“I… thank you.”
“This invite is only temporary,” she reminded both himandherselfsharply. “Understood?”
“Clearly.” His voice was solemn, but he was smiling, a smile that went all the way to his eyes, that spilled over her in a way she didn’t like one bit.
Spoon in hand, without another word, she pointed at the door. He gave Minerva a final pat on the tummy and left, still grinning.
Damn him.
Chapter 12
The Centre de Congres in Aix was an imposing, beautiful white building whose façade was decorated with a wavy pattern of cutouts, giving it a light and airy look. The bad weather from the night before, which had caused so much delay in their flight, had cleared, and the whole world seemed to sparkle.
The moment Dustin stepped out of the luxurious car and confirmed a pickup time with the driver, he was overwhelmed by the atmosphere. Hundreds of excited people streamed in, most of them wearing minimal clothing to reveal their impressive array of body art, piercings and mods. They chattered on in a multiplicity of languages: not just French and English, but he could identify Italian, German, Spanish, and several dialects that were outside of his experience. They came in all sizes, shapes, and colors, and all looked happy to be there. He felt a sense of kinship with them all: these were his people, his crew, brought together to celebrate an ancient art form that revered and gloried in the beauty of the human body.
For several minutes he just stood aside, arms folded in a relaxed way, soaking in the scene. The happiness and sense of promise that the first morning of a week of adventure can bring. He’d been to several conventions stateside, but none as large or as prestigious as this. And, in recent years, since Arabella fell ill, there hadn’t been much money for that kind of thing.
He’d missed it.
“Merveilleux, non?”The voice came from directly behind him, soft, high pitched and feminine.
He spun around to see a small-framed, beautiful Asian woman with flowing black hair twisted idly into a long braid and tossed forward over one shoulder. Her makeup was elaborate, exaggerating her wide black eyes and full mouth. She looked to be a few years older than him, maybe late thirties, but her skin glowed and her energy was that of a woman in her twenties.
The red satin bustier, drawn together around her with leather strips, merry-widow style, laid bare a landscape of tattoos that were surely Japanese in style, an ornate pattern of cherry blossoms, trees, birds and waters. Each individual piece rolled into the other seamlessly, as colors followed lines. There was a definite flavor of Kabuki about the designs that he liked.
“Ça va, toi?”the woman asked, thick black brows furrowing. She tapped the side of her head in a very French gesture, as if asking if he was all right in the head, since he hadn’t answered.
Dustin realized he had been staring and felt immediately uncomfortable. Lord forbid this woman thought he waspervingon her. “I’m sorry,” he stuttered. Hoping she would understand he meant no offence.
Her lips quirked. “Ah, you speak English. American?” Her accent was softly inflected; definitely eastern.
“Yes.” Then he added hastily, “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I didn’t mean to stare—”
“Don’t be silly,” she said, lips parting to reveal tiny white teeth and a large, endearing gap at the front. “Tattoos are meant to be stared at. I would be offended if youdidn’tstare at my art.”
He smiled, relaxing a bit. Relieved that he wasn’t coming across as a pervert.
She offered her hand, which was tattooed all the way down to her fingertips. “Onyx.”
“Dustin,” he said, shaking. “Spencer.”
Her eyes widened, thick brows shooting upward into her bangs. “Noooo! You’re Spencer?”
He looked at her, perplexed. “What… you know me?”
“You’re that guy… You were featured on that body mod website, with your abstract designs. There was an interview with you last year.”
He was taken aback. He’d been interviewed a few times, and his work was featured on a few websites and in some magazines, but he’d never thought any of those stories were significant enough for someone to remember. He said so.
She laughed. “Are you kidding! Your use of color is so refreshing. And your line art… I shared the article on my Instagram.”
“You’re an artist too?”
“I’ve got my own place in Cannes. I come to this convention every year.” She nodded her head toward the entrance. “So, Dustin Spencer, are you going inside, or are we going to stay outside and admire the parking lot?”
They walked together into the hall, pausing to register and collect their credentials. Onyx chattered all the way, opening up the program and immediately pointing out all the exhibits she wanted to see. “Come along, Spencer,” she insisted. “Don’t leave me hanging.”
He fell in, realizing that he was enjoying her company, and with her chatter, he didn’t need to say much. There were way too many exhibits to see in a day, especially as Onyx insisted on engaging every booth holder in long and detailed conversations, asking questions, examining tools, inks, equipment. It was clear to Dustin that he would be returning tomorrow.