Mozart's requiem in D minor seemed to glide through the air, only ever lightly punctuated by chatter of the assembled echelon of the arts, the clink of champagne glasses and polite laughter. The glittering jewels, seeming to even outshine the stars, so present in the calm Paris night, were draped around the necks of women, like magpies in their love of finery. The night should have been magical, the elite, the beautiful and the powerful assembling like the gods of old on mount Olympus, to wine, dine, and socialise.
There was one person however who seemed not to care for the merriment of her fellow attendees. The tall pale redhead in purple silk who drew more than a few admiring looks, her slightly corseted dress and 1950's tightly pinned curls making her a colourful, curious oddity in the sea of beige dressed, blonde socialites and mistresses of the aristocrats of Paris. Leaning against the marble post, calm, pale skin appearing almost cold in the flickering chandelier light, the young woman seemed uninterested at best with everything offered to her; the most exquisite pleasures that could be afforded to a guest, the finest of food, the sweetest of wines, the most sparkling of conversation.
She seemed far away, although dutifully attentive with engaging in conversation, her blue eyes never seemed to focus on the person who was attempting to draw the mysteriously unaccompanied young woman. It was up to judgement of the passers-by as to whether or not it was shyness or sheer arrogance that isolated her from the others.
She was at this moment in time in half-hearted dialogue with an art critic, who seemed to take delight in displaying his supposed categorical knowledge of all the words notable art and in particular the artist who's gallery had brought them here tonight, a relatively unknown but upcoming artist who was rapidly becoming an icon with the Parisian art scene.
"Suppose his paintings are like women: You'll never enjoy them, if you try to understand them" She fought the urge to roll her eyes heaven wards, or at least to the overpriced chandelier and the intricately beautiful, yet pointless, architecture of the celling. Then suddenly a voice unlike any other she had ever heard, smoother than honey and yet powerful, intriguing and yet a shiver of fear snaked down her silk-covered spine.
"ah, the wonders of abstract art: a product of the untalented sold by the unprincipled to the utterly bewildered" The man came into view from behind the now highly irate critic, and the young women felt the urge to recoil at his face; he was wonderfully attractive with his incredibly blue eyes, that seemed so intent and yet so sad simultaneously.
"I beg your pardon my good sir, your opinion on the artist has never been credited in any halfway reputable publication, therefo-"the older man, of stout figure that hinted of a comfortable life, abandoned his protests once his watery eyes encountered the cerulean blue jewels the stared back utterly unfazed.
"You would do well to listen to me, or to anyone who doesn't not care for the mockery of the name art displayed tonight. It is not the language of painters but the language of nature which one should listen to, the feeling for the things themselves, for reality is more important than the feeling for pictures."
The way he spoke was magnetising, enticing. His eyes slid over her face and body and she felt her cheeks ignite from the purest cleanest ivory to a rose flush. She felt emotionally naked, vulnerable, like he could see into the darkest recess of her very being, as if he could see the very worst thing she had ever done, or had ever planned on doing.
Which presented a few major problems for Natasha, world renowned art thief, because if this beautiful man knew why she was here, she would go around him or through him to get what she wanted.