if on cue a tiny rag-covered child—or is it an adult?—hurries up to Paul and whispers in his ear. I watch silently as he draws a coin out of his pocket and gives it to the beggar. Then he grabs me by the arm and pushes me into a tiny alleyway.
“Vite, quickly,” he says, “we must leave here.”
“Why?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”
“Word is out on the streets Monsieur Renard is looking for a girl with red hair wearing only a red velvet cloak. They will look for you here among the beggars. Vien, come—”
“Where are we going?” I ask. I won’t listen to the little voice in my head, telling me if I am young and beautiful, then I’ve sold my soul. Telling me what I don’t want to believe. All I feel is the sting of the artist’s kiss lingering on my lips.
I have no choice but to follow him, hugging the doorways and staying close behind the artist as he heads down the twisting rue des Halles toward the Seine. Everywhere I look citizens attend to their daily lives—going to the market, the cafés, the shops, their offices, cleaning the streets. I slip in and out of reality, a worrisome fear bobbing up and down in my stomach. A fear that grows with each moment.
After a few blocks, Paul slows our pace, though I stay close behind him as we walk along the edge of the Seine near the Pont Neuf. Standing on the quay under the trees shading the banks of the river, I look out over the Seine, puzzled. In my time, the river is filled with foam plastic cups, ducks, even used condoms. Now it ripples along its mile course through the city filled with boats carrying cargoes of grain going upstream, wine going down. Heavy traffic of brightly painted barges, bateaux-lavoirs for the city’s washerwomen, as well as commuter boats, congest the canal. People scurrying about, everyone is caught up in their daily lives.
I grow cold all the way through my cloak to my petticoat to my bones. I hug myself, shivering all over. “Tell me, monsieur, what year is it?”
“Alors, mademoiselle, it’s 1889.”
1889.
I start to laugh, choke on the laugh, then seek refuge in incessant babbling. I’m alive in 1889 Paris and the artist in the portrait is also alive and here with me.
Silly words, meaningless words to Paul Borquet. Puzzled, he takes a flask out of his jacket and the violent whiff of alcohol pushes through the stale air, its scent making me dizzy. The artist holds the flask of strong liqueur out to me, its heady bouquet making my eyes water. He passes his hand over it, as if to make it disappear, then sniffs it with approval.
“You need a drink, mademoiselle.”
“Why not?” I say. Something, anything that will help the throbbing in my head go away so I can think out this whole crazy situation.
I inhale deeply, then take the flask Paul offers me, drinking the liqueur down quickly, noting its bitter though licoricelike taste, hoping it will take away the chill in my bones and put some sense back into my head. I must play my part in this Parisian soap opera, though I wonder when I’ll wake up.
I blink several times, swallow. My head feels woozy, funny…
I want Paul to hold me again…in his arms…play with my clit.
Oh, I’m dizzy. My legs rubbery. A tingling sensation scrambles down my arms, running like trickles of rushing water to the ends of my fingers. I start breathing faster, yet I feel an overwhelming sense of fatigue grip me and not let go, as if my body is shutting down, exhausted by everything I’ve been through since that electric current zapped me. I can hear Paul’s voice talking to me, but I can’t see his face clearly. Fuzzy shapes—he looks blurry…so blurry. But, oh, so handsome.
“What is this stuff?” I ask curiously, licking my lips. Peppermint. Licorice. And something else I can’t identify.
“Absinthe.”
Absinthe. A strong anise-flavored liqueur illegal in my time because of its druglike properties. Powerful stuff. Addictive and known for causing madness. Toulouse-Lautrec, Baudelaire, Degas. They were all absinthe drinkers, as was Oscar Wilde. Didn’t the Englishman say something about absinthe making you see things as you wish they were, then as they really are?
I blink. Once, then again. It doesn’t do any good. Everything around me starts to move. Dizziness overcomes me, then a pounding in my head. I feel consciousness slipping away from me and I’m powerless to stop it. Powerless to stop Paul Borquet from suddenly pushing his fingers in between my labes, thrusting up into me. He’s caught me by surprise again, and the throbbing sensation blocks off my thoughts, my ability to enjoy the pleasure of his thumb rubbing my clitoris. What’s happening to me? Am I waking up? Is the dream over?
No, I don’t want to wake up, not when it’s getting this good. Oh, damn—
—damn!
CHAPTER SIX
Paul Borquet pushed open the window and hung out over the second-story sill. He looked down into the courtyard below where moss grew between the flagstones and the plants in the garden were covered with straw. Breathing in deeply, he cursed the grayness of the day. Merde, he needed more light. Only a faint glow stole through the open, airless window of his studio and hung over his shoulder, trying to enter his domain.
Containing his annoyance, though only barely, Paul pushed the low and broad divan with the unconscious girl closer to the window. She lay upon the couch, not moving. Pale, her eyes closed. He couldn’t tear himself away from looking at her, her glorious cloud of red hair floating around her head, her full pink lips, firm breasts. Her skin was so smooth, so flawless. Skin like perfect white clouds on a fresh spring morning. He couldn’t believe she was here with him.
He’d acted quickly after the redhead passed out from the effects of the strong liqueur, carrying her in his arms, then taking her by hansom cab back to his studio. Once inside the closed conveyance, Paul pressed himself against her, caressing her sleeping body, pushing aside her red velvet cloak while his other hand snaked around her shoulders until one of her breasts rested in his palm. Squeezing firmly, his thumb and forefinger found her nipple which, though she was unconscious, hardened under his touch.
Now, watching her with a mixture of pleasure and excitement, he drew renewed energy from her. He held her captive with the green enchantress as her manacles, but he couldn’t take the chance of her escaping him. He was still gripped by the fear she would disappear, vanish into some unknown dark shadow, an abyss of black magic that haunted the deepest recesses of his mind.
He picked up his cane and came toward her, wielding the handle about, as if he were painting the heavy air between them. Then he pulled the handle off the cane to reveal the silver blade of a knife, its sharp point catching the glint of the lighted candle overhead. He took the precaution of securing her by cutting the silken fringed cords from the pillow and wrapping them around her wrists, then tying her to the curved, closed opening on the gilded caning framework of the divan.
Next, with the sharp tip of his cane, he lifted off the piece of midnight blue silk he’d laid over her naked breasts, her chest heaving up and down so slowly that if he laid a feather between her breasts it wouldn’t move. He could see the trembling pulse in her neck and the bubbles of perspiration between her thighs. He must capture that purity, define the graceful, continuing line that swirled in elegant curves from her white shoulders down to her hips, then down to her ankles.
“I can deny my passion no longer, mademoiselle,” he
