Her
name was Antoinette Amboise, or so she said. Somehow, they became
friends. Somehow, because it never made sense. Maybe Axel’s
embarrassment that night allowed her to share glimpses of
fragility, something she’d never reveal to a client, not even
Lucien. Over the coming months, she and Axel never traveled
together more than five or six blocks from Pigalle, and yet, they
went in so many directions. She nurtured surprise, welcomed doubt,
and merged love and fear. She was young and old. All of it
enveloped him with delight and fright.
He
had never slept with a woman before. She permitted him to explore.
But even more, to be touched. To close his eyes and disappear under
her spell, to trace her breath up his leg, then to be consumed by
her.
Yet
she wasn’t about to let him or anyone get too close. “My body’s my
mask,” she declared with an exaggerated wink like an actress over
drinks with Lucien and Axel at La Joconde.