She nodded once and put him out of her mind.
Finn wadded his napkin and tossed it on the table. “Where are you staying?”
“The northern edge of the Marais,” she said, standing reluctantly, not ready for the evening to end yet. She hadn’t even spoken to him about his art yet. “I’ll take the Metro.”
“I’ll walk you to Saint Michel then.” He gestured for her to go first.
He walked slower, keeping in pace with her this time. She looked up at him, startled by his size all over again. “When will you let me see your art?” she said to steer herself back on track.
“Never,” he said almost pleasantly.
She looked up at him, trying not to notice that his hand brushed hers as they walked, or the giddy feelings it inspired. Or that she wanted him to kiss her.
She pursed her lips. She didn’t need kisses—she’d gone without them a long time, and she could go on for quite a while longer despite what Bea thought. She was on the cusp of becoming someone though, and that wasn’t something to compromise. So she said, “I think you’re being shortsighted by not showing me your work.”
He stopped at the entrance of the Saint Michel metro station and stuck his hands in his pockets. “And I think you should go home to London.”
She shook her head. “Not until you agree to let me see your work. Like I said, I might like to sell it.”
“I told you I don’t sell my work.” His tone brooked no debate.
But she was used to Charles and Chloe. She knew how to work around stubborn people. “It’ll be good for you.”
He shook his head. “Nothing you have to offer would be good for me.”
“I should be offended, but I’m not,” she said, smiling slowly as his words registered. “You’re saying I’m like chocolate cake.”
“Daft,” he murmured.
Vi poked his arm. “You want to kiss me.”
He nodded. “Unfortunately, I’m daft, too.”
“Astonishing.” Laughing a little, she descended into the metro station. “See you tomorrow, Phineas.”
“No, you won’t,” he called after her.
“Yes, I will,” she promised with a wave, knowing he waited at the top and watched her all the way in.
Chapter Eight
“ Mon vieux, ” Marcel said as he opened his door. He took the espresso off the tray in Finn’s hands and motioned him into the flat. “What a wonderful surprise to see you this morning.”
“Is it?” Finn entered, setting the tray on the tiny counter in the kitchen.
“But of course.” Marcel grinned at him. “You can tell me about the beautiful woman you left with last night.”
Viola Summerhill, with the amazing legs and lips that begged for sweet kisses. Finn turned, eyes narrowed. “What do you know of her?”
Marcel shrugged, overly casual. “Only that Anne-Marie saw you leave with a goddess. I ask myself, could this really be my Finn, who has forsaken all feminine enticements?”
He rolled his eyes. “That’s not true.”
The man pointed at him. “You cannot distract me, my friend. I’ll find out who she is.”
“She’s only a gallery owner.”
Marcel perked up. “She will sell your paintings? Then she’s an angel sent from above to save you.”
“You know I don’t sell my art.”
“The only thing I know is that you have a passion you restrain, and that , my friend”—he pointed a finger at him—“is unnatural.”
Restrained passion made him remember Viola again, which annoyed him, because he’d already spent too much time thinking about her. She’d haunted him all night as he tossed and turned.
Shaking his head, he headed toward the door. “Remember to take the tray and dishes back to Anne-Marie.”
“Of course,” Marcel said as he flopped onto his couch, the legs bowing out despite his insubstantial weight. “And you? What are you doing today?”
Finn shrugged, hand on the doorknob. “What do you think I’m doing today?”
“Not what I believe you’d like to be doing, and certainly not with the woman you want to do it with.”
Finn wadded his napkin and tossed it on the table. “Where are you staying?”
“The northern edge of the Marais,” she said, standing reluctantly, not ready for the evening to end yet. She hadn’t even spoken to him about his art yet. “I’ll take the Metro.”
“I’ll walk you to Saint Michel then.” He gestured for her to go first.
He walked slower, keeping in pace with her this time. She looked up at him, startled by his size all over again. “When will you let me see your art?” she said to steer herself back on track.
“Never,” he said almost pleasantly.
She looked up at him, trying not to notice that his hand brushed hers as they walked, or the giddy feelings it inspired. Or that she wanted him to kiss her.
She pursed her lips. She didn’t need kisses—she’d gone without them a long time, and she could go on for quite a while longer despite what Bea thought. She was on the cusp of becoming someone though, and that wasn’t something to compromise. So she said, “I think you’re being shortsighted by not showing me your work.”
He stopped at the entrance of the Saint Michel metro station and stuck his hands in his pockets. “And I think you should go home to London.”
She shook her head. “Not until you agree to let me see your work. Like I said, I might like to sell it.”
“I told you I don’t sell my work.” His tone brooked no debate.
But she was used to Charles and Chloe. She knew how to work around stubborn people. “It’ll be good for you.”
He shook his head. “Nothing you have to offer would be good for me.”
“I should be offended, but I’m not,” she said, smiling slowly as his words registered. “You’re saying I’m like chocolate cake.”
“Daft,” he murmured.
Vi poked his arm. “You want to kiss me.”
He nodded. “Unfortunately, I’m daft, too.”
“Astonishing.” Laughing a little, she descended into the metro station. “See you tomorrow, Phineas.”
“No, you won’t,” he called after her.
“Yes, I will,” she promised with a wave, knowing he waited at the top and watched her all the way in.
Chapter Eight
“ Mon vieux, ” Marcel said as he opened his door. He took the espresso off the tray in Finn’s hands and motioned him into the flat. “What a wonderful surprise to see you this morning.”
“Is it?” Finn entered, setting the tray on the tiny counter in the kitchen.
“But of course.” Marcel grinned at him. “You can tell me about the beautiful woman you left with last night.”
Viola Summerhill, with the amazing legs and lips that begged for sweet kisses. Finn turned, eyes narrowed. “What do you know of her?”
Marcel shrugged, overly casual. “Only that Anne-Marie saw you leave with a goddess. I ask myself, could this really be my Finn, who has forsaken all feminine enticements?”
He rolled his eyes. “That’s not true.”
The man pointed at him. “You cannot distract me, my friend. I’ll find out who she is.”
“She’s only a gallery owner.”
Marcel perked up. “She will sell your paintings? Then she’s an angel sent from above to save you.”
“You know I don’t sell my art.”
“The only thing I know is that you have a passion you restrain, and that , my friend”—he pointed a finger at him—“is unnatural.”
Restrained passion made him remember Viola again, which annoyed him, because he’d already spent too much time thinking about her. She’d haunted him all night as he tossed and turned.
Shaking his head, he headed toward the door. “Remember to take the tray and dishes back to Anne-Marie.”
“Of course,” Marcel said as he flopped onto his couch, the legs bowing out despite his insubstantial weight. “And you? What are you doing today?”
Finn shrugged, hand on the doorknob. “What do you think I’m doing today?”
“Not what I believe you’d like to be doing, and certainly not with the woman you want to do it with.”
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