Marked by Passion (31 page)

Propped against the flowerpot next to Madame's front door, they looked like findings in a garage sale. But Van Goghs had been unearthed in garage sales, so I took a deep breath and opened the door. "Madame?"

"J'arrive, Gabrielle. Je suis dans la cuisine!"

"No," I said quickly. "I'll come to you."

I hefted a painting in each hand and propped them against the furniture in the living room. I made one more trip before I locked the door and joined Madame in the kitchen.

She looked up with a smile that turned into a concerned frown.
"Tu as l'air malade, Gabrielle."

"Gee, thanks." I bent to kiss her hello. "That's what every woman likes to hear when greeted, that she looks sick."

"I cannot help it.
Tu as des bleus sous les yeux."
She brushed papery fingertips under my eyes.

Guess my attempt to camouflage the dark circles didn't work. "I was up late working."

"Ah, oui?"
She perked up.

I grinned. "So I can look sick as long as it's for a good cause."

"Ne blague pas, Gabrielle.
Do you have another painting?
La directrice,
she is anxious,
tu sais?"

"Yeah, I know. And, yeah, I finished a painting. Do you want some coffee?" I took the kettle from the stove and filled it with water.

"Why do I feel as though you are not saying something to me?"

"I have no idea," I lied.

She carefully lowered herself onto a chair.
"Rhys était très impressionné."

"Rhys?" I whirled around. "You've talked to him? Recently?"

"Mais oui, bien sûr.
He is a friend,
non?"

No, I wasn't sure he was. Crossing my arms, I leaned against the counter and swore to myself that I wouldn't ask her what he said about me.

She smiled cunningly. "The water boils, Gabrielle."

"Oh. Right."

"He tells me he saw your painting."

I sloshed some hot water, barely missing my hand. "Shit."

Madame waved in the direction of a dishtowel. "He says it is very good, your painting.
Remarquable, il a dit.
"

An eager pleasure caught in my chest. Horror followed quickly behind it, that I could be so affected by his opinion. "What else does he say?" I asked suspiciously.

She shrugged expressively. "Rhys, he is a man of few words."

"No kidding," I muttered as I moved the coffee service to the table.

"When will I see the painting?"

"Soon."

"We will need to show
la directrice
also," Madame said as she took the cup I offered her. "She will be much reassured when she sees it,
n'est-ce pas?"

I squirmed, nearly knocking over the sugar bowl.

"What is wrong, Gabrielle?" She frowned. "You are not usually so—how does one say
maladroit
in English?"

"Clumsy."

"Yes." She eyed me closely. "You are certain you are not sick? Have you eaten?"

"No, but that's not it. I have something to tell you." I looked into her wise gaze and felt more nervous than I'd ever felt in my life—even more than the first time I dared to tell Wu I was thinking of being an artist instead of a Guardian.

"You look like you face the guillotine, Gabrielle.
Dis-moi.
I will not be upset." She pursed her lips. "Will I?"

"Well—" I cleared my throat. "Maybe."

Her eyes narrowed.

"I'm reconsidering the paintings I owe the gallery."

Madame was silent for several long seconds before she said, "What does this mean, reconsider?"

"It means I haven't been working on the paintings for the rest of the series I have to complete." When she didn't explode, I quickly went on. "I started a new series."

The silence was painful.

"That's what Rhys saw, one of the new paintings." I leaned across the table. "Madame, I think the new series is the best thing I've ever painted."

She nodded slowly. "I see. But the gallery contracted the other series."

"Yeah." I pursed my lips. "Do you think they'll be upset if I turn in something different?"

She shrugged in her expressive, Gallic way.
"Je ne sais pas. C'est possible."

My heart sank.

"Unless we give assurances to them that the new paintings are better."

Hope flared in my chest. "Can we give them assurances?"

She shrugged again. "Anything is possible,
non?"

I deflated with relief.
"Merci, Madame."

"I have done nothing yet," she said as she poured two cups of coffee.

"You didn't say I completely screwed this up, which is enough for me." I warmed my hands on the cup she pushed toward me.

"Of course, one will need to see them."

"I brought them with me."

She pushed herself out of the chair. "Then we go see them,
non?"

"Now?" But she was already tottering out of the kitchen. Pressing a fist to my queasy stomach, I got up and followed her into the living room. Thank God I hadn't had anything to eat—I would have hated to hurl on one of her expensive rugs.

The light had changed in the half hour I'd been there. I always forgot how early the sun set in the winter. But the remaining light brought out the mystery of the paintings in a way I couldn't have staged.

Hands shoved in my pockets, I stared at Madame, who stood in front of the first painting—the one Rhys had called remarkable. Would she recognize his eyes? How could she not? Why didn't she say something? Maybe she hated it. Maybe she was wondering how she was going to salvage her reputation from this debacle.

Not able to take it any longer, I moved to the last one I'd painted. I stood in front of it and looked at it impassively.

It was frickin' spectacular.

I knew it without a doubt. It held the same element of darkness as the other paintings. The same danger, but seductive. It looked like a series of undulations in shades of black and gray and hints of deep scarlet, but if you looked closely you could make out two bodies intertwined. Sexy—definitely sexy.

Madame shifted toward me.
"Laisse-moi voir."

I moved over so she could stand in front of it to take a look. I forced myself to exhale. The urge to ask her if she liked it, if it was as good as I thought, if she thought the gallery would go for it, was overwhelming, so I bit my lip to keep quiet.

I thought I was going to explode when she finally nodded.
"Bon. Je les atnenerai au gallerie."

I practically wilted in relief. For Madame, that was as good as saying they were fantastic. "Do you think Chloe will like them?"

She shrugged. "We shall see."

"Okay." I nodded. I could deal with that. With Madame in my corner, I knew my chances were excellent. "Well, I'll just get out of your way now."

She waved a hand dismissively. "As you prefer,
mon chou,
but you do not need to go. It is always a pleasure to have you here."

"I need to get something to eat. I'm suddenly ravenous." I bent down and hugged her tight.
"Merci, Madame.
For everything."

She clung to me for a moment before she patted my shoulder and disengaged. "You did well, Gabrielle."

I grinned. "Didn't I?"

She snorted. "You are too modest. Now go and eat, and perhaps have some fun. You have worked hard."

"I had fun this afternoon with you," I said as I slipped into my coat.

"Bof."
She waved her hand. "You must do something more than have coffee with an old woman."

I grinned. "Are you giving me permission to rage with my peeps?"

She rolled her eyes. "So full of anger, this generation. In my day we did not rage, as you say."

"What did you do?"

Her eyes twinkled wickedly, and for a moment she looked as stunning as I imagined she did when she was younger. "Use your imagination,
mon chou.
Or perhaps call Rhys and use his."

My cheeks went up in flames.

She chuckled. "Is his imagination so very good, then?"

"Gotta go." I kissed her again and hurried out. "Don't forget to lock up after me."

I hopped the 22, thinking about what she'd said. Have fun. Problem was I wasn't sure I had anyone to have fun with. At one time, the logical choice would have been Jesse. He would have come over with dessert and a pocket full of condoms for a whole night of fun.

That seemed a long time ago.

Rhys popped into my head, and I wondered what his idea of fun was. I'd bet my favorite red sable brush that it involved dark chocolaty dessert and a box of condoms.

Shiver. Best not to go there.

Carrie had suggested hanging out—that would be fun. I chewed on my lower lip. Plus ... she was normal.

God, I needed some normalcy.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I pulled out my cell phone and called. Not that she'd answer. For all I knew she'd be at work. Or the library.

But she answered on the second ring. "Don't tell me Vivian didn't show up again."

I grinned. "I'm not at work, so I don't know. But I wouldn't be surprised."

She laughed.

"I finished the bulk of the paintings due to the gallery and wanted to get out and, um, so, I was wondering what you're up to?" I said clumsily.

"Studying." She sighed. "It's all I ever do anymore."

"Oh." I frowned, surprised at how disappointed I felt. "Well—"

"But I could use a break, and we should totally celebrate. I'd love it if you came over."

"Okay," I said before she could change her mind. "Tell me where you live."

She lived on O'Farrell close to Polk, so I got off at Mission and transferred to the 49, which would get me close enough to walk to her studio. I was shocked that she lived in the Tenderloin—it made the Mission look as safe as Noe Valley. She didn't seem tough enough to live someplace where she had to dodge crackheads and prostitutes. The rent was probably all she could afford as a student.

Carrie buzzed me into her building, and I ran up the three flights of stairs to her studio, holding my breath so I wouldn't breathe in the stale smell of urine.

She was waiting for me in her doorway, her bright smile a contrast to the dingy hallway. "Gabe, I'm so happy you called. Come in before someone propositions you."

Grinning, I slipped out of my jacket as I entered. "I could always use the extra cash."

"This is the Tenderloin. You'd be lucky if you were offered enough to cover a latte." She closed the door and triple locked it. "I don't have champagne, which is what we should really have, but I do have tea."

"Tea is great."

"Make yourself at home, such as it is," she said, waving to the small space. Her kitchenette was in the corner, and she already had a teapot on a plate warmer. "I hope you like Earl Grey. It's all I had. Congratulations on finishing your paintings! I can't wait to see them."

"I still have one more to complete."

"But you must be so relieved that you're going to make the deadline. One day I'll be able to say I knew you back when."

Smiling, I wandered around the room. Although her studio was tiny—even smaller than my place—it had a cozy feel. Clean and without clutter (except for a couple textbooks and some paper on the crate next to the futon), but warm thanks to the splashes of color she had.

"What's the verdict?" She flashed a dry smile as she pulled out two mugs. "Be honest. I can take it."

"Actually, it feels good here." I plopped onto her futon.

"Astonishing considering how many needles you had to step over on the way here, huh?"

"That thought had crossed my mind."

"Now you see why I want you to teach me self-defense." She brought out the two mugs and handed one over before sitting next to me. "So what do you say?"

I frowned. "To what?"

"To teaching me self-defense. Remember? I've only been asking you forever. Like that night you almost decked me."

"Oh." Wince. "I'm sorry about that."

She waved off my apology. "No worries. I thought it was cool how you just instinctively went for the kill. I want to do that."

Wrinkling my nose, I curled into the corner of the futon. "Trust me, it's not that cool."

"Yeah, it is." She nodded enthusiastically. "It'd be so great to know that I could take care of myself no matter what. My mom would be less freaked out all the time, too. It ain't like Iowa here, you know?"

"Is that where you're from?"

"Born and bred," she said proudly. "I came here after I got accepted to Berkeley for my master's. I liked it here so I thought I'd stay for my PhD, too. Besides, not much demand in Iowa for people with doctorates in Chinese history."

I gaped at her long enough that she asked, "Are you okay?"

Shaking my head, I said, "I didn't know you studied Chinese history."

"Yeah. East Asian history, though I specialize in China's Imperial era. Love it. I think I was a Chinese princess in another life." She winked at me. "I probably kicked some major kung fu ass, too. I think it's my destiny to learn to fight."

I nodded, but I was too weirded out to say anything. Coincidence that she was into Chinese? Hard to believe. What were the chances she knew about the scroll? Wu would have questioned her motives in befriending me.

Did she have ulterior motives? I studied her. I didn't think so. She was just too open—too trusting. And my gut didn't tell me there was anything wrong.

Fortunately, she didn't notice my internal debate. "So what do you think? Am I
grasshopper
material? I swear I'll roam the earth to avenge your death if you teach me."

I shook my head. "You don't know what you're asking."

"I do." She nodded earnestly.

"I don't know that I'm the right teacher." I pictured myself in a
gi
with my arms crossed and a scowl on my face as I told my students what to do. The image was too much like a feminine version of Wu for my comfort. Shudder.

"I think you'd rock as a teacher. How long have you been studying?"

"Too long," I said morosely.

"How long?"

"Since I could walk."

"Wow." Her eyes widened.

"But I haven't really practiced in a long time." Barring the short sessions with my duct-taped sparring partner and the one time with Rhys.