Seduction Page 5

  The first thing she did when Peter and I walked into the house’s main sitting room was look me up and down with her hands on her hips, blabbing something in French that the other people in the room seemed to find très amusant. I was already beginning to think moving in with these people might be a bad idea, but the older woman who’d given me a cup of tea earlier approached me. She shook her finger at Sophie, who turned away with a sneer.

  “Marie-Therèse?”

  She seemed pleased that I’d remembered her name. “Oui,” she trilled. “And you are?”

  “Katy Ainsworth,” Peter said. “My uncle Jeremiah—Jeremiah Shaw—said she could stay here.”

  “Mais oui,” Marie-Therèse said. “That will be no problem at all.” She motioned for a servant in livery to take my “luggage,” which consisted of one suitcase and a plastic bag filled with dirty clothes, upstairs. “And Mademoiselle Katy will be staying with you, Peter?”

  I noticed at least six pairs of eyes narrow into slits as they regarded me.

  “Er . . . no,” Peter said. “That is . . .”

  “I’ll need my own room,” I said, figuring if there was a problem with that, I’d just leave. I was awfully tired, but I’d be able to make one more trip back to the Black Lagoon if I had to.

  “Of course, of course,” Marie-Therèse said. “Such a young girl. And an Américaine. There is a lovely room for you, ma chère.” Then she put her arm around my shoulder and, gesturing for Peter to follow, led me up a curving flight of stairs covered with carpet so thick I would have been happy to sleep right there. At the top, she opened the door to the most luxurious room I’d ever seen.

  It was white. Blizzard white—white carpet, white sheer draperies that billowed in the breeze from the tall casement windows, a white canopy over the enormous bed—accented with touches of gold here and there. I don’t know much about furniture, but it looked really delicate, really old, really valuable.

  “Would you like something to eat or drink? Some chocolat, perhaps?” Marie-Therèse asked.

  “Oh, no,” I said, instantly regretting my refusal. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

  “Eh, bien,” she said with a warm smile. “Bon nuit.”

  Peter and I looked at each other. The catnap we’d taken in my former digs hadn’t been enough of a rest for either of us. Peter’s eyes were rimmed with dark circles, and I was pretty sure mine were a match.

  “I’m just down the hall,” he said. “Second door on the right.”

  “Okay,” I said. Then he kissed me goodnight, as if we’d gone on a date. I waited until he’d walked into his own room before I closed the door and leaned against it.

  I was starving. I was exhausted. The blinding white canopy bed with its gold tassels was calling to me. But I still had to wash out my chef’s coat and take a shower.

  Downstairs, it sounded like a party was going on. In time, I would learn that parties were a daily event at the house, but on that night it still seemed like a novelty. Tinkling women’s voices rose in hilarity. Someone played the piano. I could already recognize Sophie’s laughter.

  As I drifted off to sleep, I wondered if the women downstairs were the same ones who’d come to Peter’s party back in Whitfield. I hadn’t paid much attention to them then, but now they seemed . . . well, odd. The whole situation was odd. For one thing, why was old man Shaw’s continental pied à terre filled with gorgeous women? For another, what was Peter supposed to do with them? Why would Shaw Enterprises need even one alchemist, let alone two? And how was I supposed to fit in with this crew of party-hearty beauties?

  Once again, I was filled with questions. And once again, I felt the way I had when Peter had first told me about his newly developed talent for creating gold:

  This gift comes with strings attached.

  Strings that reached all the way to Paris.

  • • •

  After school the next day, I walked to my old apartment on the Rue Cujas. The Abbaye des mes Perdues was a lot—and I mean a whole lot—nicer, but I hadn’t really felt comfortable there. Even with Peter just down the hall, I’d hardly slept. So I returned to my old building to decide whether or not I wanted to move back. I’d paid the rent till the end of the month, so it wasn’t as if I had nowhere other than the Barbie Mansion to live. Still, the place was pretty grim.

  Hernan, my neighbor, leaned against the building’s entryway. He was wearing short shorts and a halter top, smoking a cigarette and coughing.

  “Don’t bother,” he said. Or I thought he said. My schoolgirl French didn’t sound much like the way French people really talked. Mostly the language sounded to me like horns honking. Hernan went on for a while. What he said sounded like “honk honk honk bucket honk cough one thousand sequins shoo (sucking on cigarette) honk pa! (expelling smoke) cough landlord is a piece of merde.”

  I understood the last part, and I didn’t think it boded well. Nevertheless, I climbed up the four flights of stairs—the Chinese family was cooking roast pork with ginger, if my nose served me—to my apartment. I was going to unlock the door, but as it turned out, that wasn’t necessary since it was already open. The door was off its hinges, and the framework above it was broken. Inside, the ceiling had collapsed onto the middle of the floor in a pile of broken slate, along with a soggy bird’s nest, a broken weather vane, and quite a bit of mud. A drop of water hit me between my eyebrows. I looked up to see a threatening sky peeking through the foot-wide hole.

  “So much for this place,” I muttered as I clattered down the stairs. Hernan blew me a kiss on a plume of cigarette smoke.

  I doubted if I’d be able to find another apartment as cheap as this one, and I’d already lost a month’s rent on it. So it looked like I would be calling the Abbey of Lost Souls home, for a while, at least, whether I liked it or not.

  CHAPTER

  •

  EIGHT

  One good thing about the abbey was that it was walking distance to the school, so I didn’t have to bother with the Metro or a bus anymore.

  What was less great was that there always seemed to be a party going on there.

  I got back from my foray to my former dwelling on the Rue Cujas just in time for the first party of the evening. This one was in honor of Fabienne’s return to France from the wilds of Milan, Italy. When I walked through the door of the main parlor, she was showing off her new purchases to a rapt audience of women who all appeared to be very excited by a pair of shoes that were painted to look like bananas.

  “Katy!” she called, running over to me despite my grungy appearance and wrapping me in a bear hug—that is, as far as a five-foot-ten-inch, hundred-fifteen-pound girl can resemble a bear.

  To be honest, it was great to see her. “You are kooking, yes?” she asked, fingering the chef’s jacket in my hands. At least I’d had the foresight to take it off before coming into the house.

  “Uh, yes. Oui. I’m taking a summer session at Le Clef d’Or,” I said. “At your suggestion.”

  “Oh, I am so happy for you. Now you must cook for us, okay?”

  “Now?” I asked.

  “No, I do not mean right now, toute de suite!” She laughed, and I remembered why I liked her. She was open and kind and sweet-natured, unlike her snooty mother. “Perhaps if we speak French, it will be easier for you to understand me,” she said.

  I told her that would be fine, since I needed the practice. I also didn’t intend to stay at this paean to shopping longer than another three seconds, but I didn’t tell her that.

  “I know we’ll have a wonderful time together this summer,” she trilled. “There are so many people I’d like you to . . . Oh, here’s one of them now. Belmondo!” She waved eagerly at a man who was leaning against the doorway, his jacket slung over his shoulder. “My favorite uncle,” she confided. “And also the most handsome man in Paris.”

  She wasn’t kidding. As he made his way toward us, I felt as if I’d swallowed my tongue. I couldn’t understand a word he was saying, but I don’t think
that had anything to do with the quality of his French.

  For one thing, he didn’t look like anyone’s uncle. He was in his early twenties, I think, with dark, straight hair that he wore almost to his shoulders, which were broad and muscular in a Skinny Buff Guy kind of way under a tight black T-shirt. He had a strong chin and really white teeth, and a long, Gallic nose that looked like he’d come from an ancient line of aristocrats. But the most interesting thing about him was his eyes. They were blue in the same way mine were green—that is, they seemed to change from turquoise to cobalt to sky to navy. They were changing color now, as he hugged Fabienne and exchanged a greeting with her.

  And then he looked at me.

  My breath caught. Time seemed to stand still. It was as if he knew everything about me, and liked it all.

  Honkhonkhonkhonk.

  “Huh?” I mumbled weakly.

  He laughed. At the moment, his eyes were the color of bluebirds. “Forgive me,” he said. “We’ll speak English. Fabienne tells me that you’re a student at the Clef d’Or?”

  OMG. The perfect accent. Slightly French—French enough to make the hairs on my arms stand on end—but grammatically perfect. “Er . . .” I got lost in his eyes again. “What did you say?”

  He smiled. “May I get you something to drink? Champagne?”

  “Oh, no,” I said breathlessly, backing away. I looked around for Peter. “Um, thank you, but I’ve got to . . . to . . .” Then I turned and ran up the stairs to my room.

  • • •

  Why did I do that?

  I lay on my bed and furiously kicked my feet, feeling like the biggest doofus on the face of the earth. It’s not like gorgeous guys—adult guys—offer me champagne every day.

  I took a deep breath. Don’t be stupid, I told myself. That guy—what was his name, Mondo?—was just being polite. Which was more than I could say for myself.

  And what did it matter, anyway, I thought as I stripped down for my shower. I belonged with that group downstairs about as much as a daisy at an orchid show.

  After showering, I put on a clean T-shirt and crawled into bed with a secondhand Agatha Christie that had cost me nearly twenty dollars at the English bookstore. I’d nearly finished the chapter I was reading when someone knocked on my door. “Peter?” I called out hopefully.

  It was Fabienne. “Why did you leave?” she asked. She seemed to be sincerely bewildered. “Belmondo liked you.”

  I shrugged. “I didn’t belong down there, Fabienne,” I said honestly. “I don’t belong here in general.”

  “But you do!” she insisted. “Peter wants you to live here, and so you shall. The opinions of others are of no importance.”

  I frowned. “Why is Peter so important?” I asked.

  Fabienne rubbed her fingers together. “Money is always important,” she said sagely. “For them, bien sur”—she gestured with her chin toward the festivities below—“it is most important. They will do nothing to lose Peter.”

  “But Jeremiah . . .” I was going to say that Jeremiah could also make gold, but I stopped myself. I didn’t know how much Fabienne knew about the alchemy, and I’d practically given Peter a solemn oath not to blab about it.

  “But it is not Peter who worries you,” she said. “It is the others, yes?”

  It was embarrassing to be so transparent, but she’d managed to go right to the heart of my discomfort, just as she had back in Whitfield. “I guess,” I said. “They don’t seem to like me much.”

  She laughed. “You’re talking about my mother.” She rolled her eyes. “Sophie doesn’t like anyone much. Not even me. Not that I care. Je m’en fiche. I’ve hardly seen her, after all.”

  “You mean today? Since you’ve been home?”

  She shook her head. “I mean ever.” She took a deep breath. “I was raised by nannies in Switzerland until I was eight. Then I was sent away to boarding school. I only saw Sophie twice before I was twelve years old.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Then I was transferred to a school in Tokyo, then Los Angeles, and then Ainsworth. I think she didn’t want me to become attached to any one place, so that I would think of this place as home. During vacations I came back here.”

  “So at least you got to be with your mom then,” I said.

  “Not so much. She was rarely present. Sophie doesn’t like children.” She flipped her hair. “That is her way. The women in her circle believe children should remain in their own milieu until they are old enough to enter the adult world. That is why I have come now. I shall be one of them. An adult.”

  “At fifteen?” I asked, dismayed. “Isn’t that kind of young?”

  “It is our way,” she said.

  “And who are the women, anyway? The women who live here?”

  “Friends,” she said. “Or what passes for friends. With Sophie, one never knows.” She smiled.

  I couldn’t believe how okay she was about her mom. I mean, I also grew up without a mother, but that was because she died. Apparently, Fabienne’s just didn’t want her around.

  “Where’s your dad?” I blurted.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know who he is. None of us do.”

  I pictured my great-grandmother fainting dead away at that. “Er . . . none?”

  “We do not marry,” she said.

  This time, I was the one who almost fainted. “Never?”

  She shrugged. “Non. For us, marriage is not so important. But I never needed a father, because there was always Belmondo.”

  “Oh, right. Your uncle.”

  “Well, not really my uncle. Just our friend. And also our landlord. He owns this building.”

  “Does he work for Jeremiah?”

  “Belmondo?” She laughed. “I don’t believe he works at all, except for playing the guitar from time to time. He’s quite good at that.”

  “Er . . . great,” I said.

  “ ‘Belmondo’ means ‘beautiful world.’ He is beautiful, non?”

  He was beautiful, oui, but I wasn’t about to turn into an idiot over him. “Has Peter come in?” I asked.

  “Alors, he has not.” She must have seen the disappointment on my face, because she took my hand and squeezed it. “You love him, yes?”

  Reluctantly, I nodded. “Sometimes I wish I didn’t,” I said.

  “You don’t mean that,” she said. “Because if you have not fallen in love with Belmondo, then you must love Peter very much.”

  We both laughed. “Oh, Fabienne,” I said. “You’re so right.”

  “Please call me Fabby. And so, without Peter, I think maybe you want to be alone now?” It was a simple question without any emotional overtones, as direct and honest as she was. I felt that I’d finally found someone I could tell the truth to.

  “Thanks, Fabby. I would.”

  She gave me a kiss on my cheek before she left.

  CHAPTER

  •

  NINE

  Aside from Fabienne and the elderly Marie-Therèse, my fellow roomies on the Street of Lost Souls made little effort to speak to me. I did get to know a couple of them in passing, though. There was Joelle—early twenties, I guessed, with dark hair cut into a severe bob, dramatic makeup, and partial to geometrically structured, space-agey-type outfits; and Annabelle, who was blond, Asian, and six feet tall. A professional model, Annabelle seemed to be one of the few women in the house who worked. She also had a steady boyfriend who came around almost every day. Presiding over them all, of course, was the insufferable Sophie and her coterie of gentleman callers.

  Everyone there seemed to love Peter, though. Especially Sophie, who was constantly nuzzling up to him and touching him, whispering in his ear and showing off. What was that about? She looked good, but she had to be at least thirty-something to be Fabienne’s mother. Weren’t these women embarrassed about anything?

  Fortunately, I couldn’t spend that much time with them, since I had to be at school at eight in the morning. No one in the house was
even awake then, except occasionally for Marie-Therèse, who would sometimes be having coffee on the balcony while I was scrambling to leave.

  “Will you join me?” she asked one day.

  I checked my watch. It was barely seven. I hadn’t wanted to be a bother to anyone in the house, so I still took my morning coffee at the stand-up coffee bar down the street from the school, but it was kind of her to offer. “Okay,” I said.

  She called for one of the servants to bring another cup. When it came, it was gigantic, the size of a soup bowl. On the tray beside it was a pot of steaming milk and a big butter croissant. Much better than at the zinc bar.

  She touched my hand. “My dear,” she said, her blue eyes crinkling. “Please don’t be offended by our ways. We are not accustomed to outsiders.”

  “I could tell,” I said, sipping my café au lait.

  “You must find us very odd indeed.”

  Ya think? “Er . . . maybe it’s a cultural difference,” I said.

  “Ah. Very diplomatic, Katy.” She set down her cup with a tiny tap. “I do apologize for the way you’ve been ignored by the others. They just don’t know what to do with you, I suppose.”

  “Do with me?”

  She sighed. “Don’t you see, it’s all about Peter, dear,” she said. “You’re the one person who could take him away.”

  “But . . .” My mind was racing. “You mean from here?” How long did they think he was going to stay, anyway?

  “Oh, don’t listen to me,” she said, shaking her head dismissively. “Such a foolish old woman.” The gesture made her look almost like a girl. It was obvious that she had once been very beautiful. She still looked good, despite her age. Her white hair was perfectly coiffed into lush waves that framed her face, with its perfect cheekbones and lovely teeth. She wore a silk robe and high-heeled slippers, and her nails were manicured and painted a delicate shade of pink.