The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin (60 page)

Had I?

Fine.  I was an asshole.  A
canard
, as she had called me.  Yet I had apologized.  What more did she want from me? 

"Christ."  I almost flung the mobile to the floor, but it suddenly rang and I recognized the caller.  I had two fencing students today.  "
Oui
?"

He would be late, but I told him to take his time.  That would give me a chance to work out my frustrations by doing some pre-workout pushups.  What I needed was a punching bag. 

But first.  I searched the directory on my mobile for a flower shop.

***

I met Melanie for lunch at the Regina Hotel.  Not Angelina.  (I know.)  But the line to get in was thirty minutes long, and it was snowing out, so when Melanie suggested the hotel but two blocks down the Rue de Rivoli I didn't balk.  No matter that it would cost me a fortune to nibble on
hors d'oeuvres
.  I needed the culinary retreat.

As usual, Melanie ordered for us.  It was easier.  Me with my English and so few French words, and the waiter darting me the sorry looks?   Nah.  I could allow Melanie to play the man's role every time and it didn't bother either of us.

Which reminded me that I had yet to take Jean-Louis's suggestion to begin a French language course.  Did that mean I wasn't devoted to the relationship?

Don't go there
. 

I was not going to overthink things today.

"You sounded panicked," Melanie said after we'd received a salad, which was approximately two lettuce leaves, one slice of carrot and a blop of something yellow that I wasn't sure I wanted to test.  "It was a good thing I have a two-day layover before dashing off to Madrid.  All is not well with you and Monsieur Sexy?"

"We had a fight and I told him I needed space."

"Ooh."

Yep, that had been a telling oh.  The short oh was one of those condescending 'I told you so' ohs that Melanie used freely, and which annoyed me.  The long, extended oh was a merciful 'I can relate' sort of oh that she employed less often but with more gusto. 

But this ooh had said: Oh.  Uh-huh.  Tell me all about it,
cherie
.

So I told her about our disastrous New Year's Eve fight and me getting groped by a strange man.  Which was my fault for stripping in the first place. 

"No, no, no," Melanie interrupted.  "Jean-Louis should have protected you."

"He was wasted, too.  And he was walking in front of me, so he didn't see how stupid I was acting.  And when he did notice he punched the guy out.  He had bruises on his knuckles that I noticed when I was telling him to leave me alone."

"Good for you.  Any man who lets a date go so far as that one did is not deserving of you."

"Yeah, but, Melanie..."  A sigh spilled out my repressed emotions.  And I felt a hot burn in my core.  It was my heart, vying for notice from my brain.  So I took notice, and confessed, "I love him."

"You are saying that word because it is expected of you. 
I love him
," she mocked.  "Oh, sure you do.  Because that is what girlfriends say.  They think it is what men want to hear.  But it is just a word when used in that context.  Real love is different."

I clamped my mouth shut before I blurted out something like, "Like you would know, Miss Mile High Club and Change 'Em Every Two Weeks?"  Instead, I dipped the carrot medallion in the yellow stuff and crunched.  "Whoa!"

The yellow blop tasted like wasabi on steroids.  It seared my tongue.  "Oh, fuck."

Melanie pushed the water goblet toward me and glanced around.  Yes, we were in a fancy restaurant, so why the hell had they sneak attacked me with the hot stuff, knowing full well I'd need a fire hose to put this burn out?

"Lettuce," Melanie coached.  "It will stop the burn.  You are only supposed to dip not scoop,
cherie
.  That stuff will put down a strong man."

"You're telling me," I gasped as I furiously munched the icy-crisp lettuce.  Seemed to do the trick.  Not really.  I gulped more water.

"So you are on the market again?" Melanie provided cheerily as she tried her best to ignore my antics.  "I know a man—he is French—who will take you to a fancy show and treat you to an exquisite meal and expect only a kiss at the door.  He is a real gentleman."

"Melanie, no."  One more swallow of water.  That helped.  Somewhat.  "I meant it when I said I love Jean-Louis."

"Right.  You love him so much you've told him to stay away from you."

Stating the obvious was not going to win her any points today.  "Tell me about your love life," I tried, to deflect her accusing stare.  "Show me your latest bauble."

"Oh!"  Her eyes lit up and she leaned forward, tucking a gorgeous swath of red hair behind her ear. 

I can't believe I hadn't seen those diamond stunners flashing at me even through the thick hair.  "Wow.  Those are bigger than the blueberries I had on my toast this morning."

"From Guy on Christmas Eve."

"Ah.  Ghee," I said, saying the name, but imagining it in my head as it was pronounced.  Always reminded me of clarified butter.  Who named their son after lard?  French or not, that was a name that always made me laugh.

"Yes, yes," she said waving off my curling smile.  "You laugh all you like.  I can cash in these sparklers for a cool ten thousand if need be."

"They are gorgeous, Melanie.  Don't sell them.  If you ever tire of them, you can loan them to me."

"Your lover doesn't give you fancy gifts?"

"Okay, now you're being a snot."

She conceded with a shrug and we laughed it off.  Lunch arrived, and I was thankful the plate was absent any yellow fire sauce.  Digging into the creamy risotto, we chattered for another hour before doing the double cheek kiss and promising to see each other in the spring.  Melanie's work schedule would keep her away from Paris that long.

"I'll miss you!" I called as she hailed a cab and skirted off to her fabulous life.

Standing across the street from the gilded Joan of Arc statue, I shivered against the cold and tucked the blue and gray wool scarf tight about my neck (yes, I'd stolen it from Jean-Louis,
after
he had washed it).  Did she really have such a fabulous life?  Certainly the world travel must be interesting.  And being an extrovert, Melanie's socializing and partying were a perfect fit for her.

But she returned home every night to an empty apartment.  Sure, she had lovers, men who told her she was beautiful and who gave her pretty things.  But I suspected that she must be empty when standing alone in her kitchen, wondering what she would cook for one.  Had to be.  Maybe a little?

I didn't want her to be unhappy, and perhaps she wasn't.  But I wished her a great romance some day, when the time was right.  Every woman deserved a man who loved her, no matter what.  Even those women who told their lovers to leave them alone.

Feeling lonesome for my Frenchman, I stepped across the street and veered left for the closest Métro station.  It was too cold to walk the half hour home.

I arrived before my building as a floral delivery truck pulled up.  The concierge opened the door for me, and when I had made it to the stairway he called after me. 

"For you, Mademoiselle!"

I turned to find a massive bouquet of red roses looming nearer.  The man behind the blossoms muttered something in French.

"He will bring them up for you, Mademoiselle," the concierge explained because he knew my mastery of the language was nil.

Now would have been an excellent time to take the elevator.  Poor guy had to wind up three flights of a tight staircase.  I tipped him a five-euro bill because that was all I had in my purse, and, after I'd cleared off the books, he set the bouquet on the living room table.

I counted.  Four dozen.  Wow.  And they were half opened and the blossoms were each as big as my fist.  The red velvet petals plushed against my fingertips.  A heady perfume rose from them.  I felt like Dorothy in the poppy field as I breathed them in. 

On the tiny red card was written:
Vous me manquez
.  I didn't have to look up a translation.  It meant:
You are missing from me
.

Ah fuck, the Frenchman wins again.

"I miss you, too." 

Kneeling, I leaned in and wrapped my arms about the bouquet because I'd never seen so many roses at once and I wanted to feel them, take in the volume and scent.  He certainly knew the way to my heart.  Heck, he'd already found his way there, this was merely a stop to jam under the door to keep it open. 

I should probably call him, but with a glance across the street I could see the action going on in his loft.  Sword play.  I wished the view was better.  I only caught glimpses of a man in white vest and a sword slashing the air.

I had been serious about him teaching me to fence.  It would be a great way to spend more time with him.  Study his physique in motion.  Was naked fencing a thing?  His email address was
nakedfencer
, after all.

I sat on the chaise and put up my feet on the table, my toe twitching at one of the rose petals. 

We had both been wrong. 

He'd been an asshole, but the booze certainly had something to do with that.  And I had acted ridiculously.  Again, I was going to blame it on the booze.  We weren't normally like that.  And I genuinely believed such an incident wouldn't again occur.

So I could forgive him.  But first...I had to forgive myself.

"Next time we go to a club," I vowed, "just one goblet of wine for me."

***

After a shower, I wandered into the bedroom naked and spied him standing there in his boxer briefs, a notebook pressed to the window.  How long had he been standing there?  I hadn't noticed him when I'd gone into the bathroom twenty minutes earlier.

The page read:
Call me?

I picked up the phone and waved it at him, then dialed his number.  As soon as he answered, I rushed out, "I was selfish.  I wanted time to think about things.  And I've thought about it."

"And?"

"And, I've never been in such an intense relationship before.  I think I actually freaked out.  Got nervous that maybe I'd destroyed something so good.  I don't want to lose you, Jean-Louis.  I love you.  I miss you.  But I don't ever want to get drunk at a club with you again."

"Agreed.  All that champagne was a bad decision.  Don't even ask me about the whiskey."

"We can drink together.  And I like getting a buzz, but let's do it at home next time, okay?"

"Agreed.  But I am sorry, too."

"You are forgiven.  Let's put it in the past."  I walked up to the window and pressed my palm to it.  "Want to do the window thing tonight?"

"Why not?  Though I wish I could touch you right now."

"Yeah, you're right.  Windows are for beginners.  Give me five minutes.  I'll be right over.  Do not change."

"I'll leave the door open for you.  I'll be waiting in here."  He winked at me and I blew him a kiss.  He caught the kiss and pressed it over his heart.  "Love you,
mon abeille
."

***

So I hadn't stayed in the bedroom.  I'd gone to the kitchen to get a glass of water when Hollie walked in.  She dropped her coat on the floor revealing she wore nothing beneath.

Catching her wrists with my hands, I kissed each one then glided my tongue along the soft inner skin of her elbow and up her neck, finally landing on her mouth.  She sighed into me.  I indulged in her warmth, her sweetness, and the visceral relief at having her back in my arms.

Her fingers found my cock, hard and ready under my boxers, and she shoved them down so I could kick them off.  Both naked, I turned her around and pushed her against the back of the sofa.  Grasping her across the stomach, I spread her legs and without asking, hilted myself inside her.

The pressure of her insides squeezing about me, and the heat of her combined with the incessant need to get off, to piston myself inside her was incredible.  I pumped at her furiously.  Gripping the back of her neck gently yet firmly, I took from her.  Yes, taking, no giving.  I needed to get off.  To stake my claim.  To fucking nail this woman to the sofa.

"Yes," she hissed.  "Harder."  A tilt of her hips opened her to me and allowed me in deeper.

I swore.  Fifty colors of bliss washed before my eyes.  And one perfect orgasm stiffened my muscles and I shot into her, filling her.  Owning her.  Making her mine once again.

I wrapped my hands about her, clasped her breasts and pulled her up against my panting body.  Sighing over her shoulder, riding the orgasmic aftershocks that jerked my cock against her derriere, I laughed.  And it felt wondrous.  And I knew how she felt after every orgasm that made her laugh.

"I love you," I whispered.

"I love you more," she replied.