Mademoiselle. I could never accept anything from you. Meeting you is honor enough.”
“I’m up here,” Mason called when she heard the door close.
“Still in bed?” After a moment, Lisette appeared coming up the spiral stairwell. She looked at Mason, lying in bed with her hands above her head, bathed in morning sunlight streaming through the windows, a satisfied smile on her face.
“I’m a woman of leisure,” Mason sighed.
“Where did you go yesterday? I looked for you everywhere. Then I had to go to work.”
Mason stretched again, savoring the feel of her body against the cool sheets. “I was swept away by Apollo.”
“What Apollo was that?”
“Didn’t you see me with him? The tall Englishman? I don’t know how you could miss him. He made every other man there look like Toulouse-Lautrec.”
Lisette blew a dangling strand of hair out of her eyes. “I only saw Dargelos trying to make my life miserable, as usual. But tell
