easts.
“No. I’m hungry,” I mutter, knowing full well that this will distract him from this
line of questioning.
“Why didn’t you say?” He eases me off his lap and stands.
Saint Paul de Vence is a medieval fortified hilltop village, one of the most
picturesque places I ha一ve ever seen. I stroll arm in arm with Christian through
the narrow cobbled streets, my hand in the back pocket of his shorts. Taylor
and either Gaston or Philippe—I can’t tell the difference between them—trail
behind us. We pass a tree-covered square where three old men, one
wearing a traditional beret in spite of the heat, are playing boules. It’s quite
crowded with tourists, but I feel comfortable tucked under Christian’s arm.
There is so much to see—
little alleys and passageways leading to courtyards with intricate stone
fountains, ancient and modern sculptures, and fascinating little boutiques and
shops.
In the first gallery, Christian gazes distractedly at the erotic photographs in
front of us, sucking gently on the arm of his a一viator
48 | P a g e
E L JAMES
specs. They are the work of Florence D’elle—naked women in various
poses.
“Not quite what I had in mind,” I mumble disapprovingly. They make me think
of the box of photographs I found in his closet, our closet. I wonder if he ever
did destroy them.
“Me neither,” Christian says, grinning down at me. He takes my hand and we
stroll to the next artist. Idly, I wonder if I should let him take photos of me after
all. My inner goddess nods frantically with approval.
The next display is by a female painter who specializes in figurative art—fruit
and vegetables super close up and in rich, glorious color.
“I like those.” I point to three paintings of peppers. “They remind me of you
chopping vegetables in my apartment.” I giggle. Christian’s mouth twists as
he tries and fails to hide his amusement.
“I thought I managed that quite competently,” he mutters. “I was just a bit slow,
and anyway”—he pulls me into an embrace—”you were distracting me.
Where
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