Trust Me (Rough Love 3)

Because Price wouldn’t want you to…

I silenced the warning in my head and found my way to the correct gallery. I tried to go by memory, but in the end I had to consult a map. Funny how we forget things we should remember so intensely, or perhaps the museum itself had changed.

But when I found the right place and walked into the large atrium where the painting was lit and mounted, I was shaken by a recognition so strong and so poignant that my eyes filled with tears.

Heart-Lust. It was a beautiful mess, just like Simon had been before he got sober, just like I was before I met Price. The massive, rough-edged canvas was red and angry and sweet and lyrical at once.

I was over Simon, I was absolutely over him, but the sadness of our ten-year failed relationship would always be there, just like this painting would always be on display in the world. On the back, where no one could see, he’d painted my name over and over, Chere Chere Chere Chere Chere. I couldn’t see that now. I couldn’t touch it the way I once had, with Simon’s permission. I couldn’t run my fingers over the textures, not with the surly museum docent standing in the corner. But I did it once, I thought. I traced those million dollar brush strokes. I have quite a contemptible past.

Price hated when I lived in the past. He’d be angry to know I was lingering here, staring at Heart-Lust, crying and reminiscing over a relationship that had been so very bad. I’d have to confess that I’d visited Simon’s painting. He’d consider it a breach of the rules. He’d punish me. This isn’t why you’re in Paris. I could practically hear him say it in his hard, firm, angry-Master voice. He’d tell me that I needed to look forward, not back. I needed to become who I was supposed to be.

I turned to escape this wing, wiping away guilty tears. I had my head down, so I didn’t see the elderly man I bumped into. A younger man at his side steadied him with a sharp, foreign volley of words.

“I’m so sorry,” I stammered, looking into dark silver eyes framed by thinning gray hair. The old man had deeply bronzed skin and a compact body that felt strong for his age. His companion watched me with dark eyes, inclining his own head of jet black, close-cropped hair.

“Are you all right?” the older man asked. “Our collision was my fault. I was fiddling with my tie pin.”

His English was impeccable, despite his Indian accent. His clothing, for that matter, was impeccable. Rich suit, rich shoes, and a jewel-encrusted gold tie pin that was indeed sagging to one side.

“It’s a bit top-heavy for a tie pin,” I said, as he fussed at it some more.

“I know, and it greatly disappoints me. I had it specially made.”

The giant at his side muttered something urgent, but the gray-haired businessman waved a hand.

“She’s not going to steal anything,” he said. “She is not a gypsy. She speaks English.” His striking silver eyes softened as they studied me. “She is a lover of art. Look, she’s been crying.”

I ran fingers beneath my eyes. “These paintings are so powerful,” I said, even though I was really crying about something else. “I’m sorry I bumped into you.”

“My dear, I am a lover of art as well. I understand how it can affect you. My name is Vinod, and this is my friend Jino, who follows me about to make sure I don’t get into trouble.”

I took his hand when he offered it. His fingers felt soft and cool. Though his “friend” was very tall, the old man was just my height, so it was easy to hold his gaze.

“I’m Chere. It’s nice to meet you.” I looked back at his tie pin, wishing I could take it off and try to fix it. “I design jewelry,” I said. “Forgive me, but I think that piece is poorly made, even if it’s beautiful.”

He gave a grunt of agreement. “You see,” he said, turning to his companion. “Finally, some honesty.” He plucked at the pin again. “They say it’s my fault, that I don’t position it properly. But no matter how I position the thing, it droops.”

“I think maybe…it’s just too much. I could take that apart and make three different tie pins that were just as beautiful with less weight. Right now…” I touched the heavy piece. “Right now it has too much all at once. Sometimes understated elegance looks just as rich.”

“You say you’re a designer?” he asked, regarding me closely. “Do you have a studio here in Paris?”

“I have one in New York, on Park Avenue.” I was trying to sound more important than I was, like I had some big storefront when all I had was a two-room converted office. Still… “Can I give you my card? Or…” I slid a look at his companion, who I had come to suspect was a bodyguard. “I’m staying at a hotel just down the street. I have some samples with me, tie pins and cuff links and women’s jewelry too. I also do custom work, if you…” If you would like to become a client. You obviously have money, and I don’t want to get my ass beaten…again…