His Ransom 5(5)

I’d heard that Paris had a lot of street artists, but I was shocked anyway at the profusion of huge mural pieces all alongside the backs of buildings and billboards. It seemed like every surface was either ancient architecture or brand new graffiti. The hand lettering styles were much different from the ones in New York City. I saw more variety, but also more playfulness.

I stopped to take pictures with my phone, and the tourists around me gawked at me like I was the crazy one.

My phone rang. This time when I looked at the screen, it was a number that I’d never seen before. It had too many numbers. European? Maybe it was Jake calling from the office.

I answered.

“Is this Lacey Mills? Miss Lacey Mills?”

“Ah—yes,” I said. The voice on the other end had a slight French accent.

“The artist?”

My chest swelled with pride. I think that was the first time anyone had addressed me that way.

“Yes!” I said.

“Yes. I’m a collector from Paris. I was told you would be in town this week, and I was hoping to meet you.”

What?! The prospect of another art collector meeting was as scary as it was exciting. With Jake busy all day with his business meetings, it was downright terrifying. But I had to learn how to sell my art without Jake’s help someday. And like Rachel and Steph had said, I had to believe in myself and just make a go for it.

“Absolutely,” I said, with more confidence in my voice than I felt. “When—uh—when would you like to meet?”

“I am today going to the Louvre,” the man with the slight accent said. “Will you meet me there?”

“Today? You mean, like, now?”

“Yes, yes. I will take you on a short tour of some of my favorite pieces. I should like to get to know you.”

“Um, sure.” That sounded weird, but I was sure it was hard to speak a second language without sounding weird sometimes. “Yes. I’ll be there in…uh, thirty minutes?”

I looked down. Should I change my dress? I’d bought it thinking of Jake, but I wasn’t sure if it was professional-looking enough. It hugged my hips tightly. But the cowled neck was high enough that it covered all of my cleavage. I decided that it would do.

“Une demi-heure. Oui, bien. I will see you then.”

Well, that was that. The man hung up on me before I realized something: I hadn’t even gotten his name.



I was nervous. I was nervous as I stood next to the outside corner of the Louvre pyramid, watching people all around me take pictures of the huge glass structure. I was nervous when I saw a man in dark sunglasses and a dark suit step out of the milling crowd and start walking towards me.

And I was twice as nervous when I realized that he was young and very, very handsome.

He strode over to me and took me by the shoulders. I scarcely was able to say “Bonjour” when the man leaned down and pressed a kiss onto my cheek, then the other cheek. He beamed a smile that was perfectly straight and dazzling.

“My dear Miss Mills.”

His accent was very slight, but distinctly Parisian.

“Pleasure,” I said. “What—what was your name again?”

“Jean-Luc,” he said. The name couldn’t have sounded more French. His dark sunglasses obscured his eyes so that I could not see his expression.

He led me around the side of the courtyard, and to my surprise he pulled out a key and opened a side door.

“This way,” he said, motioning into a brightly lit staircase. He smirked almost smugly as he waved me through the private entrance.

The staircase inside was a spiral of marble steps going down. I stayed at the top until he closed and locked the door behind us.

“This connects to the Louvre?” I asked.

“No,” Jean-Luc said.

“No?”

“This is a private collection. A friend of mine lent me the key.”

He took his sunglasses off and tucked them into his pocket. He had dark eyes, almost black, and the way he stared at me made my blood run a little hotter. Handsome was too weak of a word—his jawline was sharp and he looked like he’d just stepped out of a Gucci photo shoot.

Apart from that, though, there was something about the way he held himself that seemed oddly familiar. I couldn’t tell what it was, but he was definitely more than a little bit attractive. I couldn’t help the way my heart skipped when he placed his hand on the crook of my elbow and he pulled me through the entrance and down the stairs.

“You will love these paintings, I am sure of it,” Jean-Luc continued. “It is a newer artist, to be exhibited at a smaller gallery down the street. The Louvre is full of old dusty masterpieces. This collection is a breath of fresh air.”