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- Herausgeber: Giselle Renarde
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020
When bad boy Matt leaves the small town of Port Canatangua, Delia follows him to the big city. Delia’s crazy about Matt, and refuses to believe the rumours surrounding his departure. As soon as he finds a good job, he’s sure to get in touch. Until then, Delia takes a dingy little apartment and a position as a security guard at the art gallery. When she falls asleep on the job and finds herself inside a painting alongside Jacob the handsome shepherd, she tells herself it’s just a crazy hallucination. What better place than a dream to find the man of her dreams?
Previously published as “The Rococo Room.”
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Country Girl, City Lights © 2020 by Giselle Renarde
All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.
This book is for sale to ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be access by minors.
Cover design © 2020 Giselle Renarde
First e-Book Edition published as The Rococo Room by eXcessica Publishing © 2011
Second e-Book Edition © 2020 Giselle Renarde
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Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.
Table of Contents
Disclaimer
Country Girl, City Lights
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
ABOUT GISELLE RENARDE
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Country Girl, City Lights
By Giselle Renarde
Chapter 1
DELIA SCURRIED INTO first empty room off the main hallway. Collapsing in the corner chair, she stole her new phone from the side pocket of her hideous black pants.
Her heart clenched as she sent chasing glances in every direction. She wasn’t supposed to use her mobile in the gallery, and no good could come of getting caught.
The coast was clear.
Hunched over the phone like the Virgin Mary protecting her infant son in so many of the gallery’s paintings, she swiped to unlock it.
A thrill ran through her body. She knew she’d felt it vibrate. One new text message.
Please be Matt!
She tried to scroll down, but she pressed the wrong button and the little colour screen returned to the start image of a golden retriever puppy.
How do you get back into text messages?
She hadn’t owned the phone long enough to figure it out.
Pressing the menu key, she scrolled through options and settings, looking for something that said text messages. Icons beeped every time she pressed them. In the silent gallery, that small noise amplified. It seemed to echo across every room, sending out a call to her boss:
Delia’s using her cell phone! She’s in the red room. Come fire her!
Sweat broke across her brow, despite the chill down her spine. She’d only just been hired—she couldn’t very well get the boot in one week! And yet she couldn’t resist the sweet siren song of a vibrating cell phone.
Messaging.
That’s where her text got buried. It would have been smart to do a quick sweep of the area before reading, but Delia was obsessed. If Matt finally tracked her down, she wanted to know about it pronto.
—-Message—-
Miss you Sweetie. Come home soon. Love Mom. XOXO
Love Mom?
When did her mom even learn to send a text message? The world was moving too fast. Outside, the city urged forward at break-neck speed. Rush hour was a giant mass of urbanites moving from one place to another. No sensitivity. No empathy. Just, rush, push, buy, sell, outta my way or go to hell!
That’s why Delia loved the gallery so much. Everything moved slowly. The lighting was soft, it was quiet as a cocoon, and time ceased to exist.
Still, it would be better with Matt.
Where was he?
Delia released a maudlin sigh as a glamorous tour guide led a group of schoolchildren into the salon. Chandra looked like a model. Her long black hair and shimmering make-up seemed professionally done first thing every morning. Her knee-high black boots made a click-clack sound as she coasted along the blonde floors. On her, even a straight grey pencil skirt and modest pink turtleneck looked stunning.
All the guides and gurus of the art world seemed to look like her—gallery gorgeous. She probably wore cashmere panties too. Diamond-studded.
Though she stood at the opposite end of the salon, Chandra leaned forward to speak. In a hushed tone, she said, “I’m afraid you’ll have to put your phone away.”
Delia’s flesh turned to ice. She could hardly force breath into her system as she stammered, “Sorry. I know. I’m sorry.”
She slipped her phone into the wide pocket on her thigh. She hated these pants. She hated this uniform. Black was not her colour, and even if it was she’d rather be wearing a tank top and a cute pair of heels than clunky boots and heavy cotton coordinates. They felt like army fatigues against her skin.
Given the choice, she’d rather wear jeans.
Two boys chuckled. Twins. “Are you going to arrest the police officer?” they asked Chandra.
The room filled with children’s laughter—not the darling Christmas-morning laughter every decent human being cherished, but the derisive laughter of a whole group of monsters mocking one poor soul.
Delia shook her head. She felt ridiculous. This was her sanctuary, and even its children ridiculed her. The charm of city life was already wearing thin.
“I’m not going to arrest anybody,” Chandra replied when the laughter died down. She click-clacked over to Delia’s side and placed a bejewelled hand on Delia’s shoulder. “This is my good friend...” She stopped. Her dark mascara stare fell blank.
“Delia.” Her heart sank into her stomach. Sometimes she felt like she didn’t exist until she did something wrong.
“This is my good friend Delia,” Chandra went on without missing a beat. “She’s a security guard here at the gallery. I know nobody in our group would ever deface the artwork, but if you do happen to see somebody touching a painting or a sculpture, you should tell me or tell...”
Again, Chandra’s cosmetic air turned vacant.
“Delia.”
Offering a glossy smile, Chandra leaned in close. The woman must have bathed in heaven. Her skin smelled like stardust and clouds. “I’m sorry, honey. I have a mind like a sieve, I really do.” Lowering her voice, she went on, “And don’t concern yourself too much with the cell phone thing. We all forget a rule here and there when we’re just starting out. You’ll catch on soon enough.”
The hairs on the back of Delia’s neck prickled. Her skin went hot.
What kind of human being needs to talk down to others? And in front of a whole class of school kids!
Her throat burned. For a matter of seconds, she wasn’t sure whether to rage or cry. The tears welling in her eyes decided for her.
Some security guard! Can’t even handle a catty exchange with the guides!
Delia choked back tears as Chandra asked the children, “What kind of art do we see here in the red room?”
Delia glanced around. Paintings.
When they’d asked in her interview why she wanted to work at the gallery, she said she’d always loved art. It seemed a better answer than, “Because you’re hiring.”
One child wearing a yellow raincoat raised a tentative hand. “Is it Romantic art, Miss?”
“Along those lines, yes,” Chandra replied. She didn’t seem quite so smug with the kids, and they seemed in perfect awe of her. “Any other guesses? Let’s be precise.”
A girl whose bangs were just starting their awkward outgrowth into adulthood said, “It’s Rococo.”
She hadn’t raised her hand, but Chandra seemed nonetheless impressed. “Very good. And when did we see the emergence of the Rococo style?”
Lady, they’re just children!
Who would know the answer to a question like that?
The girl with the awkward hair gave Chandra a self-satisfied grin. “In the 1700s.”
Agog, Chandra raised her eyes to the adults in their midst. “Very impressive. You must have a wonderful teacher.”
“No,” the girl said before Chandra could gush too much. She pointed to the caption on the wall beside a froufrou painting of a woman in a huge green gown feeding cherries to a man in a red vest. “It says right here—Rococo, Oil on Canvas, 1768. It’s pretty obvious.”
When the whole class laughed, Delia felt vindicated. Children mocked even their gods. There was some comfort in that knowledge.
Chandra didn’t seem perturbed, though. “It was very clever of you to use the resources at hand to find the answer. What’s your name?”
“Sam.”
“Good work, Sam!”
The girl looked down at her superhero boots and smiled.
“Before we move on to the blue room, I want everybody to choose their favourite painting here, and then partner up and tell each other three things you like about it. Go!”
Chandra crept over to chat with the cluster of adult supervisors while the children dispersed around the room. They were very well behaved, as far as school groups went. Nobody drawing moustaches on aristocrats or flaking gilt off the picture frames.
“I don’t like any of these pictures,” the strong-willed girl with the superhero boots said, creeping up beside her. “They’re all gay.”
“You shouldn’t say things are gay like it’s an insult,” Delia replied. “That’s not very nice.” Sam looked at her boots when Delia sought her gaze. “You don’t have to like anything, but use a different word to say what you mean.”
