Free The Art of Seduction by Katherine O'Neal

even define. For someone who liked to be in control of every situation, she was a perilous proposition. He’d have to be careful with this one.
    Had his overture been an unwise move? In retrospect, probably so. Why had he made it, then? Obviously, because she said she was leaving and he had to prevent her from slipping out of his fingers. Still, she’d been more than he’d bargained for. Once again, he cautioned himself to be careful.
    Well, here I am. What am I going to do now?
    Some decisions had to be made.
    For some time he remained there, propped against the pillows, letting things play out in his mind, beating down erotic thoughts that kept popping up about the delicious interlude in the coach, knowing there was no way he was going to walk away from this.
    Suddenly, the spark of an idea hit him. An ambitious idea. An outrageous idea. So ambitious, so outrageous that he couldn’t take it seriously, but…he couldn’t let go. It would take patience, meticulous planning, all his skill and dedication. But maybe…just maybe…
    Slipping into a robe, he felt such a surge of creative satisfaction that he knew he was hooked.
    He walked the long path to the double doors and threw them wide, opening up the bedroom to the sitting room beyond. A sliver of light stealing through a crack in the curtains helped him see the shapes and shadows of the tasteful furnishings of the suite. He yanked back the drapes, letting in the golden glow of the lighted façade of l’Opéra across the street. His fourth-floor French doors put him in line with an exhilarating view of the gilded angels that graced the rooftop of Garnier’s palace, as if they were soaring before his eyes.
    He looked at them for a moment, these muses that seemed to have been placed there just for him on this auspicious night. Then, going to the bar and pouring himself a brandy, he pulled a chair to the window and sat facing it.
    He stayed there for the rest of the night, sipping the brandy slowly as his eyes caressed the view and his mind began to unfold his exhilarating plan.
    Â 
    Mason awoke the next morning feeling strangely happy and at one with the world. It was such an unusual feeling that, for a moment, she couldn’t figure out why. Then she remembered. The show…the riot over her paintings…and him…
    Richard Garrett.
    She stretched her limbs, smiling dreamily, feeling the sweet afterglow flood through her. Snuggling deeper into the feathery folds of the bed, she luxuriated in the majesty of her good fortune.
    Her discretely luxurious surroundings served to reinforce the dreamlike sensation. Falconier’s suite was a large, high-ceilinged space at the front of the block-long building consisting of two levels: a comfortable sitting room with a mezzanine bedchamber above overlooking it. Striped wallpaper of cranberry and plum created a backdrop for the maroon and hunter green furnishings. Pictures of celebrated race horses adorned the walls.
    But for Mason, the most extraordinary aspect of it was the fact that her phenomenal streak of good fortune had placed her directly across the narrow Rue Scribe from the Grand Hotel and Richard Garrett.
    As if it was meant to be.
    She heard the key turn in the door downstairs and sat up in bed. Then she heard Lisette’s voice, “Thank you, mon cher .”
    A young male voice answered, “But it is my pleasure, Mademoiselle Lisette. I have delighted in your artistry many times at the circus.”
    â€œAren’t you sweet,” Lisette said. “Here’s something for your trouble.”
    â€œOh, no, Mademoiselle. I could never accept anything from you. Meeting you is honor enough.”
    â€œI’m up here,” Mason called when she heard the door close.
    â€œStill in bed?” After a moment, Lisette appeared coming up the spiral stairwell. She looked at Mason, lying in bed with her hands above her head, bathed in morning sunlight