The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin (62 page)

I wished I could wear gray.  Gray was such a classy color.  Kudos to her for making it look uber-stylish.  Ah, Parisian women.  They possessed
je n'est ce quoi
in spades.

And then I did something out of character.  Or rather, long overdue.

Having gotten over my elevator fears thanks to my fast fuck with Jean-Louis in the train lavatory, I followed her into the tiny box because—what was that entrancing scent?  Mm...  Must be a spendy perfume.  Chanel No. Seduce Everyone In Your Vicinity.  Score another point for the Parisian chick.

"That perfume is lovely," I offered as the door closed.  My muscles didn't even clench in terror.  She'd get off at the next floor so I could handle a little elbow-to-elbow in the contained space.  "What is it?"

"Lanvin, darling."

Her thick accent was not French.  It was throaty and coarse.  German?

The elevator glided past the second floor.  "Oh.  You should have pressed the button for the first floor," I provided.  "The next floor is residential only."

Her thick-lashed summation of me suddenly made me feel like I wasn't wearing the coat.  And this chick was not impressed by the glitter.  Did I have some sparkle showing at my neck?  I should have taken the stairs.  See what happens when I tried to be adventurous? 

The doors glided open and out she stepped, striding with purpose toward Jean-Louis's door.

You know that expression: I have a sinking feeling?  Yeah, it's really like that.  My heart plopped on top of my stomach and I think my lungs even dropped an inch or two as I struggled to breathe calmly.  But each inhale drew in her pricey perfume and I was on the verge of passing out from Lanvin overdose.

The woman paused before Jean-Louis's door and actually sneered at me.  "Who are you?"

"I'm Hollie.  I live across the street," I stupidly provided.

"You are here to see Monsieur l'Etoile?"

"Yes."  How I adored his last name.  My own French star.  "Are you sure you have the right floor?"

"American," she stated with so much disgust I was inclined to believe it myself.  "Jean-Louis knows
you
?"

I nodded.  And as fast as a lightning strike, my brain computed the situation, and I suddenly knew who she was.  My ankle gave out and I actually wobbled before catching myself against the wall with a palm.

"Stupid Americans.  You cannot stand in your expensive shoes?  Ha!"  She reached for the door buzzer, but paused.  Black eyeliner emphasized her evil glare.  "You should leave."

How I found the courage to stand upright on my overly high and slightly tattered Louboutins, I don't know.  But I did.  And I pushed before her and tapped the digital code into the lock.  "No, maybe you should leave," I said, and called out Jean-Louis's name as I entered the apartment.

The German followed on my heels, though I sensed she paused in the doorway.  A glance found her with hands to hips, glossy red lips parted seductively.  Really?  She was going to try that shit with me standing right here?

Jean-Louis strolled down the hallway from the bedroom in jeans and nothing else.  Sunlight flashed on his abs, and emphasized the Adonis arches that lured my eye toward the crotch bulge that always satisfied me.  He smiled—and then stretched his gaze over my shoulder.

"Greta?" fell out of his mouth like a piece of bad sushi.

The wife.  She had to be.  Who else could it be?  I knew he didn't have another lover. 

Just the wife.

"Who is this American slut, Jean-Louis?" The German bitch crossed the room and stalked right up to the man who looked as if the carpet had been tugged out from under his bare feet.  "Are you having an affair on me?"

"On you?"  He chuckled.  Stroked his jaw with a swipe of his fingers.  His abs flexed as he stabbed the air with a finger.  "Greta, we are separated.  I can fuck whomever I choose.  A condition you took to heart but months after you said I do!"

I clutched the back of the leather sofa.  This was going to be war.  And I wanted a front row seat.

No, I didn't.  This was private.  It was between Jean-Louis and his gorgeous soon-to-be-ex wife.  She looked like a freakin' model.  I couldn't figure his taste in women.  Stand me next to her and no man would notice I had eyes, let alone a perfectly nice rack.

"I should come back later—"

"No!" Greta said, fisting a punch through the air as she turned to me.

"Yes, you should," Jean-Louis said.  He swung around to grab my hand and led me toward the door.  "I am sorry about this, Hollie.  I didn't know she was coming."

"Does your wife need an invitation to stop by and visit her husband?" the German growled.  She thrust up her fists and blurted out an oath that I hoped was German and not some demonic invocation that would send me to Hell.

"I don't want to be in the way," I said. 

But. 

But for some reason, Jean-Louis tugging me toward the door felt oh-so-wrong.  I was the woman who loved him.  Who cared for him.  Who made him happy.  Why should I be the one to leave?  "But maybe you should introduce me to your, uh...
her
first?"

"Hollie, really?  She will only scream and yell at you.  It is what she does."

"I do not!"  The wife clicked across the room and put herself right up in our space.  "Yes, Jean-Louis, introduce us."

"Greta, you have no right."

"No right to what?"  She thrust out her hand toward me.  "I am Greta l'Etoile.  You are Hollie the American slut?"

My fingers clenched and if I'd been slightly less nice, I would have swung a slap at her model-thin cheek.  But I was nice.  It's what we Midwesterners were so proud of.  Niceness, and, apparently, stupidity.

"You see?"  Jean-Louis wrapped a hand about my arm, his intent in pushing me toward the door.  "You don't know Hollie, Greta.  Be decent."

"Really?  I'd guess the last thing she subscribes to is decency.  Got anything on under that ugly wool coat, slut?"

Now I did lunge.  Jean-Louis caught me by both arms.  My fingers were fisted, swinging blindly before me.  Why was I defending myself from this low piece of
je n'est ce
trash?  She was intolerable.  And plain mean.

I wouldn't sink to her level.  I couldn't.

"I'm sorry."  Releasing my fists, I flexed my fingers at my sides.  I turned and hugged Jean-Louis, knowing it must drive Greta mad to see her husband, whom she hadn't respected enough to stay out of other mens' beds, holding another woman. 

Albeit, a woman who wasn't nearly as glamorous and sexy as his wife. 

No, I wouldn't go there.  I would not compare myself to...that.

"Give me a call when she's gone," I said and then kissed him on the mouth.

He pulled from the kiss as quickly as it happened.  I couldn't be sure it was because he hadn't wanted the kiss or he simply wanted to show his wife some respect.  Not that she deserved any.

Fuck St. Valentine.  This is what I got for wanting some flirtatious fun on a day that celebrated the old man's death?  Thanks, Karma.  Been awhile.  Fine time to show up.

Jean-Louis held the door open.  Walking through it was the worst walk of shame.  Ever.  In all recorded walks of shame.  This one was it.  Because I was leaving my lover alone with his wife after she had called me a slut more times than was necessary.

The door closed without so much as him calling goodbye to me.  Not even an
adieu
.  No, I didn't want
adieu
.  That was a final sendoff, 'go with God', as in, see you in the next life.

Adieu
, Greta.

Greta.  Now that I knew her name I would never get it out of my brain.  It stuck up there like a cockleburr.  Greta.  Greta.  Aggh!

Shaking, I wandered to the elevator and stood before it.  To think, I'd popped my elevator cherry with
the wife
.  That was wrong on too many levels.

Behind me I heard shouting on the other side of Jean-Louis's door.  The man was giving as good as he was getting.  It was a side to him I'd never seen.  Anger so vile it raised his voice and had made him brush me off as if crumbs to be swept under the carpet.

He'd sent me away.

My finger hovered before the elevator button.  I shook my head, and scrambled off toward the stairs.  Two steps down and I stumbled, catching myself on the railing and allowing my body to descend until I sat on the bottom step of the second floor landing.

The shouts were muffled, but they were still going at it. 

"I could have loved you!"

I cringed at her shout.  Really? 
Could have?
  Meaning, she probably had not been in love when they'd married?  Greta, you are a first-class bitch.

"You don't know how to love one man at a time!"

One point for Jean-Louis.

"And you do?"

What had she expected?  They'd been separated for a year.  She had been screwing around on him since the third month of their marriage, which had only lasted a year before they'd separated.  And she was surprised to learn that Jean-Louis had moved on with someone else?

I recalled the strange feeling I'd gotten when we'd been Skyping one another after our relationship had progressed from window sex.  I'd felt as though he were reluctant to meet, to bring it to the next level.  And I'd been angry with him, even while I'd known if anyone were going to back out on the relationship it would be me with my one-month-to-detonation dating rules.

That was when he'd confessed he was married.  But only after I'd run into the building manager and the old man had let the big secret slip by assuming I was Jean-Louis's wife. 

When I had spied Jean-Louis in the window the first time and we had flirted through glass, I had been exactly what he had needed.  A woman interested in him, someone who had obviously boosted his tattered ego, yet also someone at a distance.  He hadn't been ready for the face-to-face. 

For skin.

And I could completely understand now after having stood in Greta's universe for five minutes.  She was a storm, and I believed when angered, she could level everything and anything in her path.

I glanced up the stairs.  It would be foolish to return to the scene of the crime.  And I wouldn't help Jean-Louis at all by popping in my head and giving his wife fuel to rage even more.

Reluctantly, I walked down and out the front door, crossing the street with a shiver as a breeze tickled up and under my coat.  So much for the glittery surprise.  How had she known I was naked under the coat?  Was I flashing?

It must have been a good guess.  Bitch.  Yeah, I was going to call that one as I saw it.

Poor Jean-Louis. 

***

It was nine in the evening.  I wandered into the bedroom, skin still putting off steam from the hot shower.  The light by the bed was on, but it was dim.  I wondered if they were still having it out across the street?

Some Valentine's Day this had been.  If I saw a red rose or a box of chocolates it would only remind me of Greta's greasy red lips. 
Bleck
. 

Motion in Jean-Louis's bedroom caught my eye.  Across the street, he rushed to the bedside table and grabbed a notebook, scribbling something on the paper.  Pressing it to the window, I then read his note, "Can I come over?"

I nodded and gestured that he could.  I hadn't locked the door yet, so he could get in on his own.  Crawling into bed, I pulled my knees up to my chest, the robe parting, and settled against the pillows. 

What would he have to tell me?

It would be ridiculous for him to report anything but that the wicked German bitch had handed him the signed divorce papers.  Had my being there thrown her off course?  Had she reconsidered after seeing that her husband was happy and had found someone new?  I'd never forgive myself if that were the case.

Ah!  There I go again.  Thinking too much.  My thinks always went a thought too far.

Sighing, I leaned against the headboard and listened as the front door clicked open.  Jean-Louis shuffled off his shoes then turned the lock in the door.  He padded into the room, and I patted the bed beside me.  The way the low lamp lighted the room, his broad frame cast shadows on the walls.  He sat facing me and I noticed his eyes.

"You've been crying," I said.

He bowed his head.  The slightest nod of agreement.  When he looked up I pressed my lips together to prevent my own tears from falling.  I hated seeing the defeat in his eyes.

"It hurts me," he said quietly, "that I couldn't make it work."

"Did you want to?"

"Of course, from the start.  I didn't marry her on a whim."

Right.  This man was honorable.  Trusting.  Truthful.  Who didn't get married thinking it would be anything but happily ever after?

"Come here."

Lying down, he nuzzled his head against my stomach, tucking his hands against my thigh.  I stroked his hair.  Had she ever held him so gently?