The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin (20 page)

I love your laugh
, he wrote. 
You always laugh after you come.  That is sexy
.

Seeing those words on the computer screen set my heartbeats to a rapid thunder.  The man could seduce with only the written word.  I didn't have to see his pretty eyes or his gorgeous smile.  This man could keep me up all night—

Yikes.  The battery level was on red.  I had but minutes remaining.  Where was the power cord in this mess of a room?

Have to find power cord. Running out of juice
.

Don't worry about it.  I hate to make this quick but...  I need to get some sleep.  Six a.m. meeting tomorrow.  Can we begin for real tomorrow night?

I understand.  And yes, tomorrow night.

I'm so pleased you took the next step,
mon abeille
.

Mon abeille
?  What had he just called me?  Dare I ask?  No.  I'd look it up.  But that confirmed that he was French.  Mostly.  Maybe?

I typed:
I'll look for you around seven?

Sounds good.  But will you really look?  Will I be able to see you tomorrow night, as well as hear you?

I exhaled heavily, and typed. 
Yes.  I promise
.

You make me happy.
 
Bonne nuit
.

Same to you
. 

I clicked to sign off then because I didn't want to do the drawn-out linger, and even as I clicked the laptop screen went black. 

"Whew.  I did it!"

I rolled to my back, trailing my fingers over the warm aluminum laptop body.  The crimson card crinkled under my elbow. 

"
Mon abeille
," I whispered. 

I had to plug in my laptop so I could look up that word.

Chapter
Two

My bee.

The next morning I dashed from the bed to my desk in the living room.  First thing I did was go to freetranslations.com and look up
mon abeille
.  I'd learned enough French to get by since moving here, but that was still barely
bonjour
and
merci
.  I could definitely understand it more than speak it.  And that was more important to me, anyway.

He'd called me
my bee
.  How cool was it that he had a nickname for me?  Had he mouthed it as we'd stood before the windows baring our souls through naked skin? 

I wondered what he'd think about the nickname I'd given him: Monsieur Sexy.  A guy could go either way with that one.  He could be flattered, or he could find it ridiculous and condescending.  I wouldn't worry about it.  Because overthinking always tended to segue into worry, and beyond that, freaking out.

I tapped the keyboard, eyeing the Skype app.  It was nine a.m.  He was at work.  As should I be.

Pushing the laptop away on the desk, I spun up and floated into the bathroom to brush my teeth.  It's difficult to brush when your smile wants to stretch ear to ear.

"My bee," I said as I tapped the water from the brush and then replaced it in the medicine cabinet.  "Oh, Monsieur Sexy, I can't wait to talk to you tonight."

And I would talk to him.  I'd utilize the video chat.  I made that promise to myself as I wandered about my bedroom, gathering up clothes for the day from the floor.  It was Tuesday.  I had a lot of research work to do.  And yet, the messy floor scattered with skirts, shoes, and books coaxed me to pick up more than a few things. 

Two hours later, I sat on the bed in the pink tee-shirt and grey yoga pants I'd excavated from beneath a pile and exhaled a satisfied sigh.  "I have not seen this room looking so clean in months." 

I'd even organized the books by subject stacks.  And, I'd checked online for bookshelves from Amazon.  They were due to arrive within the week.  I'd acquired a lot of books since arriving on French soil.  They seemed to breed.  But somehow the idea of actually installing bookshelves seemed so permanent. 

I'd only intended to stay in Paris three years.  The standard time for the skills and talents residence card I'd applied for.  I could re-up for a ten-year resident card if I wished.  I hadn't given it much thought yet.  I loved Paris, but it would never be my home.  I was American to the core of my red, white and blue bones.

With my library organized, I felt as if I'd made great leaps for womankind.  I skipped out to the kitchen to make a salad for lunch.  Spinach, snap peas, cauliflower, sunflower seeds, and feta cheese crumbles.  A few sliced olives on the top, with a drizzle of olive oil as dressing. 
Voila
!

I sat down to eat and eyed the bee notebook sitting on top of a stack of client files.  I didn't dare touch it without risking olive oil on the leather cover.  He was so thoughtful.  The man was too good to be true.

I sat back on the kitchen chair, chewing.  Thinking.

What was wrong with him?  Most men would never figure out something so personal about a woman's likes without even holding a conversation with her.  It was as if he were super-perceptive.  Or one of those creepy stalkers who had investigated his prey and now was cozying up to her before he chained her in his basement.

My fork clattered onto the table.  I shook the horrifying image out of my skull.  Did something have to be wrong with him? 

"No, he's just smart.  And attentive." 

I plucked an olive from the salad and popped it in my mouth.  Surely, he had noticed the embroidered bee on my robe and took it from there.  Which didn't make him ideal by any means. 

"He could still have bad habits.  Like leaving the toilet seat up.  But he is a single man living alone.  Why put it down?  Maybe he never washes his dishes." 

I couldn't see into his kitchen from my view across the street.  A huge plant hung near the window that blurred view of anything beyond.  Who watered the plant when he was gone?  If he had asked me and I would have gladly agreed to do so.  Then I could have snooped about his place—no.

Stabbing a fork into my salad, I shook my head.  I had no desire to snoop.  I'd witnessed his most intimate moments.  Anything else was just window dressing.  Or stacks of dirty dishes.

Ah heck.  Who was I kidding?  I belonged to the female species.  Snooping was encoded in our DNA. 

After lunch, I opened the notebook and...taking a deep breath and wielding a pen, lingered over the blank page.  And lingered.  And... 

"Oh, just do it.  Write something about him."

Pressing the pen to page, I actually wrote something.  Yay, for me!  I'd marked the clean page with my thoughts. 

Okay.  Enough excitement.

I checked Skype—no messages—then was determined to get in four or five hours of research before breaking for a muscle-stretching walk along the Seine.  It was fall, after all, and I wanted to take advantage of the dwindling nice days before winter swooped in on icy wings. 

The lure of roasted chestnuts also drew me.  Vendors set up along the river to hawk their sweet autumn wares.  I bought a crinkly package and nibbled the warm chestnuts while watching the
bateaux mouches
glide tourists before the Trocadero's bombastic fountains.

When I returned home after dark, a message waited on Skype.  Almost dark, that is.  The sun had set and the sky was gray, but it wasn't the liquid night that filled the sky when there was no moon.  The city never managed to grow completely dark for all the streetlights and spotlights focused on tourist attractions and landmarks.  Paris did not sleep.

Nakedfencer
had sent me a message five minutes earlier. 
You there?

I sat before the desk, fingers poised above the keyboard.  It felt almost as nerve wracking as it had when lingering over the blank journal page with pen in hand.  Hmm, this didn't feel quite right.  If I was going to hold a conversation with him tonight it had better be where I felt most comfortable chatting with him.

I picked up the laptop and padded into the bedroom.  And...decided to shower before settling in for a chat, that, with hope, may stretch into the early morning hours.  It had been windy during my walk, and more than a few times I'd dodged puddles disguised with colorful leaves.  I needed some freshening.

I typed in:
Taking a shower.  Ten minutes and I'm all yours
.

The quickest shower in my life still managed to get my hair clean.  I scrubbed the stick-straight strands with a towel and combed it.  I was growing it out.  Past my shoulders now, I envisioned it spilling down to my hips so I could braid it
a la
some Disney princess.

Oy.  That was a random thought.  I didn't want to be a princess.  Princesses got stuck in dusty old castles spinning wool and tending dwarves.  I wanted to be queen of my castle.  And whether or not a king sat beside me was entirely up for negotiation. 

Padding naked into the bedroom, I tugged on the silk robe and pressed my fingers over the bee embroidered above the left breast.

"
Mon abeille
," I said with glee.  Jumping onto the bed, I settled against the pillows and pulled the laptop onto my thighs.  The wallpaper on the screen featured Romain Duris grinning at me.  (French guy.  Look him up.)

My naked fencer had written:
Long day at work.  Look forward to talking with you.  Showered.  Wine in hand.  Music on low.  You like to listen to music?

I replied: 
I love music
. 

With that cue, I opened up iTunes and found something to set the mood.  Elvis's greatest romantic hits.  I sang along, "I want you, I need you, I love you."  Perfect.

Listen to music often
, I continued typing,
except when I'm working.  Research assistant, as I wrote to you before.  Work usually ten to four, but sometimes add hours on weekends.  Hi!  It's so cool chatting with you like this
.

He replied immediately so I knew he was there, reading in real time as I had typed.  I inhaled, countering my thudding heartbeats with a calming breath.   He was so close.  Much closer than the window had ever allowed.  Because he was right there, beyond the screen.

He wrote:
Can we switch to video?  If you are nervous, you shouldn't be.  I've already seen you.  All of you.  I want to hear your voice
. 

He followed that with a smiley face emoticon. 

I rapped my fingers next to the trackpad.  I knew it was coming.  I wanted it to come.  (And, oh man, could he make me come.)  I needed to hear his voice, too.  To finally hear the gorgeous laughter that had reduced me to swooning sighs against the window so many times. 

My toes wiggled nervously, the silver toe ring glinting under the lamp glow.  My fingers actually shook a little, too.  I glanced aside where the long mirror that leaned against the wall caught my reflection.  The woman in the mirror with the wet hair and bright yellow robe nodded at me.  She was the vixen within who had giggled and delighted when I'd initially flashed my breasts to Monsieur Sexy.  She was the one who had the nerve to finger herself before the window as he watched, his hand firmly wrapped about his cock. 

She was me.  And I was in for the ride.

I scrolled across the Skype menu and clicked on Video.  All I had to do was lift my finger from the trackpad…

The tiny green camera light on the laptop flashed on.  The all-seeing eye.  An entrance into my home, my bedroom, my very soul.  A video box opened on the majority of the screen, hiding Romain's sexy smirk.  And then
he
appeared, looking straight at me.  He smiled, his eyebrows perking up in delight, and then waved.

I returned the silly little wave I'd perfected from behind glass.  It was our silent greeting that we knew well.  I was almost compelled to grab a notebook and scribble out a 'What now?' but I didn't have to.  I could simply speak.

The ability to form words scrambled off into a shadowed corner.  My tongue felt numb.  The simple skill of speech I'd learned twenty-eight years ago up and abandoned me.  Oh, Romain, what do I do now?

I turned the music down to a quiet background murmur.

"
Bonsoir
," he said.  Nervous as well, I sensed.  He rubbed a thumb across his chin and looked aside before meeting my gaze and smiling widely.

Oh my God, his eyes were so gorgeous.  Framed within black-rimmed glasses.  Grayish blue and deep, not pale.  They held depth and…soul.  A girl could navigate new worlds in those eyes and wouldn't protest should the adventure lure her to Wonderland.

"All right," he said.  "I will speak first.  We are both nervous,
oui
?"

I nodded.  His voice was accented with the French tones I heard every day walking about the city.  But he was speaking to
me
.  And the accent was only for me.  Here was the Frenchman I'd dreamed about.  Had wanted to meet, fall in love with, and make passionate love to for days on end.  Yet he spoke English well.