The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin (35 page)

"Uh, the space?"  Dizzy, I clenched the handrail.  Cotton crowded my mouth.  Heartbeats thundered at the back of my throat.  I nodded.  I didn't know how to launch into an explanation that I was not who he thought I was.  I wanted to race out of there and scream at the top of my lungs.  "Yes, the space.  It's nice."

Nice?  It was occupied by a freaking married couple!  Oh hell, what was happening?

"Is Monsieur home?" the old man asked.  "I've an insurance form I need him to sign.  Subtle changes to the building policy.  Nothing terribly unpleasant."

"He's away," I provided rotely.  Not really in my body at the moment, I took a step away from the stairs, yet turned back to look up at the old man.  "In Berlin."

"Ah, your paths do not cross then?"

I shook my head.  Looked away.  How to breathe? 

Crossed paths?  Only last night I'd wanted to reach through the computer screen, grab the man by his face, and plead with him to touch me.  And now?  I could no longer sense my heartbeats, though something pounded like tribal drums in my ears.

Married?  The man with whom I had thought to be firmly ensconced in a relationship with, was married?  Fuck me.

No, fuck him!

"He'll be home…"  I couldn't speak without revealing the shake in my voice.  I managed a fleeting glance upward.  "Have you his email?"

"
Oui
.  I can forward the documents that way.  Just thought to stop in while I was in the neighborhood.  Are you well, Madame?"

I nodded but it came out as a sort of head shake rotating Exorcist pea-soup-spewing movement. 

Fuck.  Me.

"I was headed out for some air."  I patted my purse, hugged tight to my gut as if I were trying to fend off an oncoming battle spear with the flimsy armor.  The armor had failed.  I'd received a direct hit to the heart.  "Is that all you need?"

"
Oui.  Bonjour, Madame
.  I will walk you out?"

"No,
merci
.  I'm in a bit of a rush.  I'll tell Monsieur you stopped by."

Really?  I was out of my head.  I couldn't think.  I could barely stand.  I needed to move.

I rushed past the concierge and out into the October air where I gasped in the afternoon chill edged with the crisp, lingering remnants of rain.  It should have felt refreshing, but instead I choked and clutched my throat.  I pounded my chest.  Where were my heartbeats?  I…I…

Fuck.

Not looking for cars, I raced across the street on a red light.

"Married," I muttered, over and over. 

I passed by the concierge, his usual friendly greeting a garble of nonsensical syllables vying against the pounding in my ears.  It was the rushing blood.  I couldn't hear over my own need to keep breathing, to stay alive.

Yes, I was being dramatic.  But hell.  Really?

Once inside my apartment with the door closed, I didn't scream, as I had wanted to.  Instead, I tossed my purse aside to the floor, slammed my back to the door, and squatted, sliding down until I sat with my legs sprawled before me.

I gasped in a chuffing breath, holding back tears.

The bastard was married.

And I had been a fool.

Chapter
Eleven

I couldn't work.  It felt ridiculous to sit before the computer and attempt to ignore the fact that a month of my life had been sacrificed to a man whom I had thought to trust.  A man to whom I had exposed my deepest secrets.  A man—a nameless man—who had forgotten to mention that he was married.

But had he really forgotten such an important detail regarding his life?  Doubtful.

How had he hidden a wife from me? 

The building owner had mentioned to me that
Madame
traveled a lot.  Had she been away so much that she hadn't even been to his new place across the street from me?  He'd lived there almost two months.

Yet, I realized I hadn't paid close attention to the comings and goings across the street.  Out of respect.  We'd kept our voyeurism to the bedroom windows.  Occasionally I'd caught a glimpse of him fencing with an opponent across the street in the area I'd decided was his practice space.

Had I completely missed a wife going in and out, suitcases in hand, a kiss to her husband's cheek as she waited at the curb for the cab?

Or was I blowing this out of proportion?  I was, by nature, a great imaginer.  An accidental fantasist.  I thought entirely too much.  And my thinking often veered me away from reality and into fictional territory.  I know it's a problem.  But it's the way I was.  Everybody daydreamed. 

This was more than a daydream.  Daydreams were generally good.  This was a reality nightmare.

So was I concocting a wife for him?  Perhaps the old man with the insurance papers had heard Monsieur incorrectly?  Or if he was married, maybe it wasn't a happy marriage?  Were they on the skids since she was away so much? 

Could I hope?

I covered my face with my palms.  I'd lain on the gray chaise in the living room since returning home from collecting my purse.  Rain poured outside, battering the window.  A reflection of my inner war?  Of my inability to accept this one as a loss?

I sat up and shook my head.  "I have to keep a calm head about this.  I owe it to him.  I owe it to myself."

Right?

I could do this.  I had to get the facts before jumping to wild accusations.

I'd lain on the couch through his lunch break, so a lunch chat was out of the question. I'd sign on to Skype tonight and we'd talk.  And I would ask.  Just put it out there. 
Do you have a wife?
  I'd know if he lied to me.  I just would.

He'd been so kind and good to me.  He couldn't be married.  Married men who cheated kept their mistress a secret, bought them expensive bribes, and—oh!

"Fuck!"

I had to stop thinking about it or I'd have a raging migraine by the time the sun set.  I hadn't eaten lunch.  Making something to eat would distract my thoughts.  Or better yet, I'd run down the street to the grocery and look for some fresh salad items.  The walk in the rain would clear my thoughts. 

***

A man's hand reached for the fuzzy peach the same time I'd grasped the plump fruit.  He playfully tugged, then relented. 

"You have taken the best one," he said in what I guessed was an Irish accent. 

Oh, but European accents were always my undoing.  Hell, I was already undone.  In the worst way possible. 

What had the Irishman said?  Indeed, I had taken the best piece of fruit.  And I wasn't about to give up my booty.  I'd just had something very meaningful ripped out of my life.  I was keeping the damn peach.

"Naturally," I said, and looked up to fall into a pair of dazzling blue eyes. 

He was older, probably pushing forty to judge the gray tufts above his ears and the creases on his forehead and at the corners of his eyes.  Black hair had been shaved closed to his scalp and a short-trimmed beard framed his face and eyes.  His handsome quotient was equal to the foreign accent quotient—killer. 

My wounded heart managed a weak flutter.

"Could I trade you two plums for that one peach?" he said, plucking up two dark purple baubles and juggling them in his palm.

"I'm afraid I have my heart set on braised peach with goat cheese," I offered.

"You tease me with your culinary machinations.  You are dining alone?"

An odd question.  But I decided he was being flirtatious.  And guess what?  I liked it.  I
needed
the release in my tight and tense shoulder muscles.  While Monsieur Sexy's image had staked claim in the frontal cortex of my brain, I was desperate to paper over it with something different.  Something kinder.  Something not French.  And not so…married.

My eyes veered to the man's fingers.  No visible gold band or a tan line indicting a missing wedding ring.

Monsieur Sexy did not wear a ring either.  Sneaky.

"Yes, alone," I finally answered.  "I don't share my peaches with just anyone."

That got a blushing tilt of head from him.  "I would hope not.  Do you live in the area?  I have not seen you before.  I have lived in this neighborhood for five years."

"I do, but I'm not looking to share," I reiterated.  I may have slipped into desperation but I wasn't certifiable.  "
Bonsoir, monsieur
.  I do thank you for surrendering the peach."

"Any day, mademoiselle."

I strolled toward the front of the store, plastic shopping basket hooked on one moist arm.  It was still pouring outside, but I'd worn a scarf over my hair for the dash to the store.  Tilting a look over my shoulder, I discovered the Irishman watching me.  He tossed a plum in the air, and winked.

I returned a warm smile.  Mercy.  It had been a while since I'd flirted.  The detour had been necessary.

As I paid with a credit card, and slipped the few items into my reusable bag, I tendered one last look back into the store before leaving.  The man was nowhere to be seen.  I couldn't manage a regretful sigh.  Probably for the best.  I didn't need him following me home or becoming a stalker.

The concierge had carried up two huge boxes from Amazon and leaned them against the wall outside my apartment door.

"The bookshelves.  My books will be so pleased."

I dragged the boxes inside and found them a home against the inner wall, then made supper. Cut in half and pitted, the peach braised under the broiler and topped with softened goat cheese and a touch of brown sugar made for a delicious meal.  A frisky white moscato and half a baguette topped it off. 

Barefoot and clad in comfortable jersey slacks and a tee-shirt, I wandered into the kitchen, depositing the dishes in the sink.  I'd wash them in the morning with the breakfast dishes.  I had to work at the map shop tomorrow.  Would I want to?  Much as a distraction appealed, the idea of sinking into myself and wallowing lured more strongly.

Skyping tonight felt ominous.  But necessary.  I had to know.  One way or another.  I hoped for the best, but my heart was already picking out mourning black.

Really?  Me, the girl who agreed with her best friend that the shortest relationships were the best?  The one who had laughed off a desperate marriage proposal from a man whom she'd caught with his head between her BFF's legs?  The one who wasn't ready to settle into anything except a sexy pair of high heels?

I tugged up my tee-shirt, prepared to slip into the yellow silk robe before opening up Skype.  I pulled the shirt down.  I didn't want to do this half-dressed.  I would feel more confident with clothes on.

Actually, I'd gained a lot of confidence by basking before Monsieur Sexy's gaze while completely naked.  I had become a goddess comfortable within her skin.  It felt empowering.

Now the sigh did escape.

"A spurned goddess," I muttered.

Didn't all the pissed-off goddesses usually retaliate with hellfire and unspeakable punishments that lasted a thousand lifetimes?  Monsieur Sexy should be glad I hadn't done research on Greek goddesses.  I was out of my element regarding revenge. 

Eying the laptop sitting on the end of the bed, I decided to take it out to the living room, away from the camera setup.  He'd have to do with my face before the screen.  And if I had blown things out of proportion, and it turned out Francois DeCardes the building manager was delusional, I could always move back into the bedroom to end the night in the usual manner that involved much heavy breathing and an orgasm, or two.

Setting the laptop on the coffee table, I then paced before the window.  Still raining.  Every-so-often lightning crackled the black sky.  Nights like this usually put me in a smoldering, romantic mood.  I loved to have sex while the rain pattered the windows. 

I touched the cool glass.  Beyond the water streaks, his building loomed.  Would this be it?  If he really was married, that meant I'd never see him, never touch him, never…  Why did it bother me that I wouldn't be able to fulfill that need for touch? 

Because!  I am woman.  Feel me breathe, sigh and desire.  And oh, but I ached for contact.

It was about twenty minutes past the usual time we connected.  I'm sure he'd already pinged me.

"Just get it over with," I coached.

The getting it over with part felt so…final.  Would this be our last conversation?  Ever?  It could be if he was married.  Because how to get beyond something like that?  It would make me the other woman.  I was no man's other woman.  That was so not cool with me.  I would not inflict that kind of pain on another woman.

But I may have already done so.  Would she find the credit card receipt for the dress?  Surely, he kept a private account for his liaisons. 

Liaisons?  Kill me now.

How could he do that to his wife?

I was working myself up again.  My pacing had increased, as had my breathing.  Stopping to inhale deeply, I concentrated on the in and out, in and out of my breath.  It brought me down, but could never completely tether me to calm.