Naughty Paris. Jina Bacarr

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СКАЧАТЬ pulls the shawl back from her face and smiles at me. I’m so absorbed in watching her I don’t see the man come up behind me—

      “Pardon, mademoiselle,” drawls the young dandy, bumping up against me. Wearing a polished black hat and evening tails, he weaves past me in complete bewilderment of either me or his surroundings. I wrinkle my nose. The strong smell of alcohol lingers in the air. I assume the slender shape of a wine bottle holds more appeal for him than the curves of a woman. The young man dawdles down the boulevard, muttering to himself, when from out of nowhere a ragged creature with a wicker basket strapped to its back shuffles closely behind him.

      I turn my head, sniffing. Did the air just get heavier with a foul scent? Unpleasant, as if they haven’t washed in weeks.

      Carrying a lantern in one hand and a sharply pointed hook in the other, I watch in amazement as the creature picks several items out of the young man’s coat pocket with its hook then tosses them into the basket.

      “Watch out, monsieur!” I yell out, trying to warn the young man, but he’s too tipsy to realize what’s going on and dawdles on his way without looking back.

      “Mind your own business, mademoiselle.”

      Is it a woman? The voice is gruff, gritty but definitely female.

      “I will not,” I shoot back, insulted. “You’re a thief, madame, or worse.”

      None of this is real, I keep telling myself, so I edge closer, fascinated by this creature.

      “Sassy, ain’t ya, mademoiselle?” Surprised by my boldness, she stands down, shifting her weight under the heavy pack. I judge her to be around forty, but her hunched-over posture makes her appear much older. Swathed in gray-stained rags with an occasional patch of fancy silk plaid showing through her torn muslin petticoats, she has the look of a woman worn out by poverty, but crafty nonetheless. What surprises me are the fine black leather boots on her feet. She notices my stare. She grins with glee. “You like?”

      “Where did you steal them?” I ask her, smirking.

      “Yesterday these fine boots belonged to a fancy lady on the rue Saint-Honoré.” She raises her skirts with her hook and shows off her boots. “Now they adorn Old Mathilde’s callused feet, ma fille.”

      Did she just call me a ho?

      “You may be a thief,” I insist, “but I am not a whore!”

      “Eh, bien? Really? What else could you be with that red Titian hair, mademoiselle?” I flinch when she reaches out and touches my hair, but I don’t pull away. Something about this woman intrigues me, as if she’s a key player in this melodrama. “I’ve never seen hair this color except on a beautiful demi-mondaine, gentleman’s mistress, decked out in fancy feathers and soft silks and smelling like faded carnations and Rachel Rose powder.”

      I make a face. “Don’t ask me what you smell like—”

      Before I can stop her, the creature bumps into me, then rips open my long flowing cape, nearly tearing it off me. My bare breasts peek through the silky material of the dressing gown, my nipples brown and pointy, the apricot-hue giving my skin a natural peachy tone.

      The woman’s eyes widen. “By all the angels in heaven I’ve never seen anyone, not even a dégrafée, unhooked one, running through the streets of Paris in her underwear.”

      I pull my cloak closer around me. “Someone stole my clothes.” I have no intention of explaining further.

      Old Mathilde fiddles with her smooth, wooden rosary beads. “I know, mademoiselle. I’ve been watching you.”

      “Me? Why?”

      When did she hop on for the ride in my orgasmic wet dream?

      Stooped over, her wicker basket heavy with the night’s pickings strapped to her back, she sniffs me. “I followed you through the streets from rue Saint-Merri, past the boulevard de Sébastopol to rue Berger.” She chuckles softly. “You have the smell of sex on you, mademoiselle.”

      I roll my eyes and wet my lips. “You have no idea.”

      She smirks. “Is that artist as good with his cock as they say he is?”

      In the early-morning mist, I can see she enjoys toying with my emotions. “Artist? Who?”

      “Paul Borquet.”

      I grab her by the shoulders, though the smell overpowers me. Think vinegar with dead rats floating in it. “What do you know about Paul Borquet?” My pulse races. “Tell me!”

      “You must have a hot cunt, mademoiselle. All wet and juicy and tight. Ripe for a man to slam his hard cock into and shoot his heavy load.” Licking her lips with her wet tongue, she points it at me. The effect is more comical than sexual, but her comment unnerves me.

      “I’ve had enough of your tricks,” I yell. “Tell me what you know about Paul Borquet.”

      “He’s looking for you, mademoiselle,” she hisses. “And when he finds you, beware! He has an appetite for sex that derives its power from the occult.” She crosses herself. “He’s a master of the Black Arts.”

      Creepy chills come over me. I pull my cloak tighter. Black magic? Then the old artist was right about the power of the Egyptian statue. Oh, shit, then that means…

      …this isn’t a fantasy?

      The old ragpicker says, “He can make any woman his slave.”

      “Any woman?”

      Even a woman from another time?

      “Yes, mademoiselle. Even a woman as young and beautiful as you.”

      Young and beautiful? Red Titian hair? Small waist?

      Before I have time to contemplate whether or not I really have sold my soul to be young and sexy, I lose my balance when the creature jerks my arm back and grabs at my breasts and squeezes them. Hard.

      Something snaps in me. Regaining my balance, I throw a punch at her. She bounces backward but recovers quickly. With a disgusted grunt, she shoves me to the ground. I go down hard, hitting with such force my teeth rattle in my head. Before I can react, she shifts the basket on her back, then takes off, wobbling down the street faster than I would have believed possible. She’s wearing leather boots that fit. I’m not so lucky. The chick who owns the shoes I’m wearing must have only four toes.

      I shout at her to stop, but she looks back at me and laughs.

      “You won’t get away with this!” I yell, taking off after her. I see the elusive creature weaving down the boulevard, paying no attention to whether or not I’m following her. She knows the streets better than I do, but I can’t lose her. She’s my only link to Paul Borquet.

      I kick my stride into high gear, pushing myself to the max. I ignore the Exercise Overload red light flashing in my brain. Anger, like good sex, has a way of making you endure. I’m not even gasping for breath. I see the street thief about twenty feet in front of me. My long legs pumping, arms swinging, red velvet cloak blowing up around my bare legs like a battle flag. I’m no marathon runner, but when I’m desperate СКАЧАТЬ