The Art of Seduction Read Online Free

was about to pronounce judgment on her work. Unconsciously, she held her breath.
    â€œIn two weeks’ time,” the learned man proclaimed, “this Mason Caldwell will have been completely forgotten. Her current notoriety is entirely without substance or merit. Her technique is sloppy, the subject matter tends toward the macabre, and her colors bear no relation to the physical reality they’re supposed to convey. In short, her work is not art. It is an affront to art. This morbid interest in her is due solely to the fact that she surely realized she had no talent and, having come to this astute recognition, ended her life by flinging herself from the Pont de l’Alma. A romantic notion that at present has the bourgeoisie swooning and lining up to see her paintings, but that is all. Parisians are notorious for loving a good suicide. No, no, my friends. What we are experiencing here is not the discovery of a new master; it is a carnival sideshow.”
    Lisette turned to Mason, her eyes brimming with consternation. Mason waved a hand, silently telling her not to bother to translate. Hearing it once was enough.
    Mason turned away, feeling flushed and overheated, wanting nothing more than to bolt from the crushing rejection.
    But at that moment, her gaze once again found the handsome stranger at the back. He was still watching her. Now he slowly shook his head, then rolled his eyes. His meaning was clear. He was telling her that the revered Monsieur Morrel was talking through his hat. The warmth of it flowed through her, coursing courage and a badly needed jolt of appreciation through her veins.
    Caught off guard by the critic’s denunciation, Falconier had turned white. But he was saved from having to react by a sudden shuffling in the crowd and a harsh male voice calling out, “Where is Falconier?”
    All eyes turned to a man of medium height, slim but well built, with slicked-back black hair and a distinctly disreputable air. It was the infamous gangster Juno Dargelos. As he and two burly bodyguards moved their way, the elegant bystanders parted in a flurry of scandalized whispers.
    Spotting the proprietor, Dargelos called out, “I will buy them, Falconier. All the pictures of Lisette.”
    Seeing him, Lisette raised her face to the ceiling and cried out, “Oh no! Not again!”
    The intruder peered at her like a love-struck spaniel, and said, “Did you think I would let anyone else possess the pictures of my darling turtledove?”
    With a stamp of her foot, Lisette fired back, “How many times must I tell you, Juno? I am not your turtledove, and never will be!”
    The presence of the gang chieftain provided a delicious new twist to the story. The reporters jumped on it, firing questions at him.
    â€œEh, Juno, what are you doing so far from Belleville?”
    â€œYou don’t own the police in this part of town, after all.”
    â€œHaven’t you heard that Inspector Duval has sworn he will not rest until the day he packs you off to Devil’s Island?”
    Dargelos extended both arms toward Lisette in a gesture worthy of a Puccini hero. “For the woman I adore, I would swim to Devil’s Island and back.”
    As Lisette groaned, Mason took the opportunity to steal away. She looked around, trying to spot her silent advisor, but he’d moved on. Finally, she saw him in the farthest corner of the salon, his back to her.
    As Falconier nervously protested that most of the paintings featured Mademoiselle Ladoux and he couldn’t possibly sell all of them to the man—“I have regular customers here, Monsieur, whom I must honor!”—Mason made her way to join the fascinating stranger. As she neared, she realized he was staring at one particular painting. Like the others, it featured an idealized young woman surrounded by nightmarish imagery: a world of chaos in which line and form were exaggerated to create a sense of menace. But unlike