Read Online Vicki's Work of Heart by Rosie Dean - Free Book Online Page A

‘Hello!’ I called back, sniffing again.
    At the bottom of the second flight, I saw a large, sandy-haired man with a thick moustache looking up at me. ‘Ahh!’ he exclaimed. ‘Vicki?’
    ‘Oui.’ I descended the stairs.
    ‘I’m François,’ he said, holding out his hand to me. ‘Christophe tells me you want canvases.’
    I opened my mouth in surprise. ‘Yes. I do. Pleased to meet you.’ I shook his hand.
    He beamed at me. I could see he was a good deal older than Christophe, probably in his early fifties. His eyes were quite sexy in a dissipated way; creased as they were from laughter, and bloodshot, I suspected, from booze but his handshake was warm and strong. I felt like I was in the presence of a true lover of life – I could practically feel his energy recharging mine. ‘I think you have been crying, Vicki.’ he declared, in English; his frankness shocking yet welcome.
    I brushed a strand of hair from my face. ‘Just feeling a bit homesick, I suppose. Silly isn’t it?’
    ‘Nonsense. We are nothing without emotion. Come.’ he embraced me firmly, kissing me on both cheeks, the tang of Gauloises cigarettes assailing my nostrils. ‘I have brought a canvas for you but it may not be the right size. If you like, I can take you to my supplier and you can choose exactly what you want.’
    And we’re off, I thought. I will get over Marc’s departure. ‘Absolutely. If you’re happy to take me to your supplier, that would be great. Thank you.’
    François, God love him, encouraged me to speak French during our journey. His enthusiasm for my efforts – not to mention his patience – had to be applauded. I watched him as he squinted through the smoke from his cigarette, while he concentrated on what I was trying to say. Whenever I grasped blindly for a missing word, he’d plug the gap.
    The art shop was like an Aladdin’s cave. It took all of my self control not to buy yet more paints and brushes – gleaming new brushes were always so tempting and utterly sensuous, especially when I stroked those silky, sable strands across my cheek.
    As François closed the van doors on my materials, he said, ‘Why don’t we take all this back to my studio and stretch those canvases for you?’
    ‘That would be fantastic. Christophe tells me you paint horses. I’d really love to see your work.’
    ‘Well, I hope you like them. Not everybody does.’
    As we set off, I asked, ‘Have you painted Christophe’s horses?’
    ‘Many times. His father gave me my first com mission. I was straight out of art school and full of enthusiasm – and angst. Hah! I like to think I’ve improved a little since then.’
    ‘So you’ve known Christophe a long time?’ I asked, masterminding a conversational path that led directly to the source of the recent drama.
    ‘Since he was a baby. Always bright. Always thoughtful. And I think, often lonely.’
    My head snapped up. ‘Really?’
    François nodded, tossing his cigarette filter out of the window. ‘His parents were busy with their own lives. His father was a fine man – quiet but strong. Sadly, I don’t think he was very affectionate. And yet his mother, ah…’ he paused. ‘What a beautiful woman.’ A smile settled on his face and I could tell there was something going on behind his eyes, which I could only guess at.
    And…?
    After a moment, I asked, ‘So, they sent their only child away to school?’
    François shrugged. ‘His mother likes to travel. Having a baby doesn’t automatically make you a good parent, you know.’
    I leaned my head back on the seat and pictured a little seven year-old boy, packed off to a school in another country because his parents had better things to do than look after him. I would never do that to a child of mine. An image drifted across my inner vision of a beautiful boy, with dark eyes and a heartbreaking smile. Drawing a deep breath, I found it hard to imagine Christophe being lonely these days.
    François steered his van through