Hidden Gem Read online

  HIDDEN GEM

  Skye Warren

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  About the Author

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  People jostle me for position, but for once I stand my ground. Someone elbows me, and I elbow her back. Only a few feet of space and a velvet rope separate me from the most famous painting in the world. Mona Lisa gives her subtle, mischievous smile.

  This close, I can see the crackle of old oil paint and the strokes that form her dress. I can almost imagine I’m breathing centuries-old air, remnants of the same air da Vinci breathed.

  The woman who elbowed me makes a sharp sound, and then London appears next to me. My sister, my best friend. My complete opposite in every way. “Can we go?” she asks.

  I link my arm in hers. “We just got here.”

  “No, we just got to the paintings. We’ve been looking at broken pieces of pyramids and marble statues of naked people for hours.”

  “My feet still hurt from walking through seven hundred rooms yesterday.”

  “Um, Versailles has an entire hall of mirrors. Hello!”

  That makes me snort. Mirrors probably are art to beautiful people. London was born with my mother’s gorgeous smile and my father’s charisma. “Come on. A few more hours. You know the Louvre is the only place I’m even interested in seeing.”

  “I don’t know how you can say that when you know the Catacombs exist.”

  I shudder. “Tunnels made of bones?”

  “Creepy, right?”

  My stomach turns over. I don’t know how I’m going to make it through the tour tonight. I come from a family of explorers. They want to see every sight, rarely stopping to take a deep breath before plunging into the next adventure. I’m more comfortable curled up with a good book. “I just want to stand here and look at the painting for a while. Really soak it up.”

  She scrunches her nose, which looks adorable. “It’s so small.”

  “It’s worth eight hundred million dollars.”

  Her eyes widen; then she shakes her head. “Nope, still not interesting.”

  “Why don’t you go ahead to the Tuileries?”

  Hope springs in her blue eyes. “Really? I bet I can convince them to go.”

  “Text them.” Our mom and dad are somewhere nearby in the museum, presumably browsing the paintings. Except they’ve been here many times before we were even born. More likely they’ve found some private corner to kiss. They’re always doing gross things like that.

  “Dad says keep your backpack on you at all times and your phone on.”

  I just roll my eyes at this, because we’ve been given this lecture a hundred times. My sister gives me the thumbs-up sign and disappears into the crowd.

  Finally. I take a deep breath and let it out, feeling relaxed for the first time in hours. Maybe days. I love my family, but I don’t really fit in. They’re like butterflies flitting from flower to flower. I’m a caterpillar who decided she loved her cocoon more than wings.

  The art captures my interest, but so do the people. Around me I can hear murmurs in French and Spanish and Japanese. Everyone has come to see thirty by twenty-one inches of oil.

  Most people have little portable speakers that talk about each painting. A tinny voice from behind me says, “The Mona Lisa is a half-length portrait of a figure believed to be the wife of Francesco del Giocondo, Lisa Gherardini.”

  Imagine your appearance being admired for hundreds of years.

  Did she think it might happen? As she sat for the painting, could she imagine being immortalized? Or did she think about what was for dinner?

  That’s part of the allure of the painting, this wondering.

  The crowd filters into the next room, leaving only a few bystanders. I make my way to the back of the hall. With it empty I can admire the painting from afar. Of course my sister was right. It is tiny. Why did he make it so small? Was it a question of time or economy? Was it meant for a certain place? And what was that fantasy landscape behind her?

  “Do her eyes follow you?”

  The question comes from someone beside me. He wears a white button-down shirt and black pants. There’s something formal about his bearing. And a patch on his shirt that declares him a security guard. “No. Do they follow you?”

  He quirks his lips. “No, but other people swear they do.”

  “The Mona Lisa effect. I remember reading about it.” I glance back at the painting. “But they don’t really follow you, do they? In fact it’s like she’s never looking at me, even when I’m standing right in front of her.”

  “Elusive,” he murmurs. “That’s the real Mona Lisa effect.”

  “You speak English.”

  “Guilty. I heard you and your sister talking.”

  “Oh.” With his green eyes and square jaw, he’s handsome. And he’s already spotted my sister. Next he’s probably going to ask me for her number. I’ve been down this road before.

  “I’m going on break in a few minutes. Want to go outside for a smoke?”

  My eyes widen. “Me?”

  “Who else?”

  “Boys are always after my sister.”

  He shakes his head as if to comment on the stupidity of boys. Maybe that’s because he’s not really a boy anymore. He’s older. At least eighteen, which means he’s too old for me.

  I turned sixteen two months ago. My father would never let me go on a smoke break with a boy, but he’s not here to ask permission.

  “What’s your name anyway?” he asks.

  “Holly.”

  “I’m Elijah. Let’s go.”

  “I don’t like smoke.”

  Someone bumps into him, pushing him into me. He catches me in his arms, and I can smell some kind of masculine scent. It’s like he’s surrounding me. “Then we won’t smoke.”

  This close I can see the golden striations in his green eyes. “There must be a thousand girls who walk through here, who admire the Mona Lisa. Every day. Why me?”

  He studies me as if seeking the answers in my plain brown eyes and plain brown hair. In my ordinary blue dress. “I saw you. I wanted you. And I take what I want. It doesn’t have to be more complicated than that, Holly.”

  A shiver runs down my spine. “Okay.”

  He gives me directions to follow to get to the staff exit around the building. And he gives me a salute, faintly conspiratorial, a little mocking. Then he’s gone.

  For a moment I consider walking the rest of the wing, looking at paintings from the old masters. There are Botticelli frescoes somewhere here. I know before I take the first step that I’m going to follow Elijah’s instructions. It’s somehow beguiling, this real flesh-and-blood man who’s interested in me, more so than priceless treasures.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I follow his instructions around the side of the building, passing tourists and a smattering of French. Before I reach the door he spoke of, I find him leaning against a column. He continues standing that way, as if he’s holding up the entire building, even as I come to stand in front of him.

  “Are you going to smoke?” I ask, feeling childish and dumb. I’ve never been around anyone who smokes. I hope I don’t cough in some obvious way.

  He shakes his head. A leather jacket covers up his white security guard shirt, making him look more dangerous. “Follow me.”

  Then he crosses the street, and I have to skip to keep up with him. “Where are we going?”

  “I know a place.”

  The place turns out to be a plain concrete step t
hat leads to an open door. A hand-painted sign above it says, Crepes. That’s when I realize it’s his break. “You must be hungry.”

  “It’s hard to find decent food close to the musée. Lots of tourist traps.” This looks like the opposite of a tourist trap. There are tables crammed together, something faintly off key playing on an old speaker, and no menus in sight.

  He gestures to a table and holds out the wood-and-plastic chair for me. I sit down and clasp my hands nervously on the thin red-and-white checkered tablecloth. He holds out his hand, and for a moment I have the inane thought that he’s asking me to dance. That’s how he looks, like some kind of courtier in a royal ball. Then I realize he’s looking at my backpack.

  “Oh,” I say. “No. I’m good. It’s really comfortable.”

  He looks skeptical, but he sits down across from me and kicks out his legs away from the wall.

  I feel like I have to explain. “It’s kind of a family rule, not to let go of my backpack while we’re exploring. My dad’s a little overprotective. That probably sounds silly.”

  “It sounds… nice, actually.”

  “What are you doing in Paris anyway?”

  He shrugs. “Work.”

  “Yeah, but it seems like strange work for an American.”

  That earns me a small smile. “Yeah, it’s strange.”

  My cheeks heat. “I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “Nah, don’t worry about it. I can guard anything, so why not art? Better than being the security guard at a mall, right? And the pay is better, too.”

  “You’re different than the other security guards.”

  He raises one eyebrow. “More handsome, you mean?”

  I have to laugh at the brazen flirting even though it’s true. They seem like a dour, serious lot. Meanwhile he’s taking smoke breaks and asking out random girls. There’s something odd about him, about his presence, but I can’t put my finger on it. “Do they make you learn about the art?”

  “They probably don’t think I could understand it, and the truth is, I’m about that clueless. But I read the little signs when the rooms are empty.”

  I sigh. “That sounds so lovely, to be there when it’s empty.”

  “It’s kind of unnerving, actually.”

  “Is it?” Without meaning to, I eye his broad shoulders and muscular arms. He doesn’t seem like someone who’s afraid of anything, especially empty rooms.

  He makes a face. “You can’t tell anyone, but I’ve always been freaked out by ghosts and shit like that. They say there are multiple ghosts in the Louvre.”

  “Have you seen any?”

  “No, but I’m glad I don’t work the mummy wing,” he says fervently, and I laugh.

  A plump woman bustles out of the kitchen carrying two plates. She sets them in front of us with a quick burst of French. In another moment she returns with silverware.

  I blink. “Do they only serve one thing?”

  He laughs without a sound. “No, but the look on your face is perfect. I usually come here for lunch, and I texted for her to make two crepes instead of one.”

  I stick out my tongue. “I thought maybe it was an authentic French thing.”

  “No, even native Parisians like choices.” He cuts the corner of his crepe and takes a bite. His eyes close in something like rapture, and there’s a strange tightening in my body.

  My stomach growls. “I guess I was hungry.”

  “Blueberry,” he says, taking another mouthful. I wish I could be as unselfconscious as him. Or maybe he’s too hungry to care. How long is a shift at the museum? I don’t know, but I’ve never had to work, not even part-time jobs over the summer.

  I cut a piece with my fork and take a bite. I’ve had crepes before, of course. They’re everywhere here in Paris—at the airport, in little stands scattered around the Eiffel tower. I’ve even eaten one at a Michelin-starred restaurant, but it didn’t compare to the simple perfection of this one. The crepe is a perfect combination of soft and crisp. The blueberries are fresh. The cream makes my own eyes roll back. “Oh my God,” I moan. “You have this every day?”

  When I open my eyes again, he’s staring at me intently.

  I force myself to swallow.

  “So, Holly. What’s a girl like you doing going out on your own?”

  “A girl like me?”

  “Pretty. And young.”

  A flush suffuses my cheeks. “My family’s around.”

  One eyebrow rises as if to say, I don’t see them anywhere.

  “My sister and parents went to see the gardens. They don’t like to linger.”

  “And you do?”

  “That’s all I like to do, really. Take things slow. I’m too slow for them.”

  “Or they don’t stop and appreciate what they have.”

  Defensiveness grows in me even though I’ve thought the same things about them. “They’re these world travelers, okay? Other people dream of going places, but they just pack a bag and go do it. That’s something to be admired.”

  He shrugs, looking unimpressed. “It’s easy to leave places. You never have to clean up after yourself, never have to see people live and then die, never have to grieve because you’re already gone. Believe me, I know the appeal.”

  “You don’t know them.”

  He leans forward, green eyes intense. “Maybe not, but I know you. I know the way you watched people like you weren’t one of them. Saw the way you wanted to belong.”

  Embarrassment clenches my chest. “Is that why you asked me out? Pity?”

  “Pity.” A sharp laugh. “A girl with clothes that cost as much as my rent? No, sweetheart. I don’t pity you. And I asked you out because I want to kiss you.”

  A new awareness straightens my spine. “You do?”

  He waves his hand. “Not here.”

  I glance around as if there’s going to be some kind of kissing booth with a sign. I’ve never been kissed by a boy. Whenever we go to parties together, London ends up in one of the bedrooms upstairs with a boy. I’m usually on the back porch reading a book on my phone. “Where then?”

  “Come out with me tonight?”

  “What? I can’t.”

  He shrugs. “Maybe you won’t, but a smart girl like you? I bet you can.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Where are we gonna go?”

  “Does it matter?” he counters.

  And he’s right. It doesn’t matter. Because if I meet him, he’s going to kiss me. With his pretty green eyes and his harsh mouth, his leather jacket and his work shirt.

  My first kiss will happen in the most romantic city in the world.

  If I can work up the nerve to lie.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I text my sister and meet up with the family outside the Arc de Triomphe. We grab an XL Uber back to the hotel, which is a building of apartments from the 1800s that have been converted to suites. It’s a boutique hotel owned by a major conglomerate. Old-world charm meets modern-day convenience. That perfectly describes my family. They love to explore, but they don’t mind the occasional tourist trap as long as it treats us well.

  But they would love the hole-in-the-wall crepe shop, too. There’s no way I can take them there without explaining how I found it. I’m not even sure I could find my way back.

  Instead we eat in the club room, a place with plush velvet armchairs and dark paneled wood. They have spreads of food for the pre-dinner hours that include cheese and pancetta, bruschetta, fresh olive bread, and steak tartare.

  Then we go upstairs to take a nap. At least, that’s the excuse that Mom and Dad give us. They hole up in their master bedroom downstairs. London and I take the narrow stairs to the second floor, which has its own small sitting area, bathroom with a claw-foot tub, and a bedroom with a queen-size bed that we share. The concierge left tiny macarons on the coffee table.

  London plops down on the sofa and eats one. “These are actually good.”

  I sit down across from her. The chair is a little less comfortable,
but with the window open I can smell the Parisian air. I open the book I’m reading on my phone, but my mind isn’t on the black-and-white words. I’m distracted by memories of green eyes and burnished brown hair.

  His phone number’s saved as only: E.

  That way if my family found it, I could make up some excuse. Though I’ve never been good at lying. I’m supposed to call him when I can meet up. Will I do it? Maybe. Probably not.

  If I did call him, if we did meet up, he might hold my hand. He might kiss me.

  He might do more than kiss me.

  “How far did you get?” my sister asks.

  “What?” My cheeks heat, thinking about how far I want to go with a stranger I met only a few hours ago. Further than kissing, honestly.

  “In the museum. Did you look at all the paintings?”

  “Oh… no. That would take days. Maybe weeks.”

  “You didn’t see any more paintings, did you?” she asks, her voice accusing.

  “No, I saw—a lot of them.” Worst liar award goes to Holly.

  She makes a face. “I knew it. You just stared at Mona Lisa for like two hours.”

  “Yes,” I say, relieved. “That’s what I did.”

  She sighs. “You’re hopeless. I’m going to rest up for the Catacombs.”

  Another shudder. The Catacombs are a perfect example of why I don’t fit in with this family. The remains of more than six million people have been arranged into walls, columns, ceilings, and sculptures. And for some reason my sister’s excited to see them.

  I try to get into my book, which is about mermaids who are closer to piranhas than goldfish. It’s a good book about their war against dragons and the atrocities committed on both sides, but my mind keeps sliding back to reality.

  Whenever I think about Elijah, I feel restless. Warm. Itchy.

  Is this how it feels to be turned on?

  I always thought of myself as mature. That’s what everyone always said to me. My parents. My teachers. Random people who saw me at the grocery store. She’s so mature! And it’s not like I’m oblivious to boys, even if they’re usually oblivious to me. There are boys I think are cute. Or hot. Boys I think about kissing. Or more. Though the more is hazy, more of a dream.