veil she draped over her body poured over her like a waterfall, enhancing rather than covering the curves below. Miranda could make out a hint of blush-colored nipples, the triangle of glossy hair between her thighs.
“Laura told us her mother pulled some strings to arrange the loan,” Troy finally said. “Since her mother worked at your school, I don’t see what’s so amazing.”
“Laura’s shown considerable business savvy by using this painting to generate local interest in her grand opening.”
Troy led her across the lobby, staring up at the painting as if he couldn’t figure out what the fuss was all about. “Because of the mystery surrounding the artist?”
“Her mystery has become legend around here.”
A French painter from the middle of the last century, Mireille Marceaux had been known for her erotic oil paintings and sketches, although posthumously her landscapes had earned renown as well. After her unexpected death, she’d bequeathed the bulk of her estate to Westfalls Academy. The legend involved her mysterious connection to the academy and the Niagara Falls area.
“The Falling Woman is erotic art,” Miranda explained. “When my mother was in school, Westfalls administration wouldn’t acknowledge the existence of anything but the landscapes.”
“Understandable for the time. But I don’t think this painting is considered too risqué by today’s standards.”
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