His Muse Read online

  “Sold!”

  “That was quick.” Raquel smiles at me.

  “I don’t want someone to take it before I can buy it. It’s perfect.”

  “Done. I will call the owner when we get back to the office. Since you are paying cash, I’m pretty sure you will get the keys no later than tomorrow or the day after that.” She leans forward, conspiratorially. “And then we will celebrate.”

  ~~~

  “This was how I found my new home and new best friend.” Her mother says warmly.

  Kari’s mind wanders to the Frenchwoman. She remembers the brunette woman being very beautiful and elegant. Raquel had always reminded her of Audrey Hepburn.

  For years, Kari had hated her too. Raquel had been the one to start it all. Or that’s how it felt at the time. Even now, Kari feels that burn of anger in the pit of her stomach.

  With a heavy sigh, she gets up and heads to the kitchen. Kari pours herself another glass of wine. She figures she’s going to need it to get through the rest of the story.

  Chapter 3

  “Ryn, ma chére. You have to come to the opening of my art gallery this Saturday.” Raquel insists as we eat lunch.

  A month has passed and meeting for lunch every afternoon has become our thing, if I’m not out of town checking out different cities. We decided to make sure we schedule our work around lunch. Something I look forward to every day. Getting to know the eccentric and social woman has helped me settle into my life here. I couldn’t be more grateful for her advice and tips.

  “Art gallery?”

  “Oui. A friend and I decided to open a gallery together as a side business. There are so many young artists out there who need exposure. So, we decided to help. And the young artist we are featuring on opening night is magnifique.” She sighs dramatically.

  “Him or is artwork?” I tease her.

  She loves men. Of all ages.

  “Both! You will see. You must come. I will introduce you to some of my friends as well. You need more interesting people than me to spend time with.”

  “Okay, I’m in.” I conceded easily. “But trust me, you’re pretty interesting if you ask me.”

  It’s true. Raquel fascinates me. She’s forty-five, a year older than me, and she seems so free. She has a couple lovers that she juggles easily. Talking about sex is nothing to her. Being sexual is nothing to her. She isn’t ashamed of the number of lovers she has or all the things she does with them. Even though she’s an ‘older’ woman, she is confident that her body is still desirable. She’s even sat nude for a couple of art classes. I admire her carefree attitude.

  “Chéri, that is only because you come from that stiff country you call home. Everyone needs to lighten up over there and fuck more often. You would all be a lot happier if you did.”

  I chuckle at her. “You’ve got a point.”

  ~~~

  I fret over what to wear to the art gallery opening/exhibition for about an hour before I settle on a simple, little black dress. It’s sleeveless and fitted in the bodice with a high neckline that only displays my collarbones, and flares out at the hip and floats flirtatiously around the tops of my knees. Strategically hiding my soft tummy, wide hips, and thick thighs. I’m certain Raquel will think my ensemble is entirely too conservative and that I need to show more skin. But I don’t want to come off as a desperate hoochie the first time I meet her friends either. I add a colorful, silk floral wrap to drape over my arms, slip on my strappy black heels, and head out.

  It’s a perfect evening. Warm, but not overly so. A cool sea breeze blows by, ruffling the skirt of my dress as I walk down towards the bustling main street to hail a cab.

  The night feels particularly charged. As if something big is going to happen. Or maybe it’s because this will be my first official night out since I’ve been here, and my nerves have me jittery. Either way, I’m ready to socialize. Kari will be here next week, and I don’t want her thinking that her mother is completely lame and has become a hermit.

  I give the cabbie the address in my marginally better grasp of the French language, after a month of practice. Luckily, Raquel has been willing to let me practice on her.

  The taxi pulls up to the gallery in under ten minutes. I hand the driver the fare with tip and step out of the little European car. I press a hand to my fluttering stomach before taking a deep breath and walking through the door.

  Inside, the lighting is dim throughout the space, except for the lighting above the artwork on the walls. The walls are white and plain, the perfect backdrop to let each piece be the star of the show. Pillars of stone create dynamic archways, and a curving staircase leads to a loft area in the back, where more paintings hang.

  Several people are milling about, viewing the collection or talking quietly. Some young, some older. A varied mix of races and nationalities as well, which puts me a bit at ease.

  “Ryn! You’re here.” Raquel calls out as she approaches me. “Come, chéri. Let me introduce you to some of my friends.”

  She places a hand on my back and guides me forward. The little group of five are an eclectic bunch. Conservative, bohemian, quirky, etc.

  “Everyone, this is Taryn Reid, the woman I was telling you all about.” She begins before pointing to each of them.

  “Ryn, this is Pierre.”

  He’s a handsome man about my age with beautiful dark hair and silver at his temples. He takes my hand, and I try to shake it, but instead, he lifts it to his lips and kisses it.

  “Nice to meet you, Pierre.” I flush at the gesture.

  “The pleasure is mine, I’m sure.” He says smoothly.

  “Watch out for this one. He’s a terrible flirt.” Raquel warns before moving on. “This is Corrine. Friend and part owner of the gallery.”

  Corrine’s a pretty older woman with pure white hair. Though her age doesn’t stop her from being fun and quirky. Her dress has kisses all over it, and funky red glasses frame her face. She air kisses each of my cheeks in greeting.

  “This is Olivier.”

  A shy younger man. Possibly in his late twenties or early thirties. He has adorable curly blonde hair and doesn’t make much eye contact.

  “This is Alain.”

  A man who isn’t very attractive, but he has a very welcoming smile and seems to be a gregarious individual as he takes me in his arms for a bear hug.

  “And finally, this is Nicole.”

  The last woman looks to be in her thirties. She’s cute and plump, unlike most French women. And I can tell that she’s self-conscious about it. Though she’s still stylish, wearing her bohemian dress very well. It also appears that she has a crush on the flirty one, Pierre. If her frequent, bashful glances have anything to do with it.

  “It’s really nice to meet you all.” I smile self-consciously.

  I hate small talk. And meeting new people always makes me nervous because I know they’re assessing me. Am I attractive? Am I interesting? Am I funny? Am I intelligent? We all do it whenever we meet someone new. But it’s nerve-wracking. And more so when you’re the new person and everyone else already knows each other.

  “So, you are from The States, yes?” Corinne asks.

  “Yes…uh…oui.” I forget to use my French.

  “Oh, don’t worry about speaking French. We all know English.” Pierre winks at me.

  “Thanks. I really don’t want to butcher your beautiful language.”

  “What made you move to Nice?” Olivier asks softly.

  “I’d visited a few years ago, and it felt like home. So, when my daughter graduated college, I figured I’d move here.”

  “Wow! That’s really brave,” Nicole says.

  “What do you plan to do for work, or are you retired?” Alain asks.

  “Oh, no. Not retired just yet. I’ve got a few years left in me.” I wonder if I look old enough to be retired.

  “Alain!” Raquel smacks him playfully. “She’s not old enough to be retired.”

  I love Raquel even more for t
hat.

  “Pardon, I did not mean to imply that you were old enough to retire. I thought that maybe you’d made enough money at an early age to retire early,” Alain says.

  I smile and chuckle as he begins to sweat.

  “It’s okay. No offense taken. I’m a travel agent, and I plan to start a tourism company for the South of France that caters to African American women.”

  “Oh, that sounds delightful!” Corinne clapps her hands together.

  “Yes, please. Bring as many beautiful women like you that you can. I will be in heaven.” Pierre grins, and Nicole frowns.

  I feel my face flush, but I don’t respond. They ask me several more questions, and I answer each one, but I’m starting to feel like I’m interviewing for a new job. I definitely need a moment.

  “If you all would excuse me, I need to visit the ladies’ room and then check out the artwork.” I excuse myself and hightail it to the bathroom.

  I check what little makeup I put on for the occasion. Mascara and red lipstick. My reflection shows everything is still in its proper place. Not that I expected otherwise. It was just an excuse to get away from being the center of attention. A role I’m not that comfortable being in.

  I take a fortifying breath and make my way back into the crowd. A waiter walks past with a silver tray of champagne, and I quickly grab one. I need to relax, so I take a few gulps. It’s delicious. The sparkling bubbles bursting on my taste buds. I feel the bubbly relaxing my muscles within minutes.

  My eyes finally have a moment to focus on a painting. I blink a few times, mesmerized. I take a few steps closer. It’s a gorgeous painting of a nude black woman. It’s partially her profile and partially her back. As if she was in the middle of turning away from the artist. The curve of her breast and nipple as well as the rounded globes of her backside, are sensual. The image is sexy and classy.

  I turn to look at some of the other pieces. They’re all of women in some form of undress. And although they’re a diverse group of women, most of them are black. And the way they were captured is more beautiful than I’ve ever seen. As if this person understood the essence of us.

  The next painting is of a dark-skinned beauty. Her head hangs down, and I can’t see her face. Just the soft, black cloud her afro makes around her head. She’s sitting with her legs crossed on what looks like a bed. Her hands on either side of her grips the edge of the mattress. It’s hard to tell whether she’s solemn, gathering strength to face the day, or waiting for her lover. All I know is that the light that hits her bare skin makes me feel hopeful.

  “It is scandalous, no?” A deep voice colored with a French accent says next to me.

  “Oh no, it’s lov-”

  The rest of my words get stuck in my throat as I turn to look my unexpected companion. He’s young. I’m not sure how young, although I sense he’s much younger than myself. But he’s beautiful. Not an adjective I’d normally use to describe a man, but there’s no other word that seems to fit.

  The first thing I notice is his hair. It’s long, golden brown and wavy, the ends curling. He has it pulled back into a messy bun at the back of his neck. A few strands have escaped, and he brushes them back behind his ears.

  The second thing I notice is his lips as he gives me a cheeky grin. They are amazingly full and pink. The most kissable lips I’ve seen in a long time.

  And third, his eyes. They are an incredible shade of green. Jade to be exact with brown around the pupils to give them added character. They are mesmerizing. Deep set and downturned, giving him a sleepy, sexy vibe.

  He crosses one arm over his chest and rests his other elbow on top of it. He strokes his goatee thoughtfully, and then glances over at me with a raised brow.

  “You were saying?”

  “I-I was saying that I think it’s lovely.”

  “So…not too much? Do you not think the artist is objectifying women?”

  “Uh…I don’t think so.”

  “What do you think?” He asks only inches from my ear as he walks closely behind me, moving to my other side. His bicep brushing my back.

  He’s purposely putting me on the spot, and I feel shaky.

  “I…ah…think that the artist has captured women in their natural state. In quiet and private moments.”

  “Are you not American? You do not find the display of naked bodies offensive?”

  “Yes, I’m American. But that doesn’t mean I have a problem with a naked body. Besides, I think these paintings are done very tastefully.”

  “Then perhaps I will paint you next.” He grins, letting me in on his little secret.

  “You’re the artist?”

  “I am.” He holds out his hand for me to take. I look down at it and finally notice the stains of color on them as if he’d just finished working on a new painting. Like he’d hurriedly washed his hands, but was unable to remove all of the evidence. “Etienne Lemaire,” A-tee-in Lu-mare, “And you are?”

  My hand travels the short space between us and I place it in his. He bends over our entwined hands as he raises mine to those full lips. They feel soft. Unlike when Pierre kissed my hand earlier, tingles spread from my hand through my entire body. I’m hyper-aware of everything about him.

  “Taryn R-Reid.” I’m a nervous mess. “Your work is really lovely.”

  “Merci beaucoup.” Thank you very much.

  “So why do you paint so many black women?” I blurt out the question like an ass and cringe inwardly.

  “Why not?” He gestures towards the painting. “You see, to me, black women are Mother Earth. You are Creation. What better subjects than that?”

  I’m flummoxed. Without words.

  Coming from a country where black women are either ignored or disparaged, this man is more than a breath of fresh air. He is the air himself. And he just breathed life into me.

  He ignores my silence and continues.

  “What brings you to Nice, Taryn?” My name on his lips makes my stomach flutter.

  I don’t know why, but I tell him the truth.

  “I’m starting over.”

  “What was your life before?”

  “Divorced, mother of one.” I sigh. “In other words, lost and needing to find myself. My daughter is grown now. So, I figured it was time to focus on myself.”

  He stares at me for a few moments. I feel naked.

  “Tu es nouveau.” You are new.

  “What do you-”

  “Oh, good! You found him.” Raquel says as she walks up to us, cutting off my question. She kisses both his cheeks.

  I understood what he said, though I have no idea what he meant by I’m new. But it looks like I’ll have to wait to find out.

  “Isn’t his artwork, divine?” Raquel asks me.

  “It’s stunning.”

  “Raquel, do you not think Taryn would make a stunning subject for my next piece?” He asks her but never stops staring at me.

  “Yes! Oh Ryn, you have to do it! You’d be amazing.”

  “Uh…I don’t know about that. I’m not quite that bold.”

  “How do you know this? You do not even know yourself yet.” He says insightfully.

  I feel myself bristle at his words, and then remember that I’d just told him I’m lost and looking for myself. Although, hearing someone else say it hurt for some reason. Especially from him. He’s young, and everything about him says that he knows himself. I feel somewhat embarrassed that I’m so clueless in the face of his confidence and self-awareness. And that he sees it.

  “Do not worry, Etienne. I will work on her.” Raquel smiles slyly at me. “Now, I’m sorry to interrupt your conversation, but I need to steal Etienne away. There are some interested parties who would like to purchase a few of your pieces.”

  “It’s okay. I want to look at the rest of his collection.” I smile awkwardly at them.

  Etienne continues to stare at me a little longer as Raquel pulls him away. I can’t seem to look away from his gaze or move. The moment he finally breaks e
ye contact, the breath I’ve been holding explodes from my lungs, and I sag as the tension eases.

  I’ve never felt anything like it. My champagne flute trembles in my hand. A waiter walks by, and I swap out my empty glass for a full one. I quickly drink down three-quarters of it, trying to calm my nerves.

  He is entirely too young for me to feel this… Eager. It would be way more appropriate to feel this excitement when Pierre had kissed my hand and flirted shamelessly. Though it’s hard for me to take someone like him seriously. Etienne didn’t just flirt, he made me think. He challenged me, and I’ve only known him for a few minutes.

  There’s no other way around it. I’m intrigued.

  ~~~

  I make my way around to each of the paintings. Many of them already have sold tags next to them. I don’t know much about the art world, but I’m assuming this has been a successful opening/exhibition for both artist and owner.

  I stop at the last painting, and I feel my face heat. It is of a beautiful ebony woman. Her skin is obsidian and luminous against the red, orange, and pink tones around her. She’s lying on her back on what looks like orange satin. One leg is bent at the knee, the other is straight, and they’re both spread just enough to display what should be her sex. Yet instead, it is a pink flower. A lily that often favors the most intimate part of a woman. An elegant hand spreads the petals, what would normally be her labia. A drop of dew slides down the edge of the petal. The whole thing is breathtaking. And so incredibly erotic.

  I wonder if he made love to her after he finished painting her. The painting makes me hot and envious. To be as free as her. To make love to the beautiful artist.

  I look away from the painting, suddenly feeling the weight of my forty-four years. My eyes connect with sultry green ones from across the room. Etienne is chatting with a group of people, but his eyes are on me. It’s obvious that they had already been focused on me as I absorbed his most intimate and sensual piece in the collection.