Gauguin Connection, The by Estelle Ryan Page A

who had broken into one’s house.
    “Who are you?” I asked again in the same controlled tone.
    “What happened earlier? It looked like you had some kind of autistic blackout.”
    That was it. I had had enough of people asking me about my state of mind. And I was bored with explaining it to complete strangers. I pushed my chair back with uncharacteristic force and placed both my hands flat on the surface of the dining table. “I am going to have a shower. The bedroom and bathroom doors are reinforced, so don’t even think to enter. When I come out, you will not be here.”
    “And if I am?”
    I straightened myself slowly to my full average height and gave him my most severe gaze. For a few seconds we were locked in a battle of fixed stares before I turned around without a word and walked to my bedroom as if the matter was settled. I knew that it was all but settled, but I was not going to allow some common criminal who had broken into my sanctuary to dictate the direction of any conversation.
    My security paranoia in a very safe city at last became useful as I bolted my bedroom door. Only after I turned the third lock did I allow myself to slump against the door. How he had managed to enter my secure apartment was a mystery that I would have to solve before I went to bed. Wherever the gap in my security was, it had to be filled, else I would never have another good night’s rest.
    He hadn’t seemed to have any harmful intent and I could only hope that he would respond to my warning gaze and leave. I shook my head as I made my way to my bathroom. The way I had read him, I knew that he was still going to be in my apartment when I finished my shower.
    The desired half an hour under the spray of a hot shower was cut short with the uncomfortable knowledge of a stranger on the other side of the wall waiting for me. At least I was comforted by the fact that there was no way he could penetrate the two steel-reinforced doors leading to my bathroom. I went through my routine as quickly as possible and felt much better by the time I pushed my fingers through my short, dark brown hair to give it a natural messy look.
    In my bedroom, I gave myself a last inspection in the mirror and approved. My dark jeans fitted my slim legs snugly, but gave me enough room to manoeuvre in case of a physical altercation. The dark brown boots would do some serious damage if they connected to any part of the human body. I inhaled deeply and on the exhale relaxed the muscles around my eyes so that my emerald-green eyes wouldn’t look so disturbed. Once I was satisfied with the image in the mirror, I unlocked the door, fully expecting the intruder to still be there.
    I found him perusing the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf in the reading area. He had a first-edition Kipling in his hand and was paging through it with unadulterated awe etched on his face. How could a common criminal appreciate art and literature like this? The same sense of familiarity pulled at my consciousness. I inched closer.
    “You have exquisite taste, Jenny.” He must have sensed my presence, because he only looked up from the book after he had spoken. And he had shortened my name. “Your art collection is small, but chosen with an obvious eye for quality and substance. Your music taste is an interesting jump between genres, but this”—he pointed to the books—“this is something I would give my big toe for.”
    “Why would you—” I stopped myself from inquiring why he would sacrifice a digit, knowing that it probably was one of those senseless things people said. “Why don’t you just give me your name?”
    He carefully replaced the book and even managed to align it the right distance from the edge of the shelf before he turned to me. “If I give you my name, will you sit down with me and have a conversation?”
    “Why would I want to do that? You broke into my apartment and have overstayed your welcome by a few hours.”
    “I would consider it a huge favour.” His