The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin (55 page)

I'm not sure I can recall a time when Pierre had said that he loved me. 

Didn't matter now.  He was gone.  And my life went on.

This thing with Hollie was opposite of everything I had been conditioned to accept as real and family.  And you know what?  As new and curious as it was to me, I embraced it.  I loved that Hollie was always at my place and that she hugged me often.  It felt natural to hug her back, when I can only remember one time my entire life that Margot hugged me.

Don't shake your head in pity for me.  It is all that I know.  I don't feel as if I've missed some emotional bond requisite to a healthy relationship with my parents.  And I consider myself lucky that my childhood was not abusive, and in fact, rather privileged. 

Yet I am learning a different way now, and eagerly following the path down which Hollie leads me.  She is the moonlight to brighten my darkness.

And now, as I squeezed her hand and she smiled with her eyes closed because she'd been trying to fall asleep for the first four-hour leg of our journey, I was thankful for windows.  And silence.  And for this woman's daring venture into my heart.

Enough of the sappy thoughts.  I wished I hadn't been holding Hollie's hand while she nodded off because now I didn't want to extricate it.  I'd wake her.  Yet, I needed to check my email.

I worked my mobile from the front pocket of my trousers with my left hand, and attempted to scroll through the menus.  It took a while, but eventually I'd gone through the dozen emails and scheduled practice sessions for my students for the next few months.

The train was due to stop in Lyon to pick up more passengers, then it forged straight on to Marseille.  We'd arrive in the city at six p.m..  I'd arranged a car to take us to the hotel.  I managed to snag the luxury suite, which was a coup during the holidays.  It would serve as a belated Christmas gift for Hollie. 

I wished this trip had been during summer.  I would have liked to take her to the nude beaches to see her reaction. Would my vixen have bared her breasts with as much confidence as the locals?  I'm not sure.  Not sure I'd want her to.  But seeing how she adapted to new situations fascinated me.  When we'd had sex at the Louvre, she had been nervous as hell, but had quickly adapted, and had found it exciting and, dare I say it, fun. 

I think that is what I loved most about her.  She wasn't afraid of much, not even my dark moods.

I would like to see her in a tiny bikini, her skin bared to the sun, her breasts firm and high.  They jiggled only a little when she walked.  And her long torso emphasized her narrow waist and sexy hips.  Sprawled on a beach towel with sunglasses on and a book in hand would suit her.

Tucking away the mobile, I rested my hand on my lap because...oui, I was getting a hard-on imagining Hollie lying on the beach naked.  Sun warming her skin.  I closed my eyes...

First, to get her naked.  I'd have to go about it casually, perhaps accidentally dust some sand on her thigh, where the bikini bottom pulled away from her skin as she moved her leg.  The sand would sprinkle over her pussy and she'd wiggle at the irritation.

Lying beside her, propped on my elbows, I'd tilt my head against her leg to inspect.  A glimpse of her labia teased my libido.  An inhale detected soft vanilla, sand, and coconut.  We needed to take care of the situation, and fast. 

She'd look around from behind her dark glasses, eyeing the nearby sunbathers, most of them completely nude, some with breasts bared, others lying chest down to reveal browned bottoms.  She'd worry at her lower lip, and I would sense her anxiety.

I'd lick my lips and dash out my tongue near the bikini bottom.  Mmm...she smelled so good.  That coconut sun lotion made me want to lick her.  So I did.

Her thigh muscle tensed and a gasp of pleasure made me smile.  My hard-on pulsed against the beach towel.  Of course, I was completely bare, my white ass burnished by the ocean breeze.

The beach was no place for sex, and the sunbathers would look down on any who viewed them overtly or engaged in sensual play.  So it was difficult for me not to crawl on top of Hollie and start making out with her, rubbing my cock between her thighs.

She shimmied down the bikini bottom and worked it off with her toes.  Then she untied the top and her breasts sprang up, a pair of rosy-tipped sun worshippers. 

She commented on how the warmth of the sun felt so good on her pale Iowa skin.  The deep maroon aureoles tightened into buds that demanded suckling.  I was turgid and realized I rocked my hips against the towel, dragging my cock against the terrycloth.  Christ, that felt good.

She asked if I was horny.  Of course not, I replied.  Here? 
Pas ridicule
!

Was that an arch of brow behind those dark sunglasses? 

Hollie lifted her book and resumed reading.  And I drew in the scent of coconuts and sex.  With one more pump of my erection against the towel...

My spine stiffened and I sat up abruptly from my lazy drift into fantasy.  The train rocked.  I glanced around.  No eyes on me.  Hollie continued to snooze.

And I discreetly adjusted my erect cock.

***

I hadn't accompanied Jean-Louis into the will reading.  Hadn't been invited.  And had I, I would have refused.  This was a private moment for him.  He'd tell me about it later.  And if he did not, I would have to accept that.  Though, I knew he would tell all.  In his own time.

It was festival time in Marseille and the city center had been festooned and decorated to look like a quaint Christmas village, replete with straw manger featuring the baby Jesus, and everywhere
le Pere Noel
climbed chimneys.  There was no snow, and it was actually quite warm. In the fifties.

I'd tugged my winter coat open and kept my scarf wrapped about my neck, but gloves weren't necessary.  Besides, I was wiping away tears, and it was easier to do with my bare fingers than a leather glove.

Another teardrop slid down my nose and I sniffed at it.  With all this time to myself, I'd gone from lamenting Jean-Louis's loss to wondering when he would break down and allow in the grief.  And then, thinking about grief and its relentless attack, I'd drifted to that evening when I'd gotten the phone call about my mother.

She had been killed in a car accident.  Struck by a drunk driver who had two previous drunk driving convictions on his record.  The impact had sheared off the front of my mother's Audi and had literally tugged her body out with it.  She'd been killed instantly, or so I'd been told.  The officer who had told me that had followed with the odd notion that I should be thankful for that. 

I don't know how any part of a person's death can be a cause for thanks.  It doesn't feel right to make even a small part of such loss a positive. 

I had cried for months.  Perhaps even years.  Hell, I still cry when thinking of my mother.  As I was now.  If only I had been able to give her one more hug.  If only we had gone to the movie that night instead of rescheduling for the next weekend because we hadn't wanted to stand in line on opening weekend and fight the crowds.  If only I had been more comfortable with telling her I love her.  All the time.  Not once in a while.

If only.

There would always be if onlys.  I knew rationally that death came to us all, in ways and manners for which we could never be prepared.  It would never be perfect.  It would always make us wish
if only
.

I covered my face with my hands as a few glugging sobs escaped.  There weren't many tourists walking near the bench across from the courthouse where I sat.  But when someone gently touched my shoulder I almost shrugged them away and the words
fuck off
tickled my tongue.

Until he spoke, "
Mon abeille
?"

Ah, shit.  He'd caught me crying.  And not even about him. 

I dragged the side of my hand across my eyes, trying to squeegee off the tears.  "How did it go?"

"All is well.  But you are crying.  What is wrong, Hollie?  Are you sad?"

I nodded.  Sniffed the mutinous tears that insisted on showing him how weak I could be, and—such a girl!  Girls cried at everything.  Men were so stoic.  He'd not broken down and cried yet.  And thinking that made me cry even more.  I wanted to see him break down.  There was something so wrong about that.  Wasn't there?

Sitting beside me, Jean-Louis hugged me, his leather glove wrapping about one of my shoulders.  He smelled warm and like tobacco.  Someone in the room must have been smoking a cigar.  He may have taken a puff from it if proffered.  I liked the oaky scent.

"I shouldn't be doing this," I said softly.  "I'm sorry, but I was thinking about you.  And then I started to think about my mom.  She died.  I told you that.  I miss her.  But now is not about me.  I should be comforting you.  Oh.  Sorry.  I just..."

He held me so perfectly.  Not too hard, not too lightly.  As if he were some kind of stoic rock that had been designed to bear my pain.  Reassured, I tilted into him, sniffling against his chest.  Hot tears rolled down my cheeks and dropped onto his coat.  He didn't say anything.  I didn't want him to say anything.

My mother would have loved this man.  I suddenly needed her to know Jean-Louis.  I wanted her to be there at my wedding someday.  I wanted her to spoil my children and sneak them treats when I wasn't looking.  I wanted to tell her I loved her.

"I want her back," I whispered. 

Enfolded within his strength, I must have cried for another five minutes before my tears finally ceased.  Jean-Louis stood with me, and we walked silently back to the hotel.  He went immediately into the bathroom.  I heard him run the water in the sink.  Probably washing the day away.  Then he took a shower, but following his ten-minute stint the water ran into the tub as if he were filling it.

When he appeared with a towel wrapped about his moist hips, he said he'd run me a bath.  But as I stood to head into the bathroom, he caught me in his embrace.

Sky-gray eyes danced with mine.  This trip had begun with a dance.  A silly dance beside the Christmas tree that had ended terribly with a cold telegram.  I didn't know what to say now.  What was there to say?  We'd shared our pain.  Or I had shown him mine. 

"Thank you for coming to Marseille with me," he said.  "You make it easier to pause."

"To pause?"

"Tears came to me in the shower."  He looked aside.  His nostrils flared.  His jaw tightened.  Then as quickly, he focused on me.  "I will miss him."

Compelled to wrap my arms about him, I gave him the hug that I wanted to give my mother.  My arms wrapped about him forever and endlessly and into tomorrow.  Our bodies knew one another and sighed in relief.  We said I love you without words.  I heard him sniff.  I sensed a slight pull away from me, his pectoral muscles tensing against my chest.  But he didn't let me go.

"Give it time," I managed to say, though I wasn't sure if I was also comforting myself. 

His body moved as he shook his head.  "I will order in while you take a bath,
oui
?"

"Sounds good.  Are we headed to Paris tomorrow?"

"No, I'd like to spend another day here, looking around, doing the tourist thing, if you don't mind."

"I would love that.  I think we could use some fun."

"We can."  He kissed my forehead.  "I'll rap on the door when the food arrives."

Chapter Thirteen

Hollie lingered in the tub after I informed her room service had arrived.  The wine was chilled and dry.  The salad wilted.  But the lamb showed promise.  The view from our sixth floor room looked out over the blue-green Mediterranean Sea.  I'd never gone sailing.  It wasn't something that interested me.  Slight fear of deep water.  (Don't tell anyone.)

Though certainly there were some excellent bike trails around here.  And knowing that Hollie was a fan of Alexandre Dumas gave me an idea that we should visit the Chateau d'If out in the Bay of Marseille.  It had been the setting for
The Count of Monte Cristo
and I was pretty sure they gave tours of the fortress.

The bathroom door opened and Hollie exited in a cloud of lavender steam.  It wasn't my favorite scent (soap provided by the hotel) but on Hollie it smelled glamorous.

"Do you like biking?" I asked.

She tugged the sash of the terrycloth robe and accepted the wine goblet.  "Why do I sense your version of biking is far different than the pleasant summer roll through the park I envision?" 

She smiled behind a sip, and that was all I needed for my shoulders to relax.  While I poured myself another goblet, she sorted about in her suitcase for something.

The day had been long and trying.  I'd not been disappointed to learn Pierre had left everything to his thirty-year-old third wife of eight months.  She was also six months pregnant.  Future half brother for me. 
Salut
!  (Er, not.)  Pierre owned property by the sea and stocks and bonds.  I'm quite sure there was nothing in his possessions I'd miss.  And I was pleased that the unborn child's mother would be taken care of in the wake of his father's death.