“Your girlfriend. Who you bought the necklace for.”
He stopped and faced me. “Kate, the necklace is for a friend . . . who happens to be a girl. A very good friend.” He sounded uncomfortable. I wondered for a second if it was the truth, then decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.
Vincent studied my face. “You thought I was asking you to help me choose a present for my girlfriend? And that made you feel . . .” From the smile stretching across his lips I could tell he was about to say something that would embarrass me, so I began walking away.
“Wait, Kate!” he said, catching up to me and lacing his arm back through mine. “I’m sorry.”
I decided to play nonchalant about it. “You told me this wasn’t a formal date when you invited me to come. Why should I care if you have a girlfriend?”
“Absolutely,” he said, giving me a fake-serious look. “Yeah, you and I are just friends . . . out for a friendly walk. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Exactly!” I agreed, my heart giving a little painful twist.
He broke into a large grin and, leaning over, kissed me on the cheek. “Kate,” he whispered, “you are way too gullible.”
Chapter Seven
I WAS ABLE TO BASK IN THE MEANING OF HIS words for exactly three seconds before he put a firm arm around my shoulders and began steering me toward an exit. “What—” I began, but his steely expression quieted me and I followed his lead—walking steadily, but not quite running, toward a doorway.
Once on the street, he headed back toward the subway. “Where are we going?” I asked, breathless from the brisk pace.
“I saw someone I didn’t want to run into.” He slipped his cell phone from his pocket and speed-dialed a number. Getting no response, he hung up and tried another.
“Do you mind telling me what’s going on?” I asked, confused by his sudden personality change. In an instant Prince Charming had morphed into Secret Agent Guy.
“We have to find Jules,” Vincent said, talking more to himself than to me. “His painting studio’s right around the corner.”
I stopped, and since he had ahold of my arm, I pulled him backward. “Who are we running away from?”
It took a lot of effort for Vincent to compose himself. “Kate. Please let me explain later. It’s really important that we find one of my . . . friends.”
The wonderful feeling from five minutes ago had disappeared. Now I felt like telling him to go ahead without me. But remembering what my days had consisted of lately, I decided to throw caution (and boredom) to the wind and follow him.
He led me to an apartment building that practically oozed with old-Paris charm next to the église Saint-Paul. We climbed a tightly winding wood staircase to the second-floor landing. Vincent knocked once before pushing the door open.
The studio’s walls were hung with paintings all the way up to the high ceiling. Reclining nudes hung alongside geometric-looking townscapes. The visual overload of color and form was as overwhelming as the strong smell of paint thinner.
In the far corner of the room a stunningly beautiful woman was draped across an emerald green couch. Dressed in a tiny bathrobe that barely covered her, she might as well have been naked. “Hi, Vincent,” she called across the room with a low, smoky voice that couldn’t have matched her seductive looks better if she had bought them as a paired set.
Vincent’s friend, Jules, walked out of a tiny bathroom just beyond the couch. Wiping some dripping paintbrushes on a rag, he said without looking up, “Vince, man. Just getting started with Valerie here. Did you get Jean-Baptiste’s call?”
“Jules, we have to talk,” Vincent said with a sense of urgency that made Jules jerk his head up. He looked at me in surprise and then, seeing Vincent’s face, his own darkened. “What’s going on?”
Vincent cleared his throat, staring expressionlessly at Jules. He pronounced his words with care. “Kate and I were walking around the Village Saint-Paul and I saw someone there.”
The code word meant something to Jules. His eyes narrowed. “Outside,” he said, looking sideways at me, and strode out the door.
“Be right back, Kate,” Vincent said. “Oh, and this is Valerie, one of Jules’s models.” And having made that introduction, he followed Jules into the staircase, the door slamming behind him.
A gentleman even during a crisis, I thought, amazed at Vincent’s sangfroid in making sure I was introduced to Naked Girl before leaving us alone together. “Hi,” I said. “Bonjour,” she replied, bored. Picking up a paperback, she settled back to read. I lingered near the door, looking at the paintings while trying to hear what was going on outside.
Their voices were hushed, but I could pick up a few words. “ . . . couldn’t do anything without backup,” Vincent was saying, bitter regret in his voice.