Once she'd flicked her chess piece over and re-pocketed it, Ariadne cocked her head and looked at Arthur, her eyes locked on his. He returned the gaze as the limo drove on. "Where are we going?"
"We need to pick up a few things," He told her. "After that, the rest of the afternoon is . . . negotiable."
Ariadne considered this, and instead of protesting or demanding explanations she sat back against the plush velour seat and watched the suburbs of Paris flash by. Arthur studied her, enjoying the freedom to do so.
She was in jeans and a thick thermal tee-shirt, with a tweed jacket over that, and another scarf around her neck, this one a stringy green one with a long fringe. The limo moved from the highway into Paris itself and to the driver's credit, the big car continued to glide easily through the later afternoon traffic. Arthur was impressed; Sir Alex's driver had to be a native, well-versed in the combat driving required to travel the City of Lights. Ariadne looked as if she wanted to speak a few times, but stopped herself, and he wondered how long she would hold out.
Twenty minutes. After twenty minutes she finally sighed and shot him an impatient look. "Where are we going, Arthur?"
"We've got a few things to pick up," he repeated, just as the car turned up a familiar street, slowed and stopped. The driver stepped out and moved to open the door for them. Ariadne absently accepted his hand as she stepped out. "The art gallery?"
"Our bids were accepted," Arthur told her quietly, not mentioning the amount of negotiating it had taken to get both paintings.
She shot him a delighted look that shifted to suspicion. "Both of them?"
"Lot of lookers at the opening, not many serious bidders," he murmured, nodding to the driver and coming to stand next to Ariadne. "Come on—I need you to protect me from those dangerous spikes."
She glanced at the fence points and then back at him. "Is your arm okay?"
"You'll have to check for yourself," Arthur replied, straight-faced. "Later. Shall we go get our prizes?"
The owner of the Bois Noir was there, along with the artist, who effusively kissed Arthur and Ariadne on both cheeks and thanked them for their outstanding good taste in contemporary landscapes. She was a chubby young Parisian with heavy green eyeshadow and frizzy hair, who smelt of turpentine and licorice.
"Your talent is a pleasure," Ariadne told her politely, and Arthur nodded, discreetly handing over the bank check to the Gallery owner.
"Unique," he agreed.
After some polite small talk, Arthur accepted the two wrapped paintings, tucking them under one arm and stepping out with Ariadne. He avoided the railing and made it to the sidewalk in one piece just as the first whirling snowflakes began to fall.
"Where now—my place?" Ariadne asked, one hand reaching out to touch the brown paper around one of the paintings.
"Nope," Arthur told her. The limo pulled up again, and they climbed inside after handing the artwork to the chauffeur to store in the trunk.
"Arthur, I have a backpack full of dirty laundry and sketchbooks and I could use a hot shower," she grumbled softly. "Sweeping me off my feet is one thing, but hygiene is a factor."
"Patience," he chided, feeling a sense of mirth. "You need to keep in mind that you threw a pretty big gauntlet down, Ari. I'm just rising to the occasion."
"You meant that to sound smutty, didn't you?"
"Take it as you will," Arthur fought a smirk. "Ahh, here we are—"
The limo had pulled up in front of a small hotel on the edge of Parc des Buttes Chaumont. By now the snow was beginning to fall thickly, and the light was fading fast; most of the streetlights were coming on. Ariadne shot an uncertain look at Arthur.
"Two rooms, because I'm cautious and old-fashioned," he told her. "Neutral ground, if you like. I'm not going to invade your space."
"Where ARE we?" she asked, more in exasperation than wariness.
"My place," Arthur told her simply. "I've got a room here and I've booked you next door."
Ariadne looked intrigued. "I thought . . . I thought you had oh, I don't know—an apartment. You're so fluent; it's clear you spend a lot of time here."
"One thing about the job," Arthur sighed, climbing out of the car behind her, "you need a home base, and I haven't picked one yet. Cobb had Tomales Bay, Yusuf has Mombasa, but me, I'm still looking. For the moment, Hȏtel DuMont works for me."
Hȏtel DuMont was a small, old-fashioned building built along the lines of a manor house. The main lobby was brightly lit, and filled with well-worn Louis XV furniture in gold and green. Arthur motioned to the left side, where a small cage elevator stood, and Ariadne snickered.
"Good lord, will it actually work?"
"It better," Arthur muttered in reply. "I'm not hauling these paintings up four flights of stairs."
That made her snicker again as she hefted her backpack and stepped in; the elevator shuddered with a rattle of metal. Arthur wedged himself in, holding the wrapped paintings carefully under one arm. He reached over and pressed the dimly flickering button marked 'quatre' in gothic script.
"This place is . . ." Ariadne began, and Arthur nodded, finishing the statement for her.
"Old. Built about 1817. Old enough that when the Germans occupied Paris, they left it alone, which turned out to be a good thing since they were harboring one of the underground presses. Yeah, the DuMont's got history to it. Tourists don't stay here because the place doesn't have cable or a pool, but me, I prefer it."
And he did, Arthur admitted to himself. The DuMont was a quiet old gem, the legacy of a family determined to keep it from the few developers who'd showed an interest in buying up the property. Fortunately, being on the outer fringes of the park kept it from high traffic, and Arthur paid well for the privilege of a northwest corner room.
The rickety shaking of the elevator belied its progress and they reached the fourth floor with relative speed, slowing and stopping with an audible clacking of various metal parts. Ariadne stepped off with alacrity, and Arthur followed. The hallway was carpeted in a thick diamond pattern with brown roses and smelled faintly of mildew. Arthur used his chin to point to the right, and Ariadne trailed after him as he led the way. Three rooms down and they reached the corner; Arthur pulled out a heavy brass key with a Bakelite tag and unlocked the door of 404.
"Not found?" Ariadne teased him, and he smiled as he ushered her in.
"I prefer not to be, most of the time," Arthur admitted. He carried the paintings in and leaned them against the wall, then waited until Ariadne turned to glance at him, and tossed her something.
It arced through the air and she reached out to catch it; another key on a tag, this one marked as 405. Ariadne smirked. "Ahh—method not allowed."
"Well, with the right permissions," Arthur murmured, feeling a blush cross his features. "It works for the next room over, so . . ."
Ariadne nodded, and looked around. Arthur's corner room had a lovely little living room with its own fireplace—gas—and furniture that looked somewhat sturdier than the antiques down in the lobby. The two armchairs and loveseat were done in broad wallpaper stripes of blue and cream, matching the colors of the Oriental rug under them, and instead of a closet, a heavy oak armoire stood off in an alcove.
The bed was a grand affair with a cranberry silk comforter and graceful posts rising from each corner. Both nightstands held a lamp with matching silk shades, fringed around the edges and from where she stood, Ariadne could make out a little stack of hardcover books on the right-hand table . . .
"Ow," came Arthur's grumble. He set the painting back down again and rubbed his arm. Ariadne came over to him, looking exasperated, and he gave a wry shake of his head. "Hey, you were staring at the bed, and frankly, that's really . . . distracting."
And it was, Arthur ruefully admitted to himself as he realized that Ariadne's coloring would look spectacular against that comforter.
"When did you last change your bandages?" she asked, interrupting his thoughts and trying to be business-like, although Arthur could see her faint blush.
"This morning. It's healing," he assured her calmly. "Are you hungry? There's a terrific little bistro just down the block."
When she nodded, Arthur let himself relax a bit. "Okay then. We'll drop your laundry off with Madame McTavish, and head on over."
"McTavish?" Ariadne echoed.
"Housekeeper," he offered. "She owes me a favor for debugging her laptop. She'll have it done by the time we get back."
Ariadne's lips twitched a bit, but she nodded, and shifted her backpack. "All right; let me unpack and sort some things out and I'll be right back."
"Sure." Arthur gestured vaguely to the connecting door. "I should see about getting the painting shipped." He moved to the laptop on the little secretary desk and popped it open, making every effort to appear nonchalant as he listened for Ariadne to move. She did, and the sound of the adjoining door opening made his pulse jump.
"Give me about ten minutes," she called to him and he heard the door close behind her.
Arthur fought the little tremble in his fingers as he typed up the address for DHL on the laptop.