Reprise: A Story of Reincarnated Love

Chapter 13: Party Animals

***15 June 2007 9:30 p.m. Sean’s Townhome, Ile de la Cité, Paris, France***

Sean stood deep inside the sweeping floor-to-ceiling length bay window in his master bedroom. The nighttime panorama below was quite unmatched nearly anywhere, in his mind. His sumptuous townhouse on the right bank of the River Seine overlooked the central Ile de la Cité district of Paris, with the north-to-south Rue de Renard almost directly below, terminating in intersect with the west-to-east Rue de Rivoli a block up toward the river. The several broad, grand, straight and tidy boulevards and rues that met at perfect right angles patch-worked the right bank district neatly, but they contained within their borders the many oddly angled and crooked little streets that populated the area with shops and businesses and residences. Embraced by the brightly-lit main thoroughfares, those little motley paths of human travail and industry and life and community lay in grayed-out tones, the nighttime secrets of humanity being played out quietly in countless ways in the households they passed.

Two long blocks to the south, the Seine flowed languidly, flanked by the three continuous right bank parkway quays that ran along with it from east to west – Quai de l’Hotel de Ville, Quai de Gesvres, and Quai de la Megisserie. The three quays were a dancing carnival of magic fairy light, the densely arbored parkway winking and sparkling from the thousands of tiny clear-bulb outside lights that filigreed the branches of the tall trees along the bank. Scores of large and small fountained squares peered up into the night like eyes of the city, illuminated by their lamp and lantern posts.

Beyond the quays, in the middle of the river, the long, narrow island, Ile de la Cité, held court over the district. It was dominated by its soaring singular attraction – Notre Dame Cathedral. Illuminated somewhat like a scary All Hallow’s Eve mask by search lights from below pointing upward, its magnificent flying buttresses appeared as living arms shoring up the richly ornate, gargoyle-festooned Gothic wonder, a magnificent edifice that Hugo called a “symphony of stone.” Sean could, and often did, sit on the broad bay window sill bench drinking in the view until sunup, lost in thoughts of other times and places. The vista below pulsed with changing light and life every minute that passed.

He broke the inevitable window-side reverie and resumed fussing the cuff link into his crisp white shirt cuff. The perfectly tailored casually dressy shirt hugged the defined contours of his chest and tapered to narrow in the waist. Hairline black threading lined the leading edge of his shoulder and then descended downward parallel to the sleeve seam. Even thinner hairline threading traced the leading edges of the generous dressy collar and the shirt front button run. He wore the shirt open at the top two buttons and planned not to tuck it into his simple, straight leg, black soft cotton jeans-like trousers, snug enough to accentuate his lankiness without second-skinning his masculine lines.

He had made his attire for the night a nearly obsessive mission. He had told Angelo his clothes had to perfect on so many levels: he had to be dressed as Sean LeBeque and not a parody of someone he was not; he had to be eye candy for Dominique Vasser, who had no notion whatsoever that he would be at the party; he had to fit in with a crowd a decade younger than he and, no doubt, into music and dialect and drugs and pastimes of which he had absolutely no knowledge. Above all, he wanted with his clothes to “make a statement” that made absolutely no statement at all. He just wanted to look good.

He laughed as he secured the cuff links. They were his least expensive pair among scores of sets – a $69 set from Mon Art Collection, tastefully designed rectangular bar links with light refracting clear crystal fronts ringed with black onyx and silver. He wore them very often, as all his dress shirts were French cuffed

The links were secure finally, and he moved away from the bay window and picked up the black-gray multi-weave silk and cotton sleeveless five-button vest that lay in wait there. He slipped it on over the shirt, and felt nearly ready.

He sat on the edge of the bed to finish with his footwear, but let his mind and ear drift to the pounding percussion bursting from the multi-room sound system. Sean and Angelo would be hanging at a major event in the Pigalle – a party for hoards of musicians and bands and all their attendant hangers-on at a special talent showcase for primarily thrash metal bands. Sean’s eclectic musical tastes spanned a wide range of classic and contemporary rock sounds, but the heavy metal thrash genre was somewhat foreign to him. Not so to Angelo LaRussa, who had a number of friends into the thrash performing and recording scene, and so Sean had insisted on a crash course about the thrash style in the few days before the party.

He had learned that thrash dated back some thirty years to the heavy metal styles of such bands as Black Sabbath and Queen and Metallica, among others. Thrash metal, Angelo had explained almost professorially, pleased to be expert for once to Sean’s ignorance, was high speed, loud, brash stuff with an intense visceral, propellant feel driven by frantic drumming and blaring, rapid guitar riffs. The music tended to have a chugging percussive sound and plenty of guitar distortion. Lyrics reflected a largely nihilistic view of society and dealt with themes ranging from Satanism to warfare to the unconscious to plain old punk thinking and acting.

Two days earlier, on Wednesday, Angelo had dropped around with a CD of a major American thrash group, Slayer. Sean had been playing the CD – “Christ Illusion” – all evening. The sounds of the cut, “Catatonic,” assaulted the entire townhouse. The driving, almost droning half-beat snare drum punches pulled along the clanging chug of the lead guitar, and the monotone gloomy lyrics:

“Catatonic
Catatonic
I'm numb in priceless solitude
Exhilarating keeping pieces of you near
Visions of decapitation
My mental masturbation
I try to resurrect
Your consciousness your intellect
Once so pure
Your pain excites and it tests me
Catatonic
Catatonic”*
*“Catatonic,” Slayer, c. 2006

Sean shrugged, but his pulse felt in synch with the primal beat, and he found himself quite enjoying the new frantic sound of youth.

He slipped on his solid black tone-on-tone silk socks, and finally the black Prada cap toe laced Italian loafers with elegant double stitch running the full length on top from throat line to tip. He was set! He headed down to the main living room to relax, or rather get hyped up, listening to Slayer. The tubular bells door chimes rang out just after 10, and Sean descended the spiral stairs to let Angelo in. He threw open the door and staggered backward, stymied by the spectacle he beheld.

Angelo came bustling in, a blinding ragtime of wild clashing colors and fabrics. A solid military-green Frenchman’s beret picked up the color of his high turtleneck zip neck, loose weave sweater: a nightmare of green fading into orange and back again into green. The zipper yoke and chest pocket were solid patches of orange. The well-tailored but garish sweater hugged the waistline of Angelo’s lemon-yellow button fly jeans, trim to his legs, and belted with a very narrow white gossamer scarf or tie. The ends of it hung straight down the line of his button fly seam, swaying luridly like a limp, totally spent and lifeless lavaliere. His feet were clad in a pair of shiny nylon designer sneakers, mainly gold all over with moss green piping and accents at selected points. To finish it all off, his neck was loosely wrapped in an over-sized matching green and orange floral print silk scarf.

“Mon Dieu, Angelo!” Sean exclaimed as he shut the door behind him? “What’s this? Are you auditioning for a clown act? Did your interior decorator outfit you? Good god! Haaaaa!”

Angelo eyed his scornfully, hurt registering in his eyes. “Hey now, Monsieur Prim,” he retorted, “this is haut monde stuff here, and I’m wearing quite a few euros on my back, mon ami! This is Versace,” he said, thumbing at the sweater. “Wool and alpaca -- €450, Sean!”

Sean laughed again and threw his arm around Angelo. “Yes, yes, forgive me Angelo. I was just surprised by the many colors and fabrics. You know I tend to the more conservative in many tastes compared with you. And, I am sure an equally colorful femme is out there looking for you! haa!!”

“Very funny, tres drôle, Sean,” he shot back. “Maybe your Dominique Vasser will appreciate my rich attire… Speaking of which, Sean, you know, you are going to a lot of trouble to snag that fine piece of ass! Mon Dieu, you spent a whole half day with her practically last month! You know how to find her! Why not just go and grab her and drag her up here to your bed?”

“Well, that’s just not my nature. Not at all, Angelo.”

“So, you could change your nature, no, mon ami?” Angelo suggested.

“Well, no, no, I think not, Angelo. When one tries to alter one’s natural inclinations, most unpleasant repercussions might result. Have I told you the story of the scorpion and the toad?”

Angelo’s eyes glazed over. “Oh, no, no no, not another fairy tale parable of yours Sean! Please!”

“Na na na na,” Sean replied. “It will do you good to see the error of your thinking.” He gave Angelo no time to rejoin. “So, you see, the scorpion sauntered over to the toad and asked him for a ride across a river. The toad said, ‘no,’ because he knew that the scorpion would sting him. The scorpion told the toad that he wouldn’t do that because it knew that killing the toad would mean its own death. The toad agreed, then to carry him across the river. They made it half way, and the scorpion stung the toad. As the two sank, the toad asked why the scorpion had stung him as now they both would die. The scorpion's response? ‘It's my nature.’”

Angelo grimaced. “You just had to do a morality play, huh Sean? O.K. If you are finished, let’s head out, mon ami! It’s party time!”

Sean nodded, and the truly odd-looking couple headed off to the Pigalle.


***********

The squat, eighty-year old building had been substantially renovated in the seventies so that it commanded a fair amount of rent for the area, and was filled with the young entrepreneurs of the Quartier Pigalle – burlesque dancers, artists, well-managed prostitutes, and local musicians who fancied themselves to be a bit more. Most of the building was divided into four room flats, but the top floor had been converted during the great renovation into a large dormitory for a troupe of dancers, long since gone. The five large bedrooms, cavernous common room and roof access through a fire escape made the place ideal for pimp who wished to keep track of his new girls or for a local band of near teenage boys who had finally managed to get enough regular gigs to be able to afford a place of their own.

The 'penthouse' was notorious for having been the scene of one mass suicide in the late eighties and more recently a slaughterhouse when six women and three men where killed during drug deal gone bad. Everyone thought they knew who the killer was but he had never been caught. In another part of town it might have made the place hard to sell, but its history was a perfect fit for the angry, throbbing music its newest lessees produced.

It was the sort of scene Labette loved; and the blonde had talked of nothing else all week. Domi, however, was considerably less enthusiastic. The band's music was too hard-core for her taste and there would be more drugs than food, though good house guest that she was had a bag of groceries, while Labette had brought a very large bottle of cheap vodka. "Crude, but very effective," she had remarked gleefully as the girls had left the liquor store.

Labette had insisted that Domi wear jeans, though the snug, bright white low-risers made her feel extraordinarily self-conscious. This would only be the second time she had ever worn them, as she really was partial to skirts, but while she was not at all convinced they looked as good on her as Labette insisted, she was very aware that they were a safer garment to wear than a skirt that could be shoved out of the way. Getting in them had been a bit of a struggle as they were tighter-than-skin around her backside, even as they buttoned easily over her hipbones.

She wore a sage green 'Juliet' blouse with it, the peasant neckline leaving her shoulders bare and blousing over her breasts so that not wearing a bra was an option. She decided to though, the padded strapless garment adding a bit of fullness and making her feel a little less decadent. The blouse was corseted by ribbons in the front and back so that it was snug to her waist, a lacy fringe peaking out at the bottom to cover her navel, but not quite reaching the waistband of her jeans, which were belted with a tapestry belt that matched the pink and sage floral design of her five inch platform sandals. She really loved the shoes, for they made her very tall and had narrow leather thongs that wrapped ballerina style around her ankles, securing them to her feet. The crocheted lace of the blouse's neckline and hem was duplicated at the long, bell-like sleeves, and so she decided against any jewelry at all.

In contrast to Domi's innocent summery look, Labette had dressed to go clubbing in a vinyl corset, matching mini-skirt, and boots, which made her look quite the whore, in Domi's opinion. Though once they had stepped in side the crowded common room with it's pool table in the dinning area, art-deco sofas, and skull and cross-bones flag hanging over the fireplace, Domi realized that Labette was going to blend right in. A girl she had never seen before told them to make themselves at home and whisked off with their offerings. Labette squealed into her hair that she was going to find the band and so Domi followed her, winding behind the pool table to the fire escape from which the music seemed to be coming.

The metal stairs were barely wide enough for two people and shook even when taken by one. Domi waited on the landing – which swayed dizzyingly with Labette's movements – then had to remain as a couple came bobbing down recklessly. Certain that they were about to be sent hurling to their deaths, Domi held on to the rail as the two crawled inside the window, paying her no mind at all. Aggravated at herself, she ascended to the roof and discovered that most of the partygoers were clearly here, not in the crowded, smoke-filled apartment below.

No doubt the neighbors were less than enthusiastic and the scene definitely begged for police intervention. Half a dozen kids who could not be out of school yet slam danced near the small homemade stage. The band seemed to be playing directly to them, especially the pierced and tattooed guitarist who was directing them like a puppet master. A large bar had been set up opposite, which is where she found Gus, one hand in the back pocket of a man she did not know, their pelvises tapping and rubbing together as they half danced and half talked. Gus had a roach in his hand and his dance partner was holding red plastic cup. Dominique decided not to interrupt, though she wondered where Luc was. Had the pair broken up? She'd heard nothing about it at the Gabby's, so maybe this was more of Gus' rebellion against Luc's desire to 'own' him.

Idly, she wandered past the bar, looking unintentionally haughty in her awkwardness and feeling very out of place. As she reached the edge of the roof with its thigh-high embankment and view of a taller building just across an almost non-existent alley, the band ended the song with a great cacophony of noise. Behind them, the wall of the abutting building rose another three stories and was peaked with a very ornate roof, from which the bands had hung their banners. The currently spotlighted one proclaimed the current band to be "Mères D'Estafilade".

Her white jeans precluded sitting, so she found a relatively quiet place to stand; however, Dominique was not alone long. The first boy that joined her did not look like he was old enough to drive, but had clearly been enjoying the bar, and maybe something stronger. His pupils were blown, his grin lopsided, and twice he had swayed and then clung on to her like he was either going to collapse or puke. As soon as she could politely do so, Domi extracted herself from his company.

Her second companion came bearing a drink, and she recognized him as the older brother of the drummer, who introduced himself as 'the Mothers' manager. She took the drink, but didn't touch it, being unwilling to tempt fate.

She supposed her annoyance at his presence was a bit silly. He was not an unattractive man; and upon reflection she found that he had several nice features. If his nose was a bit sharp and his teeth a bit crooked, well she supposed those would be endearing to a lover. And he was a vivid conversationalist, quite happy to go on and on about himself and the band while receiving only minimal feedback from her. In fact, he had been talking to her a good twenty minutes before he asked again for her name, this time pausing so that she was obliged to answer him.

"Dominique," she told him with a dismissive wave, her tone implying that that may or may not be true. He ignored that, and instead began what she had come to think of as 'the inquisition' – common questions men seemed to ask women: Do you live nearby? Are you in school? Are you with someone? Domi deflected them all, so that he really had no more information than that she lived in the vicinity of Paris, was a sometimes student, and was not there alone. He backed off, offering to refill her drink and so she handed him the untouched plastic glass back with a smirk, knowing he wasn't coming back.

Another group was taking the makeshift stage at the other end of the roof, though by their dress they were more of a pop band. The lead singer had a beautiful mane of sun-kissed sandy brown hair and a rich baritone voice. The dark, driving bass guitar would have dominated almost any other singer, she thought, but somehow, it worked. The sound was reminiscent of Breaking Benjamin crossed with the Stone Temple Pilots, and after the bridge several people in the audience could be seen mouthing the chorus.

"I did not recognize you in jeans," Gus' voice growled against her hair, puffing scotch-scented breath over her ear. Domi twisted away from the warm body at her back instinctively, but Gus was ready for that and had wrapped his arm around her, hooking his middle finger through her belt loop.

"You startled me," she complained, slapping gently at his hand, which pulled her back into his pelvis in retaliation. He had been drinking and smoking marijuana, she realized belatedly. There was no sense in arguing with him. On stage, the six boys started a slower ballad about heartbreak being like the ocean at low tide. At least partially out of annoyance at Gus' manhandling, Domi was too exasperated to think the crooning lyrics anything but corny.

Gus slumped on her, both arms now crossed around her waist, thumbs working their way beneath the waistband of her jeans. "Hrmm, you smell like a girl," he moaned, making obnoxious smacking noises as he buried his face into her neck.

Angry, Dominique clawed futilely at his wrists, then elbowed him hard in the ribs, which seemed to really startle him, "What?!" he demanded, letting her go and blinking at her as if she'd sprayed him with water to wake him up. At least three nasty retorts crossed her mind (and left a scowl on her face) before she closed her eyes and shook her head. "Where is Luc?" she demanded in a tired voice, though she still looked cross, hands flitting over her outfit as if he had wrinkled them. The jeans had been a bad idea…

Gus waved his hand dismissively, wrist uncharacteristically limp as if he were making fun of Luc. "He's mad at me," he slurred, then gave a dramatic sniff as he slung his arm around Domi's bare shoulder and half fell into her. "He called me a slut," he sounded shocked to his core, "Can you imagine?"

It was a really stupid thing to say, and in spite of herself, the corners of Domi's mouth curved upward. Flicking his hand away, she agreed sardonically, "Seriously? Hrmm.. and you are SUCH a vestal virgin…"

Laughter lit up his seemingly black eyes, but he thought better of it and gave her a pout instead, pulling her deftly into him, chest to chest, his fingers somehow forcing themselves into the low back pockets of her jeans. "Gus!" she hissed, pushing at his chest with one hand and at his right arm with the other.

"Dance with me, Domi-mi-mi-meee…" he crooned along with the singer, throwing his head back like a howling wolf as he pushed her about with one hand on her back and the other clinging to her right hand. Caught unawares, she could do little but stumble along and turn her face to one side to keep from having to inhale his breath.

***************

Sean and Angelo arrived at the party at 11:30, having first taken a diversion to Angelo’s apartment some distance opposite the direction of the Pigalle. He’d forgotten his pipe, and, after whining about how the rich, sweet aroma of his tobacco was such a “skirt draw,” Sean had relented and driven him home to retrieve his tool of seduction.

They had wound their way up from the first and second floors of the building through rooms teeming with party-makers – rooms where sex seemed just ass-pats away from beginning, druggy rooms, drunken rooms, eating rooms, dancing rooms, to the large upper floor common room.

“Alors, c’mon, Sean, the action is up there on the roof,” Angelo said, pointing past the pool table to the wide open window and the black wrought iron framework of a fire escape outside.

They stooped through the window, Angelo in the lead, and mounted the rickety narrow ancient stairway to safety. Climbing behind Angelo, Sean had a face-full of lemon-yellow denim ass and wondered again what had possessed his friend to turn out such a garish color wheel this night. Perhaps the older womanizer knew things about what turned the sweet young things on that made it all work out for him.

The roof was an undulating sea of bare, tanned, toned female arms and muscled male biceps; flat defined midriffs above tight swaying feminine waistbands tempting both men and women to partner for dance and more; sassy hot asses outlined in skin tight denim and cotton and silk that was uniform across the genders in the youthful crowd; peeking breasts and stacked bodices strutting proudly to the beat of the music; bare or tightly-clad thighs that commanded Sean’s full attention – a madcap scene of electric youthful energy, libido, dance, and mirth.

“Uuu… mon ami,” Angelo shouted above the din of even the slow heartbreak ballad blaring from the stage, the otherwise smooth crooning of the lead vocalist coming across somewhat tinny and distorted through the overly-amped speakers. “I am in heaven now, mon Dieu! I need to dance, Sean. I know quite a few of these lovelies! Aaahhh!”

It was just then that Sean saw her, far across the roof near a quiet embankment corner of the rooftop edge. “Look! Angelo, look!” he exclaimed, pointing to Dominique staggering along in what was supposed to be a slow close dance with an obviously hopeless sloppy drunk. Either that or a man with some vile neurological spastic motor disorder. “It’s Dominique! Who is that asshole mauling her?”

Angelo sized up the scene and, slightly startled by Sean’s rude reference to the man’s rectal sphincter, which was not in Sean’s verbal nature, replied, “Oui. Ca cet certain! Yes, it certainly is. And, she does not look all too happy with her club-footed Fred Astaire, does she? Ha!!!”

“No, she does not,” Sean observed, watching her crane her head away from the inebriate’s face and moving so stiffly, resisting, as her erstwhile partner managed to misplace every step of the simple dance under attempt. She looked lovely, so alluring, and for an instant, Sean saw only her there on the roof, as if moving in harmony with him. She looked so svelte and sleek atop her tall sandals, and her tight white jeans accentuated her thin sexy body. Her bare shoulders and full bosom were just as Felicia had looked in her peasant tops more than a century ago. Some things never change, Sean thought. He could feel her body and the pulse of her heart against his as if time had been still all these years.

“Angelo,” Sean bellowed, “I’ve seen enough! We are going to break that up! Now. Right now! This calls for special tactical intervention, and you will be my back up!”

Angelo planted his hands on his hips and looked at Sean quizzically. “‘Tactical intervention,’ mon ami? What? What is that? Since when did you become a military expert? Ha! I don’t want to get in a fight, Sean. I just got here! Look at those asses out there ….”

Sean grabbed him by the arm and fixed him a stern look. “Hush, Angelo! We do this, now! No one will get hurt. Do you forget Spain , mon ami, and the foreign legion? I am an accomplished military tactician. It does not go away, even after a century! You will do as I say.”

Without giving Angelo pause to reply, he went on. “So, we are going to walk rapidly toward them. You will be yapping some nonsense to me, shouting, being boisterous, and not watching where you are walking, or so it will appear. All this comes most naturally to you, especially the loud talking about nothing in particular! Just make something up.

“As we get almost on top of them, I will turn my head to you, although I will know where I am going, and then we will quite simply crash into them. Hard, but not violently so. In his rubbery state, the souse will be split off from her. He is your target, Angelo. You stick with him and catch him, whatever must be done to keep him from falling or colliding with someone else, and then you can just drag him away. If he protests, we’ll deal with it then, but he looks out of it. Offer him a tok or another drink, anything.”

“Toke? Sean. What do you know about tokes?” Angelo asked. “I don’t have any weed on me, mon ami.”

“Don’t irritate me now, Angelo! I’m an art broker, not a hermit! I just don’t care to smoke. You don’t have to be carrying – just get him away from us. I will be her safety net. I will catch her before she falls and stumbles, and then, my friend, then I will not let her go! Now, is the plan clear?”

Angelo could see clearly that the man was driven and would not be put off. Upon reflection, the plan was sound. Much quicker and less unpredictable than walking up and trying to interrupt with polite conversation. Maybe Sean was much more of a clever brute than Angelo had ever imagined.

“Alright, Monsieur Capitain!” He saluted comically. “Lead on! The charge is yours! Haaaaaa!!!”

They started off toward the couple, shoulder to shoulder. Angelo launched into a ridiculous discussion of the relative merits of canvas stretching by means of stretching rack versus chemical immersion that Sean ignored completely. Angelo played the part well, laughing and tossing his wild scarf about his shoulders as he moved. They were almost upon Dominique and Gus, and Sean turned to look at Angelo and said, “But, mon ami, the rack has always been the means of choice for ……”

They both careened into the dancing couple. It was like billiards. Gus caromed off to the right, stumbling and staggering, obviously losing his balance, and Angelo caught him by a flailing arm and pulled him to safety, as well as several feet away from Dominique and toward the stage.

Taking comfort in the fact that while she was dancing with Gus no one else would disturb her, Domi had almost resigned herself to working to keep Gus’ hands where they could do no harm. It was a harder task than it seemed, for he was not nearly so drunk that his body didn’t know it was rubbing up against something it liked; and his movements were so erratic that it was all she could do not to be pulled off her feet. When they were struck by another couple she was not sure whether to be irritated or relieved, though panic dominated both as she grabbed a hold of the male arm around her waist. Groped, nearly knocked down, and now seized, this was more manhandling than the petite brunette had had to endure in a very long time.

She really hated parties… so why had she allowed Labette talk her into coming?

Dominique was not moved any distance from her position by the blow, but she seemed to be teetering toward a face-forward fall. Sean swooped up behind her and lassoed her waist with his arms, pulling her upright in front of him, exclaiming all the while, “Aghhh! Sacre bleu! Oh, mademoiselle! Please forgive me. So clumsy! A million apologies …..”

She knew that voice. Her hands stilled where they had been trying to wedge themselves between his arms and her body and she found herself breathing in short gasps. She did not even register that Angelo LaRussa had led Gus away.

He reached to her elbows and slowly turned her around to face him. As soon as they were face-to-face, eye-to-eye, he pulled back, maintaining his gentle hold on her elbows, gasped and feigning such utter shock and surprise, sputtered disbelievingly, “Mon Dieu! Dominique! Dominique Vasser! What on earth are you doing… here?!”

Instinctively her shoulders rose to pull her elbows from the cups of his palms, but she made no other move to free herself as she literally gaped up at the face of the man she had been dreaming about for the past month. He was so close that a single step would allow her to nuzzle her face against his chest, and the rush of need that the idea of him enfolding her into his arms produced made her feel that odd liquid heaviness she experienced in the dreams. What would it be like to be in his arms and feel his breath caress her face as that low, lyrical voice drew her out of herself?

She thought she knew – that was the hard part.

Their eyes locked for the briefest of moments, but Sean felt the weight of the past months, the weight of centuries, rise and whisk far away in the embrace of their eyes. Her face, her stunning beauty, her body before him, and all that he knew her equally beautiful native mind and soul to be, and it elevated him beyond all bonds for an instant. He KNEW, felt, a longing in her eyes, and he could not imagine that he was not showing the same in his. He wanted to draw her to him, drive her mad with passion for him as in the past, and make sweet, slow, open love to her right there, telling her how he would never let her go again, never let her lose him …. but instead, he merely raised his hands gently to keep his palms pressed into her warm upper arms a few seconds longer.

“Monsier LeBeque!” she replied belatedly, sounding too stiff to have come from the puddle her body had become. Even her shoulders had relaxed and all her nerve endings seemed to have moved beneath the pressure of his fingers. “What a surprise to see you, sir.” She amended quickly, “A pleasant one, of course.” She should back away… but her body ignored the command.

“Oh, now, just a moment here, Dominique. Can we please drop the formality? I insist that you call me ‘Sean,’ alright? No more Monsieur LeBeque! I left him at the gallery hours ago!” He beamed at her, dropping his arms from her elbows, but remaining just inches from her.

When he let her go she unconsciously sighed in disappointment and then blinked, looking away as if waking up from a daydream. It was as if she were a little drunk, all her reaction times slowed as if her brain could not keep up. Crossing her arms beneath her breasts, her fingers stroked the skin where his fingers had been as if rubbing away the memory of his touch – or trying to call it back. “As you wish,” she managed weakly, unable to meet his gaze.

He saw that the instant of openness between them had passed for now, but felt confident that it would return. He would see to that. “Alors, I am so sorry about our crashing into you and … your date? It was Angelo – you know, my friend Angelo – he was just carrying on about something and neither of us was watching where we are going. I hope … did I ruin anything for you with your friend?” Sean looked about, feigning concern for the missing drunk.

Domi followed his gaze and found Gus at the bar with another drink in his hand. An older man in a garishly loud sweater stood with his arm wrapped around his shoulder. “Think nothing of it,” her mind was blank for conversation, and a pause ensued that was so uncomfortable that she seemed to be in a war between the desire to be polite and to run away. Good breeding won out, “We do not know each other well,” she began, licking her lips and darting a glance at his eyes, which seemed intriguingly darker tonight, “however, I had not thought that this would be your sort of…” she faltered, realizing how presumptuous her question was.

“Ah! You do not know that gentleman well, is it? Well, so much to my good fortune, in that case! No real harm being done, I shall make it OUR business to know each other better tonight. After our lovely chat last month, we are well on our way as it is, I believe!

“Not my sort of thing, you think? Why am I here? Haaa! Again, Angelo. You know, he’s a good dozen years older than me chronologically, but ten years younger in spirit, behavior, I guess. He knows many of Paris ’ rock and thrash bands, and had an invitation to this party. He insisted I come along. So, while I usually spend Friday nights at home pouring over the week’s gallery business I decided sure, get out for once like the rest of Paris on a Friday night! And, here I am. And here you are! What a fantastic coincidence!” His eyes danced with sparkle as they moved from her eyes to her hair to her mouth to her bare shoulders and back to her eyes. “You look so lovely, ah, beautiful tonight, Mademoiselle Vasser.” He lowered his eyes as a faint blush rosied his bronzed cheeks.

Her gaze had drifted back toward Angelo, but reengaged with his at the unexpected compliment. Did he mean it, or was it something he told all women? Frenchmen were notoriously liberal with their favors; and before her heart could leap too high she reminded herself that at best all she could ever hope to be was this man’s dirty little secret – perhaps one of many. “Thank you, monsieur,” she replied in such a low tone that it was likely lost in the music. She restlessly turned a bit toward the bar, as if about to retreat.

“Dominique – it’s ‘Sean,’ remember? Who is this monsieur?” He stood, looking at her quite quizzically, drawing his fingers along his jaw line and under his chin. “Dominique!” he exclaimed. “You never dropped around to the gallery! I was so expecting you! What ever happened?”

He had called her Mlle Vasser, so she had replied in kind; however all thoughts of bringing that to his attention were swept away with his complaint. Looking away, she bit her lip and gave a small, artless shrug, clearly thinking fast. “I have been busy, mons…” she peered at him guiltily and corrected herself, “Sean.”

“Ha! You’ll have to do better than that for an excuse, chère fille! But – I will give you another chance to make amends in the coming week. Or, must I set a-prowl to hunt you down and drag you, kicking and screaming to my wild den of debauched paintings and shameless scabrous sculptures? You will come willingly, won’t you?” He looked at her softly, with the most magnetically persuasive charm he could muster in his expression and eyes.

His buoyancy made the corners of her mouth pull up – only to fall when he (she assumed teasingly) threatened to stalk her. Her expression froze at that, chin tilting down as she swallowed down the rush of irritation she felt at his pushiness. Kicking and screaming, indeed! Her gaze involuntarily moved to the area she would be sure to kick first… “Surely you do not need to resort to such measures to bring people inside…” she replied in an admonishing tone after a long pause, and then asked quizzically, “Debauched and scabrous? I thought that was more Monsieur LaRussa’s taste.”

“Ha! Oh, chère Dominique!” He reached to her and tried to brush her cheek lightly, fleetingly, with the back of his hand, saying, “But, you take me so seriously! Too seriously. Ah, but, this is my fault! Please forgive.” However, she avoided his touch, eyes narrowing at the hand in alarm. He looked at her with large, now soft eyes, his mouth fixed with a pleasant smile, his head cocked slightly to the side. “Of course I would not resort to that! My sense of humor sometimes runs away from sensibility, I guess. I do not have much chance to exercise my sense of humor, save with Angelo, you know.

“Oh, and, again, poor attempt at humor on the debauchery! Most all art, I think, has a sensuous and erotic quality in forms and shapes and lines and curves, even in the way colors mesh and flow together. Indeed, I deal sometimes in very erotic art – but tasteful and classic, you know. Nothing pornographic or truly scabrous! No, no! Haaa! Will you forgive my failed humor? Dominique, I simply would so enjoy showing you the gallery. I have some lovely things there just now.”

“Ah,” she said on a small, upwards nod, not sure that she really saw at all. “Well, you have me intrigued.” She paused there before asking hesitantly, “When is the gallery open?”

“Most every day, every weekday, normally from 10 to 3 or 4. There is much to do even when clients do not call. I live so close though that I can open by appointment really any time, any day.”

She simply nodded at that. It really would come down to coming over on her lunch, but she did not want to commit to anything if she could help it. “I will see what I can do.”

“Well, good! Very good, then! Now, of course, if Mademoiselle insists, I can certainly hang some scenes of ribald debauchery and install a scandalous nude statue or two that appeal to one’s most prurient instincts. Just exclusively for you, mind you! Haa!”

She cracked a smile in spite of herself, her gaze dropping for a second before she again sought his from beneath her lashes.

He suddenly stared at her intensely. All the while during their conversation, her face, its beauty and perfection, had captivated him, as did his visions of her when he sketched her. “Oh, forgive me, again, … for staring at you. You are, Dominique, so lovely. Your face is exquisite. No no no – do not let me embarrass you. It is true! You must hear what I see. If I had but a portrait of you in the gallery, and nothing more, I would have all there is to have. Except, I cannot conceive of any artist doing your … beauty justice.” He thought of his charcoals of her, and how he must hide them before she came to the gallery.

His attention was too much and laid on so thickly that she had no ability to credit it. Dominique knew that she was pretty enough, but also knew that there were a lot of women who were better endowed, longer legged, or had exotic eyes or tawny skin. Like most young women, when she looked in the mirror, she saw her flaws, not her assets. However, her recent dreams – inspired by the man before her – had made her take more care with her appearance than normal, wanting to capture some sense of the sexiness she felt in the dreams.

As such, she did not know what to say. But blushed, telling herself it was a line at best and at worse the ploy some predator would use to lure in the unsuspecting. Her woman’s heart longed to believe him, but she was by nature cautious and practical. So the moment lingered awkwardly and unacknowledged, Dominique caught by the urge to flee and the desire to remain near him. Her fingers tugged at her tapestried belt nervously.

“Can I get you a drink? Ah, would, uhm, would you like to dance?”

Ooh, the temptation! Though it was hard to say which she wanted more – to be drunk and thus spared this awkwardness or to melt in his arms. The latter was too embarrassing to contemplate for she was very much afraid she would become mindless again if he touched her. She was spared the need to decide by the song ending and the band saying that they would be playing again in a few hours during the contest.

“A drink would be nice, thank you,” she told him, biting her lower lip as she turned away. Unfortunately, they quickly found themselves in quite the crowd as the dancers aggressively crushed in to get drinks. Having to step backwards from the edge of the throng – at which Gus and Angelo were securely in the center – Domi found her shoulder blades against Sean’s chest, and startled, turned her head to look up at him, “Perhaps we should give it a minute?” She offered after a second, not moving to break the contact and hoping he would think nothing more of it than that she was avoiding being trampled by the more hyped up partygoers. Three young men – none of whom looked to be quite twenty – were still jumping about, slamming into each other and everyone around them, their long hair acting like greasy whips.

Sean looked down into her upturned face and liquid eyes, and nearly melted, or ignited – they both felt the same in that instant – as her shoulders fused up against his crisp shirt, the nape of her neck just grazing the top of his chest, bared in the wide open slit of his shirt. He grasped the outsides of her shoulders firmly with his broad hands, pressing his palms against them and wrapping his fingers gently around the silk flesh of her upper arms, the tips nearly bridging toward her breasts. He looked down at her bare shoulders and the frilly peasant’s top that graced her fine full bosom. “Yes,” he whispered deeply, “let’s wait over here until the salmon have swum upstream.” He released his hold on her and grasped her hand for a moment, leading her away.

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