“I’m studying the symbols in the art of Agari Tismona,” she explained, her eyes lighting with excitement. “There have been others who have studied similar symbols used by the Renaissance masters. These artists were revolutionaries and their artwork brought to light political intrigues to the masses.” She leaned forward even more, her hands fluttering excitedly on the table. “The artists here in Skyla, like Tismona, probably had very little knowledge of the works being done by the Renaissance masters. And yet, their efforts were similar. Isn’t it fascinating that art and architecture developed in separate parts of the world, but at the same rapid rate? And with the same style?”
“The style of architecture is different in the various parts of the world.”
She nodded, then her butt wiggled as she eagerly explained. “Yes, I know that the architecture is different here compared to what we see in England or Ireland. But think about the magnificent churches of England and compare them to the churches in Germany or France. The styles are shockingly similar. How is that possible? People didn’t travel as much in that time period. So how did similar building practices evolve without…” she stopped, tilting her head slightly as she considered something. “I guess that the architects traveled and they knew of the old styles of building. But in art, it isn’t like that. I mean, Tismona…he never traveled to Europe. And yet, his style of painting is similar, not exactly the same, but similar to many of the Renaissance masters, and there’s so much symbolism in his work! How do all of the incongruous objects in his art tie together? What was his underlying message? What were his secret messages? Who were the secret messages meant for? Why didn’t he just send a letter?”
Zantar watched the animation flit across her lovely features. Faye. What a beautiful name. Like a fairy, he thought. And that image wasn’t too far from the truth. He could easily imagine the beautiful woman flitting away like an extraordinary Tinkerbell. The image caused his eyes to move lower, wondering what Faye would look like in the tiny green strapless dress that Tinkerbell normally wore. His mind remembered the skin tight material that Faye had on underneath the loose top and skirt. Yes, she’d look lovely in a tight, strapless dress. But not short. No, his Tinkerbelle wouldn’t wear something short. She was too elegant for that. She’d wear…something long and drapey. A dress that floated out around her legs. But not too long. Her calves would show. And the dress would shimmer around her. Not green either. Blue. Yes, a blue dress that would match her shimmering, blue eyes.
“Zantar?”
He blinked, lifting his eyes back up to her features. “I apologize, eazizi.” He took a sip of his coffee, hoping to hide the lust he was feeling at the moment. She was a startling beauty and the longer he listened to her speak, the more he wanted her.
“Are you okay?” she asked, reaching out to cover his hand with hers.
He looked down at their hands and concern hit him. Her hands were small with long, slender fingers. But those fingers…her nails were chipped and ragged, the skin around the cuticles rough and red. Some of her fingers had angry sores from blisters that had broken and were barely healing.
He started to turn his hand over so that he could examine her hand, and the wounds, more closely.
“Oh!” she gasped, trying to snatch her hand away in a futile effort to hide her hands from his penetrating gaze. But his reactions were swift and he caught her hands before she could hide them from his eyes.
“What happened to your hands?” he demanded, setting the ceramic cup down on the saucer as he turned her hands, examining the palms as well. There were more blisters, scrapes and sores on her palm and there was a redness creeping up along the pale skin of her forearm. “Aljahim almuqadas!” Zantar snarled, leaning forward to gently grasp her other hand, pulling it forward for his perusal. “How did this happen?”
She tugged at her hands, but he held her wrists firmly, careful not to hurt her wounds further, but unwilling to allow her to hide her blistered skin from his gaze. His stomach clenched and the lust was replaced by an instinctive need to protect.
“It’s nothing,” she whispered and he looked up at her, noting the way she bit her lower lip and her long, dark lashes lowered, as if she were trying to hide her pain or embarrassment.
“It’s not nothing,” he argued. “Answer me, alsaghir,” he urged softly, but with a firm command.
“Zantar, it’s nothing,” she told him and twisted her hands. He couldn’t hold onto the wrists without further damaging her skin when she moved in that way, so he released her hands and leaned back in his chair.
“Explain.”
She laughed! The impertinent beauty actually laughed at him. Then she did something even more outrageous. She shook her head, denying him the knowledge that he’d requested!
“Let’s talk about you. I’ve droned on and on about my research and my life. Will you please tell me something about yourself?” she asked, changing the subject with an engaging smile.
His eyes narrowed on her features, stunned that he’d given her a direct order and she’d…the woman had actually denied him! Did she not know who he was? The thought sent a small stab of hope throughout his body, pinging somewhere in his chest.
Ignoring the sensation, since he didn’t fully understand it, he focused on her eyes. “What’s on your agenda today?” he asked, thinking to find out the information he wanted in a different way.
Instantly, Faye brightened, her whole body coming alive once again. Her defensive posture disappeared as she leaned forward, gripping her coffee cup lightly with her hands a she smiled at him across the table. “This morning, I’ll resume my examination of the paintings of Tismona. It’s going to be fascinating since the museum director found several more examples of Tismona’s paintings in storage! I’ll get to examine paintings that have rarely been seen by the public! Hopefully, I can use those paintings to find a pattern in the symbolism that might reveal the secrets behind those symbols. So far, I’ve come up with several theories, but they are just theories right now. I don’t have any concrete research to substantiate my ideas yet.”
“Are you looking for proof?”
She shook her head and Zantar noticed that the sunshine now peeking over the buildings caused her hair to shine.
“No. Unfortunately, art historians can only make assumptions about an artist’s intentions. It’s very rare that we have actual proof of their thoughts. Sometimes, an artist writes letters to his or her family or friends. Those letters give us more insight into their intentions. But there are some artists, mine specifically, who didn’t often write letters.”
“I thought that letter writing was their main form of communication during that period?”
“It was,” she smiled, shrugging slightly. “But not everyone was literate. And so far, I haven’t been able to find many letters from this particular artist. There are some communications between the artist and his patrons, the people who hired him to paint for their families. But I have a sneaking suspicion that this artist was illiterate.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Well, because his signature at the bottom of his paintings isn’t anything like the letters that were written in his name. The initials are almost illegible, while the letters that were sent in his name are written clear, almost feminine in their wording and style.”
“That sounds contradictory,” he replied. “I see your conundrum.”
She smiled briefly, but her eyes were intense now, revealing her intelligence and focus on the subject. “It’s a fabulous mystery, but I hate not knowing a secret. I need to understand and have solid proof to back up my theories.”
“How are you going to resolve your thesis then?”
She sighed, looking out at the now-busy streets. “I don’t know yet.” She glanced down at her watch and gasped. “I’m sorry,” she said, standing up and grabbing her bulging cotton satchel. “I have to go or I’m going to be late.”
Zantar stood as well, startled by the abrupt end of their discussion. Normally, he was the one to end meetings and it was shocking to be on the receiving end of the abruptness.
“You will meet me tomorrow for coffee again,” he said, catching her hand and lifting it to his lips as he watched her eyes. He avoided hurting her wounds as he kissed the back of her hand.
“I will?” she asked, teasing him with a smile. But the woman moved closer. “I suppose that’s possible.”
“Faye,” he growled, irritated that she hadn’t instantly bowed to his authority. Granted, she didn’t know about his authority, which was one of the reasons she intrigued him. He could see the desire reflected in her eyes and wanted to pull her into his arms. But something about her, perhaps the flare of anxiety in her eyes, prompted him to hold off. The lovely Faye was interested, but he also made her nervous. He’d have to work on easing her anxiety before he could kiss her, he thought.
“I really have to go,” she whispered. “But yes, I will meet you here tomorrow for coffee again.”
“I look forward to tomorrow,” he replied, his voice lower than he’d anticipated, but there was just something about this woman that intrigued him, called to him.
Faye’s soft lips opened slightly, and he noticed her irises dilate before she said, “Me too!”
With that, she stepped back and dug into her cotton bag. A moment later, she pulled out a handful of coins, dumping them onto the table. He glanced at the money and calculated that it was more than twice what the coffee and pastries should cost.
“I gotta go!” she called out, hurrying down the sidewalk.