Illicit Canvas: political romance and stand alone romance Read online

  This time he’s dressed casually in dark jeans and white shirt. His car is filled with that spicy cologne. It’s an older vehicle, but the interior is immaculate and he obviously keeps it clean.

  “I have to warn you, my friend Antoine doesn’t particularly like young people, so he might be quite grumpy and curt. This is just the way he is.”

  “That’s all right. I really appreciate this,” I say. Ethan starts the car and we leave my street, heading towards the city. The silence is unnerving, stirring the growing tension between us.

  Ethan stops at the first traffic light and glances at me.

  “Do you miss Saint-Malo, Arwen?” he asks after the car moves. I exhale, knowing that he’s only trying to make conversation, to kill the awkward silence. He knows about my mother and my passion, but I still don’t know anything about him.

  “Yes and no. My mother has her own life and her friends. She is engaged to Francois, an architect from Paris. It’s a small town; a lot of tourists visit it in the summer. I prefer bigger cities. There is always something going on around here,” I explain.

  “Yes, I also prefer bigger cities. I lived in London with my ex-wife. It was a perfect place to discover rare art pieces,” he adds casually and something inside my stomach turns. Ethan is divorced. Great, so maybe it’s a hint to keep asking him about his personal life.

  “How old are you?” I blurt out, not thinking. He smiles.

  “I’m forty-three,” he responds, glancing at me. I suck in a breath, knowing that there are twenty-three years between us. How can I be attracted to a man like him? A man that probably doesn’t even find me interesting at all.

  “How long have you been divorced?”

  Right, I have to stop interrogating him like that, but I can’t help myself. Besides, I need to know if it’s okay for me to dream a little.

  “Sixteen years. I have spend time with other women on and off, but I never found anyone special to settle down with.”

  I like his honesty and all of a sudden I feel euphoric, knowing that he doesn’t have anyone in his life. I really need to check myself into a mental hospital. He just told me that he is single and completely available. After that question there is more awkward silence, perhaps because we are both afraid of the next question. Am I single? I bet he wants to know that.

  Instead, Ethan switches on his radio and puts on a song that I recognise. Frank Sinatra, “You Make Me Feel So Young.” I glance at Ethan, feeling heat that creeps down my arms, awakening parts of my body that have been asleep for some time. I broke up with my ex-boyfriend, Rudolph, six months ago, and there hasn’t been anyone else apart from Colin.

  Ethan hums under his breath and I have this urge to touch him, just to make sure that he’s real. Maybe I’ve been going out with the wrong guys. Frank Sinatra’s voice fills the car and Ethan seems to be lost in his own world.

  Fortunately for both of us, the journey is short and after half an hour Ethan parks the car in front of a tall townhouse in a part of Brussels that I don’t recognise at all. That’s why I always go everywhere with a map. There are other cars parked, but this neighbourhood seems quiet, occupied by an older generation that likes to stay away from busy streets.

  “Antoine is expecting us. He might be a bit apprehensive at first to talk to you, so please be patient, Arwen,” Ethan explains, looking at me as intensely as he did in the coffee shop. My pulse speeds because I just don’t want to take my eyes off him.

  “I’m used to it. Most artists that I’ve met are odd and eccentric.” I smile. There is something in Ethan’s eyes, possibly a wish to touch me. Instead, he exhales and gets out of the car. Then he goes around the car and opens the door for me, which I find incredibly romantic. Ethan is a real gentleman.

  He greets Antoine in French over the intercom and we go in. The town house seems very old; it doesn’t have a lift and the stairs squeak with each step. It’s one of these old houses that hasn’t been renovated for years, but I love it.

  Ethan gives me an encouraging smile and then knocks three times. A man opens the door and I automatically assume that he’s Antoine, the dealer. He’s in his fifties, I’d guess, with white hair and black shaggy beard, wearing clothes covered with splashes of paint. He frowns, eyeing me up and down before his expression rests on Ethan.

  “You said a woman, not some little girl,” he snaps in heavily accented French. “I don’t have time for this, Ethan.”

  “She has something very interesting to say. We won’t stay long. Please just listen to her.”

  Antoine exhales loudly, looking annoyed, and opens the door to let us in. Inside I feel like I’m in heaven. His apartment is exactly how I imagined, filled with various-size paintings that are leaning all over the walls. Some of them are unfinished; some of them are very old and rare. We walk through to what seems to be a living room. Antoine doesn’t have a TV, but there are lots of books and a large table with crayons and pastel colours spread on it.

  It’s one of those old apartments with large windows and high ceilings. The musty smell of fresh oil paint and turpentine infuses the air. I’m in love.

  “You said on the phone that it’s about a stolen painting?” Antoine asks, ignoring me completely. Ethan forces a smile and then does something unexpected: he places his palm on my shoulder, sending a dose of heat down through my entire body.

  “Arwen, why don’t you explain to Antoine what are you looking for,” he says gently with the same sexy voice.

  I have to get a grip and forget about the hold that he has over me. “Eugene D’Orsay. I’m searching for one of his stolen paintings. A portrait of a woman. I know that two copies have never been retrieved, but there is another one here in Brussels and I need to find it,” I explain in French.

  Antoine puffs and shakes his head like he is angry. “You’re wasting your time, and mine for that matter. There had only ever been two copies, child, not three.”

  “No, I have seen one, the only one that is left, ten years ago. I’m certain that it exists.”

  Antoine laughs, walking back to the window. “D’Orsay committed suicide straight after he painted that old hag. Apparently she was his lover. There always had been two copies, not three.”

  This old man is stubborn and doesn’t want to listen.

  I walk up to him, wondering why Ethan has brought me here. Antoine doesn’t believe me, and he probably doesn’t have a clue where I could find my father. “You’re wrong. I’ve seen the original. It’s the portrait of a woman in a black dress. The lines are sharp and thick. The painting has this muted and dramatic tone. I have created an exact reproduction from what I remembered all those years ago. The painting does exist and the person that has it lives here in Belgium. I have to find it, please. The owner is also an artist.”

  “Then bring it to me and I’ll judge for myself. It’s a lot of nonsense. I would know if there were three copies. No one in his right mind would keep it to himself. This painting would be worth a fortune.”

  I exhale, clenching my fists. No one has ever seen my copy of the painting. I don’t want to show it to this old man because he is too stubborn to believe me. I’m afraid my old sealed wounds will open up.

  Ethan takes a step forward. “Antoine, come on, don’t be too harsh on Arwen. If she’s saying that there is another copy, then I believe her.”

  “Arwen. What’s sort of name is that anyway? And she isn’t from here, right?”

  Another punch in the gut. This old man is slowly starting to get on my nerves. I really didn’t want to go there, but I guess I don’t have any choice.

  “No, I’m from Saint-Malo in France and this has nothing to do with why I’m here. The painting does exist and I’ll find it with your help or without,” I say, folding my arms over my chest. “I can show you the reproduction, but only if you promise to help me after that.”

  Antoine puffs out heavily again, eyeing me with annoyance. He has to see that I know what I’m talking about.

  “Show me what you
’ve got and I’ll help you. D’Orsay’s two portraits of this woman were stolen. If it is true there is another … this could revolutionise the current trends in the city.”

  “Thank you, Antoine. I’m gla–”

  “Leave, Ethan,” he cuts him off. “You interrupted me when my mind is the most creative. Take the girl and come back when you have the painting.”

  Ethan shakes his head with a smile and nods to me that we should leave. This is completely not what I expected. Antoine isn’t eccentric, he’s just plain rude. My own reproduction is personal and I have never showed it to anyone before, but I guess if I want to find my father, I have to share the clues with others.

  I feel a little sad when we walk downstairs. Now Ethan will take me back and this will be the end. Maybe he’ll drive me here again with the painting, but I really don’t want to leave yet.

  “I’m sorry about him. He doesn’t know how to behave around other people. He rarely goes out.”

  “You know, I really do have the reproduction. It’s not great, but it’s proof that another original copy of the D’Orsay painting is still out there.”

  Ethan takes a step closer and my breath hitches in my throat.

  “We can discuss this over dinner. Are you hungry, Arwen?” he asks, throwing me completely off guard. I open my mouth to tell him that I would love to, but no sound comes out. His amber eyes are making me weak and dizzy.

  “Yes, I’m starving. I haven’t had lunch today,” I reply.

  “Great, get in. I’m taking you somewhere,” he adds, opening the door for me again. I want to jump up and down, screaming with happiness, because Ethan just invited me for dinner.

  The car moves and Ethan puts Frank Sinatra back on, humming under his breath the words of another song.

  “Can I ask you a question, Arwen?”

  I flex my fingers, staring back at him and wondering what he wants to ask me; maybe if I’m seeing someone?

  “Yes.”

  “Why do you want to find this painting so much?”

  I look out of the window, wondering if I should say anything. The memories of the white pristine kitchen unfold in front of me. The pain, the pills and that shattering darkness. I can’t go there now or ever. My father left because he didn’t want me. Ethan won’t understand. It’s my own personal battle.

  “The painting belongs to my father, who left when I was young. I haven’t seen him since then. I moved to Brussels to find him.”

  “Why now? I’d guess that many years have passed since then?”

  I exhale sharply, looking away. He is digging too much.

  “I’d rather not talk about it if you don’t mind.”

  “All right. What about the age difference that is between us? Do you find this intimidating?”

  A jolt runs down my spine from the unexpected question and I force myself to meet his eyes. The heat from his gaze sends me away to another planet. How can I be turned on just by looking at him?

  “It’s not a problem for me, Ethan,” I say. The car is not moving now. We’re stopped at a traffic light, and Ethan does something unexpected—he reaches out and moves a lock of hair off my face, his fingers brushing my cheek.

  “You’re beautiful, Arwen.”

  His eyes drill into mine and my body temperature shoots up. Ethan leans in and I think that he is going to kiss me. I can’t do this. Colin is still my boyfriend, after all.

  Then we hear the horn behind us and our magical moment is broken. Ethan clears his throat and drives. I sit back, wondering what the hell I’m doing.

  Chapter Six

  Ethan

  I pull away from the temptation to cradle her to me, to kiss her sensually. I clear my throat, pretending that I’m all right. At this rate, I’m going to lose my mind. We don’t even know each other that well. It’s been only a couple of days. Yes, I do want to have her in my arms, naked and exposed. She is the first woman that I’ve desired since my catastrophic divorce with Bethany.

  I try not to touch or look at her for the rest of the drive. The awkward silence rings in my ears and the tension increases, creating an awkwardness between us. She might be in a relationship for all I know, but I’m too afraid to ask, in case I ruin whatever we’re both experiencing.

  The drive is long, and when I stop, Arwen exhales quietly. It’s one of the best restaurants in the city. I have eaten here many times before. I hope she’ll like it. This place serves the most delicious pasta in Belgium. Before I get out of the car, I hesitate, thinking about the meeting with that old grump.

  “Arwen, are you sure about this? I’m aware that Antoine wasn’t very polite, but don’t get discouraged. He will come around.”

  She parts her lips slightly.

  “Ethan, you don’t have to invite me for a dinner just because of Antoine,” she says softly. All right, so she thinks that I invited her for dinner out of pity. She is wrong. I’m not ready to part company with her yet. My eyes wander to her, caressing the juncture of her collar bone and neck, gliding upwards to her jaw and then stopping on her lips.

  “Arwen, I’m not doing this because of Antoine, I’m doing this because I want to,” I reassure her. Within a moment I’m outside the door, letting her out. She looks happy, more relaxed than a second ago.

  “All right, in that case I would love to, Ethan.”

  Great, so we are having dinner. It’s definitely a date. My mind starts creating a series of inappropriate images right in front of my eyes: Arwen lying gloriously naked in my bed, flushed pink and breathless, wrapped up in my white sheets. I’m acting like a horny teenager; it’s ridiculous. We start walking and I force myself to think of other things, about paperwork in my office and the long, boring meetings that I have tomorrow. This helps a little.

  “We're having Italian tonight. I hope you like it?” I ask and stop in front of the elegant bistro. A waiter opens the door for us, greeting us in his thick Italian accent. Arwen nods, looking happy with my choice, smiling. I let her through to go in first, placing my hand on her back. The contact lasts only for a brief moment, but her skin feels so soft under my palm. I have a sudden urge to run my fingers down her spine.

  I choose a table at the back in a discreet corner. I pull the chair out for her and she blushes. I’m fairly certain that she is impressed by my old-fashioned manners.

  “What would you like to drink, Arwen?” I ask.

  “A glass of house red, please.”

  Red wine ... well, I wasn’t expecting that, but she has lived in France most of her life, so that explains a lot. I read through the wine list and pick a bottle of very good wine from Chile. I always enjoy a glass of rich red wine with my meal.

  “It’s perfect,” she says with that smile, tasting the wine. I have an opportunity to look at her for a moment when she is studying the menu, admiring her beautiful skin and the tattoo on her arm.

  I feel like I should explain myself, tell her that I normally don’t prey on single young women in art galleries.

  “Arwen, I need to tell you something,” I begin, trying to gather my thoughts. “Well, don’t get me wrong. I’ve never done this before, but when I saw you in the gallery, I knew that I had to speak to you.”

  “It’s all right. I have to admit that I have never been out with anyone so much older than me. Most of my boyfriends are young, my age. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with dating an older man.”

  She looks embarrassed now, probably because she is being so honest with me. I smile and lean over, inhaling her sweet perfume.

  “That day, I saw you and I couldn’t stop staring. You looked so calm and focused on that painting. You intrigued and fascinated me.”

  “I like listening to your voice, Ethan,” she says, playing with a lock of her hair. My mouth curves into a smile and I hold her gaze, imagining what those lips could do to me.

  The waiter ruins our moment, bringing the starter. We dive in, eating in silence for a while.

  “Tell me about your work. Why do you hate it so m
uch?”

  “Well, I don’t find it satisfying anymore. At times the atmosphere can be overbearing, dull and pretentious. I have been doing it for years. It’s time to move on, find something else to do. Believe it or not, I wanted to be a curator years ago before I had a family and responsibilities.”

  “It’s never too late. My father used to say that you should always follow your dreams, no matter what hurdles life keeps throwing at you,” she says.

  “You have stunning eyes, Arwen, but an even greater intellect,” I say, not even knowing where this comes from. For some reason I can’t stop complimenting her. She blushes, smiling. Silence stretches over a minute or so and neither of us says anything. Arwen runs her finger over the edge of wine glass, watching me intensely, her eyes growing wide with flaming desire.

  My mouth goes dry when she dips her finger in the glass and brings it to her mouth, sucking it slowly. I shift on the chair, aware that I’m growing hard, my pulsing erection rubbing against my jeans. I think I’ll lose control if I don’t kiss her soon.

  “Ethan, I like talking to you and I appreciate what you’re doing for me. This painting … it’s very important and I don’t think I can–”

  “You don’t need to explain. There is plenty of time, Arwen,” I say and place my hand on hers, eager to touch her, to ease the need of doing other things to her. “And I shouldn’t even be saying this, but I like you and I would love to get to know you a bit better if you let me.”

  Now she knows that I’m serious about her. This isn’t just a game for me. She tenses but doesn’t take away her hand, shivering under my touch.

  “I feel the same way and I can’t pretend anymore. Your age doesn’t matter; it’s not a problem for me.”

  There are plenty of men that would love to be in my shoes right now. I don’t want to just sleep with her and then toss her away. Her sensitivity and innocence draw me to her. We talk about art, books, favourite colours and our deepest dreams. The tension is parallel, sizzling between us, but I’m doing everything in my power not to act on it.