The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin (7 page)

Wise words. 

My mother had died at forty-five; much too young.  She'd been killed in a car accident.  She'd never gotten to see me walk down the aisle (though I'll take her advice and wait until my thirties, thank you very much), nor had she lived to see me move to Paris, fulfilling a lifelong desire to cross the ocean.  We'd been close when she was alive, but I can't make any claims to feeling her presence near me in times of need now that she's gone.  I am a skeptic about all that woo-woo ghost stuff.  But I do take comfort in knowing that her conscience has moved on, blending into the universal conscience, and that someday we would meet again; in another lifetime, as different people, perhaps as friends, lovers, or even next-door neighbors. 

"You're trying the white chocolate today?" I asked Melanie as the waitress in her nineteenth century maid's uniform—ankle-length somber black dress, with a ruffled white apron a la Mary Poppins—delivered pots of hot chocolate to the table.  One pot offered creamy brown chocolate, the other a strange ochre that didn't appeal to me at all.  "What's up with that?"

"The chocolate is to die for."  Melanie thanked the waitress with perfect French.  "But I'm in the mood for something different," she said, switching seamlessly back to English.  "Don’t want to get stuck in a rut."

"You could never get stuck in a rut.  Ruts see you coming and they run screaming.  Mmm…"

I bit into the vanilla macaron that I always ordered to accompany the rich hot chocolate.  Both had clearly been made in heaven.  By cupids.  Wearing ruffled aprons and singing like Mary Poppins.

Have I mentioned my mind tends to wander?

Melanie and I had long ago decided that since Angelina served high quality chocolate, perhaps the sugar content was lower.  With that said, we reasoned that we weren't actually consuming as many calories as we thought while drinking the syrup-thick concoction.  So we poured more, and then even more into our dainty porcelain teacups. 

Uh-huh.  A woman's mind can twist any scenario to result in negative calories.  Just try us.  It's a talent worthy of two thumbs up and three perfect tens.

"So does that mean you've dumped Jacques, or Francois, or whatever his name was?"

"Philippe," she said, licking the demitasse spoon that accompanied the precious little porcelain cup of Chantilly cream.  "Yes, it has been a month, darling."

"Heaven forbid you let a man fuck you beyond that one month expiration date."

"They get so tiresome when they start to want to talk."

"Oh, talking is the worst." 

I rolled my eyes, but we both laughed.  Talking and breathing topped the list on our Favorite Gripes About Men.  Lying there late at night listening to a man's allergy-stuffed breathing?  Ugg.

  "He wanted to discuss plans, and even do things like walk through the park and hold hands."  A pout of her lips produced that pained look that always made me laugh.  "I mean, who wants to hold hands in the park?  It is
très
boring,
cherie
.  So bourgeoisie.  I simply want some hot sex, when I want it, where I want it, and don't stop until I shout for you to stop.  Am I right?  Oh."

Melanie placed her hand over mine.  The pained expression returned.  "I'm sorry.  I know it's been a while since you've dated."

"Just because I don't date men exclusively doesn't mean I don't hook up."

"Right.  Hookups bother me, too."

"I know.  No time for the man to actually learn how to please you."  I'd never tell her I thought her month-long
tête-à-têtes
were simply extended hookups. 

"It does take a few times for the man to learn what makes we women squirm and moan," she added.  “Years to master us.”

"True.  But sometimes a hookup is what I need and all I want.  A quickie to remind me that I'm sexy, that a man desires me, and…"  I giggled and dropped the spoon into the thick hot chocolate with a clink.  "What am I saying?  Melanie, you will not believe what I've begun."

The redhead's green eyes brightened, a scoop of Chantilly cream paused before her lips.  And over another macaron and the dregs of our calorie-free (and don't try to convince us otherwise) decadent drinks, I told her about Monsieur Sexy.

***

After leaving Angelina, we strolled down the Rue du Rivoli and turned onto the elite Rue Royale.  I accompanied Melanie to Chanel and watched her
ooh
and
aah
over the perfumes.  I wasn't a perfume girl.  Natural oils were all I wore, because the chemicals in colognes gave me a raging migraine.  Melanie had sensed my descent into solemn disinterest as the headache snuck up, and quickly rushed me outside, forgoing her purchase.

The sales clerk called in our wake that he'd have the perfume sent to Melanie's apartment.  He had her address and credit card number on file. 
Naturellement
.  The woman was a shopping diva. 

We parted ways at the Place du Concorde in the long shadow of the Luxor Obelisk, and I strolled through the Tuileries for another hour.  Paris in September smelled humid and earthy.  The warm autumn evening was a boon to my tender senses, and eventually, I was able to recall the sweet taste of hot chocolate as opposed to the evil smell of perfume. 

By the time I got home, it was nearing ten p.m.  I tossed my purse on the counter and—noticed some action out the living room window.  As I've explained, the angles of the buildings didn't allow for more than flashes of movement in the third floor windows, and the distance was too great for detail.  But if I tilted my head against the glass, I could see the edges of the main, empty area that I assumed was a living area.  A hanging plant partially blocked view of the room.  It looked like a man, dressed in white, and he was… 

“Fencing.”

My heart performed the proverbial pitter-patter.  “Oh, my musketeer.”

Fencing rated top of the scale as a sexy sport, along with snowboarding (Shaun White, anyone?) and surfing.  Ripped abs were a perfectly acceptable reason to watch a sporting event, am I right? 

I watched as the fencer moved before the window, obviously in a match with another that I couldn’t quite see because the streetlight's glare made only the closet things visible.

The man wore a mesh mask.  I imagined the long, sinewy thigh muscles that must stretch as he lunged forward to deliver a thrust.  I loved watching duels in movies.  Particularly French movies.  Subtitles and historical costumes?  I am so there.  Michael York had played the ultimate D’Artagnan.  Yeah, he was an Englishman.  Who cared when there were bucket-topped boots, rapiers, and daring escapades involved?

The fencer moved away from the window, and I decided that this particular window felt more voyeuristic than the one in my bedroom because he was going about his life in the other rooms.  He'd not invited me to share what he did beyond the bedroom.  It seemed like a boundary I should respect.

Pulling the curtains closed, I headed for the shower.  Gossip and perfume had worked a number on my tender senses.  But I wouldn't have traded the girlfriend date for the world.

And now I had a new mystery to explore.  I knew I'd seen that symbol from the Milan map before.  I suspected it would come to me in the middle of a dream, popping me up in bed as dreams often did.  Or maybe as I rode the Métro, my mind a mile away while my body swayed to the lulling rhythm of the train.

Tugging out my cell phone, I opened the pictures I'd taken of the map and sent them to my printer.  Stripping, I headed into the bathroom.

After a steamy shower, I stood outside the tub dripping, and reached for a towel.  Monsieur Sexy's image danced into my skull.  Actually, he performed a fencing move across my vision, and then poked me gently with the tip of his rapier right…there.  Right where the headache lingered, despite the relaxing water.

If I took the night off and didn't open the curtains, would he be upset?  Would he even care?  It wasn't as though we'd established that every night we'd meet at a certain time before the window to watch each other jack off.  Not that either of us had done that.

Though, wouldn't that be cool?

Even if we had, we weren't on a touching basis, let alone a talking status, and I needed the freedom to live my life and do as I pleased.  That's why dating generally didn't work for me.  It didn't take long for me to feel as though I was in a partnership, and that was just too much pressure for me.  Like Melanie, I tended to break off relationships at first sign of clinginess.  Call it the burn of the awkward marriage proposal.  Call it growing up.

I had always felt that I'd know when the right man came along.  The man I'd want to spend all my time with, to lose myself with, to just be with.

I managed to brush my teeth while trying to ease the tension in my neck muscles with my free hand.  Once I got the headache, even if I took the time to control it, to fight it off by relaxing, it generally stuck around, lingering at the back of my skull or strafing the muscles in my neck, and wouldn't completely be gone until after a good night's rest.

Rapping the toothbrush against the sink edge to spatter off the water, I put it in the medicine cabinet and padded naked into the bedroom.  Through the pulled sheers I saw his light across the alley.  I didn't see any movement, but I didn't stare.  He was probably still fencing.

Sighing, I slid between the sheets and tucked the pillow under my neck so my head was tilted upward; the best position to fight the headache. 

"Tomorrow night," I whispered.  "I'm all yours.  And you'll be mine."

Chapter Six

Anticipation can be the strangest thing.  All day at work (yes, in my living room seated before the computer) I caught myself staring out the window, but not seeing anything in particular. 

Or was it because I was looking out the window for him?  I hadn't seen him fencing.  If he worked at home, it wasn't near any windows.  Though I'd never seen him leave his building in the morning, I didn't know if he worked from home or not.

Not that I rose early enough to catch a businessman leaving for work.  Layabed, remember?

I felt great today.  Headache averted.  Body dosed with my monthly shot of decadent hot chocolate and gossip.  And it had been a week since I'd had my period.  You know what that means?  I was ovulating.  I always know when I am because my body and thoughts changed markedly.  My breasts get sensitive to the slightest touch, such as pulling off a tee shirt or tugging on a bra.  I feel invigorated, and notice that I walk with an extra swing to my hips. 

I'd once read that men were more attracted to women when they were ovulating, for that one simple fact: women acted more sexual at that time because it was the one time of the month their bodies were most receptive to pregnancy.  Nature performing its finest mating dance.

I didn't need a baby, but I did need to satisfy the sexual itch that had me thinking about Monsieur Sexy's cock behind glass.  And his abs.  And those ripped Adonis arches that veed down to that gorgeous shaft.  And who could forget that sexy smile of his that blew me a kiss every time it graced his gorgeous lips; a kiss I could literally feel every time it soared through the glass. 

At one point during the day, I’d summoned the fantasy of him licking my foot and languorously rubbing his cock against the arch.  I'd moaned out loud.  The noise had stirred me from my voluptuous daydream and I'd abruptly sat up at my desk and looked around.  Alone in the room?  Of course.  Sometimes I forgot that I worked from home instead of in a cubicle.

When the four o'clock bell rang—so to speak—I ended my work day.  I billed by the hour, so it didn't matter if I worked an eight-hour stretch or broke it into smaller chunks. 

My muscles tended to bind up after a day bent over the keyboard, so I headed out for a walk to stretch and soak up some sun.  I wandered over to Les Invalides, the site of an old military school and hospital, but also a nice park.  I liked to watch the tourists and guess where they were from based on their foreign chatter.  I'm sure I was never right.  Dialects were not my thing.  And there were so many variations of French alone I could only imagine the countless possibilities with other languages.

Later, I wandered over to the Seine and bought some artificially dyed pink daisies from a stand near the river.  The flowers caught my eyes because their color matched the underwear I wore (no, I did not explain that to the seller).  I walked away, hugging the flowers to my chest, swinging my hips in a sensual proclamation that let all of single men around me know that I was fertile.  I probably broadcast to the married ones as well.

Who was I kidding?  Did my hips even advertise?  I don't know...  Yes, yes they did.  Let's leave it at that.

In the blue-and-cream-painted
boulangerie
a block down from my building, I picked up a baguette and some fresh goat cheese that the owner's wife made in small batches and sold for an extravagant price.  I loved bruleed goat cheese.  The caramelized crispy crust was sweet and surprising with each bite.  I paid the inflated price and almost skipped in anticipation on my way down the sidewalk.

Once home I arranged the flowers in a vase and set them on the kitchen table.  Then I carefully prepared the cheese under the broiler, watching as the swash of butter and brown sugar I'd painted over the top bubbled and quickly formed a crunchy crust.  I poured a glass of red wine and cut a few slices from the baguette.  The crust was light and flakey; the crumb chewy and thick.  Spread with the warm cheese, absolute heaven.  I could survive on bread, wine and cheese.  So long as my monthly hot chocolate and gossip date was included in the rations.