The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin (39 page)

Been there, doing that right now. 

Tonight promised to be an auspicious night.  I would finally meet my lover face to face.  No windows separating us; not even a computer screen.  We would finally stand before one another.  And for the first time, we would touch.

That is if he chose to show.  The party had been going strong for hours.  I was beginning to worry that my coach might transform to a pumpkin in a sparkling of faery dust. 

Very well, I highly doubted my ride home, the Paris Métro, would suddenly morph into mice and gourds, but that was the way my brain tended to work.  If not properly engaged, my imagination got carried away.

It was November 1st, and my best friend Melanie hosted her annual bash celebrating All Saint's Day, or
La Toussaint
.  The French were more into this day than Halloween.  Even though it was officially a religious holiday, Melanie encouraged the costumes and fun.  (And gallons of champagne.)  Costumes ranged from the standard spooky Halloween fare: vampires, ghosts, witches, and blood-dripping zombies, to some historical figures, and the classic Day of the Dead painted faces or even entire skeletons, as well.

For my costume, I'd gone with my favorite time period, the seventeenth century.  And while I'd vacillated over the skull paint for my face, I'd decided to go glamorous and as historically accurate as a costume rental would allow.  Clad in a poufy skirt and tight corset, this was the closest I'd ever get to time travel. 

All I needed to fulfill one of my recurrent fantasies was a handsome fop in a damask frockcoat.

The party was in full swing.  Dance music bounced off the walls fueling the exuberant crowd.  Around eleven, I pulled myself away from the black-and-white harlequin dance floor to seek refreshment.  Humungous crystal chandeliers floated over the ballroom and smaller versions queued down the sides of the room.  Underwhich, I found Melanie and gave her a giddy girlfriend hug.

"Is he here?" Melanie's question bubbled up gaily.  I suspected it was due more to the Krug than a party high. 

Melanie wore a sexy Alice in Wonderland costume that revealed her bosom almost to the nipples, and she clutched a stuffed white rabbit.  A curly blonde wig hid her bright red hair.  An ace of hearts temporary tattoo dotted her right cheek below her green eye.  Lush lashes fluttered expectantly.  I bet Alice had never shown the Mad Hatter so much cleavage, or had flashed Wonderland with frilly, red, ruffled panties when she bent over.

"Haven't seen him," I provided, but coached my tone to remain chipper.  "He may not have found a costume and decided to stay home.  I did only give him a few days notice."

I'd met the man I waited for a little over a month ago, via our bedroom windows.  We'd teased one another with flashes of skin through the windows.  Then we had taken it to full-on mutual masturbation while communicating via notes on paper smashed up against the glass.  Because we'd agreed not to share our names, I'd christened him Monsieur Sexy.  When he'd left for a two-week business trip to Berlin our sexy liaison had graduated to cyber sex.  As well, we'd shared details about our lives.  And I'd heard his voice for the first time.  Sigh...

Jean-Louis was his name.  I'd only learned it a few days ago (via Skype) after also learning a devastating detail about his personal life—that he was married.

But I wasn't wearing the Other Woman crown.  Not officially, anyway.  Jean-Louis was in the process of getting a divorce, and had been separated from his wife for a year.  All that was required was his wife's signature on the divorce papers.  So we were cool to continue with the relationship.  Maybe.  Mostly.

Hell, I didn't want to think about such things as other women and wives tonight.  Everything was daisies and sunshine and baskets full of puppies.  And one extremely sexy Alice in Wonderland.

I'd dared Jean-Louis to meet me tonight (before I'd known he was married).  It was high time I felt the man's skin against mine.  And I wanted this first meeting to be perfect. 

If it even happened.  I wasn't sure what I'd do if he didn't show.

"You need more champagne,
mon amie
," Melanie offered. 

She wasn't French, but she could speak the language smoothly.  I could still barely understand it, even after living in Paris for over two years.  It was absolutely bliss-inducing when Jean-Louis spoke to me in his French, husky, sensual voice, and my being completely oblivious to the meaning, allowed for me to simply savor how the tones glided across my skin and stimulated my desires.

"I'm good for now," I said to Melanie.  "I'll swing by the bar in a bit. I'm headed toward the balcony for some fresh air.  My stays are tight."

"Yes, but they push up your boobs nicely."

"You think?"  I caressed the boobs in question and wiggled.  "So that's why all the men have been bumping into walls and marble columns when I walk by."

Melanie and I shared winks.  When in Paris, flirt like you mean it, but never let them take you home.

"There are so many people!"

"Hundreds," Melanie said over the sudden racket as a popular song thundered from the speakers.  The elite crowd cheered and pumped their fists to the beat.  "I have to find Rene," she said.  "He wants to show me his Tweedledee."  With a wink, the sexy Alice slipped into the crowd, assuming the beat with her body and dancing out of sight.

"She's so good at that," I muttered.

Mingling was not my thing.  Crowds made the introvert in me shudder.  If it weren't for anticipation, I would have ducked out of the party an hour earlier.  But I remained hopeful. 

My breaths stopped as I turned and spied a musketeer in a blue tunic trimmed in silver lace standing before the neon-lit bar.  My heart performed a kickstart, stutter, and then stalled.  I clasped a hand to my chest.  My breasts were exposed by the low-cut bodice but not so much I worried my nipples would perform a peep show.  They used to wear their dresses much lower to expose nipple back in the seventeenth century.  So I was actually a prude tonight.

Prudishness aside, I wove through the crowd toward the musketeer.  I wasn't sure what I'd say when finally I stood before Jean-Louis without a window or a computer screen to separate us.  Hi, seemed inadequate.  Grabbing him and making out with him was long overdue, but inappropriate for this crowd.

Maybe not.  Tonight I'd seen more
risqué
embraces and tongues lashing one another than an actual sex club might feature.  I was surprised I hadn't seen full-out sex yet.  Maybe I wasn't looking in the right places.  There were some shadowy corners.  And I'd wondered about the coatroom when I'd arrived.  If the attendant were on break....

Oh, the thoughts my brain entertained.  It was a riot up there in my cranium. 

I neared the blue tunic and spied the black beaver hat that sported a swish of red plume.  He'd actually dressed as a musketeer!  The man knew the way into my fantasies because he had stood inside them, dallied about, and mastered a few of his own.

When a bunny hopped out of my way to reveal the musketeer completely, I stopped where I was.  The musketeer turned to me and nodded.  I smiled, and swallowed my rising heart.

Not my musketeer. 

For starters, he was too short.  I'd once seen Jean-Louis standing out on the sidewalk, but thirty paces away from me.  He was tall, fit, and had a way of standing that held his shoulders back, his arms hanging freely at his sides.  Like a fashion model showing off his wares.

The next point that clued me in that this particular musketeer wasn't here for me was his rich, caramel skin color.  I turned away quickly and closed my eyes.  Idiot.  I had almost flung myself at a complete stranger.

Okay, so not exactly
flung
.  I didn't do the fling.  I could stand naked before a window and jill-off in front of a man with whom I'd never exchanged a spoken word, but I most certainly would not humiliate myself with the submissive fling.

Smiling now, because my thoughts were too silly at times, I glided through the vast ballroom toward the balcony.  A jester in green and red bowed grandly to me, and I nodded a courtly acknowledgement.  This was fun, but I felt painfully alone.  Most were coupled up or standing in groups laughing and dancing.  I'm sure there were also many standing on their own, but of course I didn't notice the wallflowers.  That would be too reassuring.

Many sets of two-story double doors stretched along the curved end of the ballroom.  Elegant, red damask curtains plunged to the floor, framing the balcony doors.  Outside was sure to be chilly.  The thermometer had dropped to fifty degrees this evening.  Still, as a native Iowan, this weather felt balmy for November.  I craved a few moments away from the couples and laughter, and wanted to see if the view provided a glimpse of some of the Parisian landmarks. 

And if I happened to stroll past the dessert table along the way, I wouldn't allow anyone to talk me out of chocolate.  Chocolate consumed while partying had no calories.  Because, you know, dancing and the energy of the evening jittered it all off.  That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

The music was loud, but it was a slow dance and the lights had dimmed measurably.  Spicy cloves and sweet pumpkin emanated from the lit candles on the tabletops.  Bright orange candles nestled inside miniature pumpkins bedazzled with rhinestones.  The French could dazzle up any holiday.

I bypassed a particularly large sheet-covered being who had drawn dripping blood from the corners of his ghostly sheet eyes.  Did ghosts bleed?  The semantics of every costume would drive me batty if I thought too hard.  Which I did. 

I always thought too much.

My costume, on the other hand, was as historically accurate as it got when a girl had but three days to find a rental close to the biggest costume holiday of the year.  I wore an elegant seventeenth century gown.  The hips were wide, but not plumped out with wooden panniers.  I hadn't wanted to struggle in the crowd with that impediment. 

The fabric was pink silk damask that sheened silver under the light.  The three-quarter-length sleeves were dusted with white lace.  And the stays, or corset, were laddered from gut to breasts with white velvet bows that matched the bow I'd pinned in my hair.

Yes, I'd gone to the salon and had the stylist curl my hair and pin it up.  When I'd told her about the costume party, she said she could do the flour-puffed look, but we'd decided against that after seeing how pretty my chestnut hair had turned out.  Simple, elegant, and with a few ringlets dangling down my neck and near my ears.

I felt like a princess.  But I wasn't wearing the glass slippers, or my sexy black beribboned Louboutins.  The costume shop had offered matching shoes that resembled the seventeenth century style.  They were actually comfy. 

Take that, bleeding sheet ghost man.

A line queued along the wall and I decided that must be where the dessert bar hawked its sweet temptations.  Indeed, orange neon pumpkins suspended from spiderwebs lit the chocolate fountain below, behind which zombies served up chocolate treats as fast as their shambles would allow.

I scanned the line for the end, and as I turned, I gasped.  Standing not ten feet away—before the line, but not in it—was a real musketeer.  Framed by the vast opened doors that led to the balcony, his silhouette stood out.  He didn't wear the tunic with the cross and fleur de lis emblazoned on it.  Instead he was dressed in a rich black damask doublet and breeches.  Beneath the unbuttoned doublet peeked a silver threaded waistcoat, and the spill of white lace from his shirt sleeves hit me right there where my geeky love for historical fashion bounced for joy.  Brown suede bucket-topped boots slouched below his knees.  And at his waist and across his shoulder slanted a leather sword belt.  I wasn't sure if the sword in the sheath was real, but who the hell cared?

It was him.  Monsieur Sexy.  The man who had seduced me through a window.  The lover who had claimed me via Skype.  The man who had seen me at my most vulnerable, and yes, even at my silliest.  I knew things about him.  We'd shared our most intimate selves with one another. 

"Jean-Louis," I whispered.  I didn't know his last name.  Didn't need to.  As if some kind of mantra, I'd whispered that name countless times over the past few days.

Never had we stood in a room so close and without a barrier between us. 

I met his gaze.  His smile was already there.  Bright in his sky-gray depths and nestled in the faint lines at the corners of those eyes.  His grin was capped by a moustache, and beneath his bottom lip a triangle of stubble heightened the musketeer appeal.  Dashing, slightly curly, dark hair had been pushed over his ears with a hand, as was his habit, and an unconscious movement I knew he often made.

"Oh, my God," I whispered.  The world slipped away.  Sounds ceased, save for the thud of life gushing through my veins.

My hand soared to my breast.  Trying to stop my thundering heartbeats?  Or maybe even holding the stays in place for fear that those crazy heartbeats would burst through and bleed all over the costume.

There he stood. 

And here I stood. 

We'd done it.  We'd shattered through glass and computer screen to bare ourselves before one another.  Nothing remained but to touch.

Could I do that?  Actually touch a man whom I'd known for over a month, but had yet to know so intimately?  I didn't know what he smelled like.  I didn't know if his skin was soft or roughened from the sun.  I did know the scent of sable and spice lingered on his clothes (I'd watered his plants and snooped about his place when he'd been in Berlin).  But that scent had only offered a pale remnant of him, not the actual man.