The Art Of Seduction. Katherine O' NealЧитать онлайн книгу.

      KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

       http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

      For Machi

      Contents

      Prologue

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Chapter 19

      Chapter 20

      Chapter 21

      Chapter 22

      Chapter 23

      Chapter 24

      Chapter 25

      Chapter 26

      Chapter 27

      Chapter 28

      Chapter 29

      Chapter 30

      Chapter 31

      Chapter 32

      Chapter 33

      Chapter 34

      Epilogue

      Prologue

      Paris

       30 January, 1889

      What am I going to do?

      The question burned in Mason Caldwell’s mind as she walked the drenched and dreary streets. She was soaked through, her light brown hair freed from its pins by the force of the gale, her overcoat clinging clammily to her body. But she’d long since ceased to care, or even to feel the discomfort. The rain as it lashed her seemed the outward manifestation of the tears she wouldn’t allow herself to shed, as if the sky itself mourned for her on this night when all her hopes and dreams had come to nothing.

      The elaborately embossed envelope from the Exposition Committee had arrived that afternoon. Her hands trembling with excitement, she’d torn it open and unfolded its single page. But it was only her own letter of application with the word REJECTED stamped across it in brutal crimson letters—all eighteen submissions. Not even the courtesy of the form letter of rejection she knew other artists had received.

      Remembering it now, the humiliation singed her cheeks.

      Utter failure.

      Not even the slightest glimmer of a silver lining to grab on to.

      Again, the question gripped her. What am I going to do?

      What can I do?

      It had been pouring for over twenty-four hours, the worst storm she could remember in her five years in Paris, battering the roof of her one-room flat and the cobblestone street below like an army of horses’ hooves barreling by, hour after hour, with no end in sight, as she’d wracked her brain for a solution. Something.

      Anything.

      And now she walked the streets alone. It was past three in the morning. Here and there the last of the night’s drunken revelers passed her by, arms thrown around each other, reeling giddily, oblivious to the downpour. A few prostitutes huddled in doorways, yawning or casting disgusted glances at the deluge, which was bad for business. Mason looked at them with new eyes as she passed. What circumstances had driven them to sell themselves on the streets to any passer-by? Had they, too, come to Paris thinking they could conquer the world?

      She walked on. The gas lamps sizzled and sparked in the rain, casting an eerie, shifting light show on the pavement before her. Or was it she who was weaving? She couldn’t tell. In her agitation, she’d eaten nothing since noon. And then tonight, in an effort to cheer her, her friend Lisette had taken her to the Café Tambourine and had coaxed her into drinking absinthe to dull the pain. The highly intoxicating, acrid liqueur had done nothing to deaden the sense of emptiness and loss and had only made her feel drugged and heavy limbed. It no doubt accounted for the sensation that she was weaving like a leaf in the torrent.

      She was so wrapped up in her dilemma that she lost track of her surroundings until she found herself approaching the Pont de l’Alma, a bridge that spanned the Seine. It shouldn’t have surprised her, for she came here often. It afforded the most spectacular vantage point to watch the progress of the dazzling new construction project going up on the Left Bank. La Tour Eiffel they were calling it. She peered through the darkness and thought she could barely pick out its distinctive silhouette. It was nearly completed now, except for its crown, a graceful colossus of iron and steel—a tower of industrial lace—that was causing controversy among the conservative French elements who thought it ugly and couldn’t wait to tear it down.

      But it had seemed to Mason a symbol of hope because it had been commissioned for L’Exposition Universelle Internationale in two months’ time, the same World’s Fair in which Mason had naively hoped her paintings would be exhibited. All the world would be coming to Paris for what promised to be the grandest showcase of industry and art in the history of France. It was her last chance. After all her rejection, she’d dared to believe that its art selection committee would finally be the one to recognize her talent.

      What a colossal fool.

      She closed her eyes and stood, hands on the stone rail of the bridge, face tipped back, allowing the shower to cool her fevered skin. She’d been so certain that she was on the right path. But she was only a cliché, after all, a pathetic joke: one more American who’d come to France determined to make it as a painter. Convinced, like all the others, that success and recognition would come if only she believed with all her heart and soul.

      She’d started out with such hopes. Five years ago, grieving the death of her mother and desperate to leave behind the pain and despair, she’d taken her modest inheritance and had come to Paris—city of exiles, expatriates, and refugees. A city where you could start over and no one asked about your past. A city that appreciated artists and offered them freedom and support. Here, she’d had her first look at the controversial giants of Impressionism: Monet, Renoir, Degas. Looking at their work, she felt that she’d been struck by lightning. As a girl, her mother had taught her to paint and had taken her to art shows. But the works her mother loved had seemed dry, remote, antiquated. This new style was alive and modern, full of color and light. It spoke to her as nothing ever had before, and she knew she must answer its call.

      For five years she’d followed a blissful crusade, playing with novel contrasts of color, experimenting with bold compositions and themes, and developing her own signature style. She’d flattered herself into believing this unique vision was so fresh, so daring, and so innovative that she might be taking Impressionism itself in a revolutionary new direction. Over the last year, she’d summed up this exciting personal breakthrough in eighteen canvases that she’d worked on day and night to finish in time to be considered for a place in the art pavilion of the Great Exposition.

      But when she took a sampling to the Boulevard art galleries, hoping to gain their support, the dealers were unanimously appalled. Most of them hadn’t even been kind about it.

      “But, Mademoiselle,