Under My Skin: A Contemporary Romance Set in Paris (Bistro La Bohème Book 2) (13 page)

“No chance,” he said, gently pushing her
toward the wall and bracketing her between his legs.

She leaned into him, her hand sliding to his
shoulder. Gripping it, she pulled him even closer. Her other hand remained on
his nape, stroking it.

He nuzzled her hair, drawing in the coffee scent. It made his body ache
with desire.

I have to take her now
,
or I’ll lose my mind.

He’d wanted her so badly for so damn long. A
pang of guilt hit him as the image of Cécile flashed in his brain. But it
disappeared as quickly as it came.
He grabbed Jeanne’s wrists, brought
them behind her back, and
shackled them with his
hands
.
She was now a prisoner
of his legs and hands—of his entire body
.

Judging by the look of total abandon on her face, she didn’t mind it at
all.

He kissed her lips again and penetrated her mouth with one deep thrust of
his tongue. The sweetness of it sent a shiver through his body, robbing him of
the last traces of restraint. He whispered her name as he slid his palms under
her thighs, picked her up, and backed her against the wall.

Jeanne wrapped her legs around his waist and grabbed onto his shoulders.
Her voice was deliciously raspy as she said his name. He began to move against
her. His right hand slid under her skirt. He rubbed the back of her thighs,
stroked her buttocks through her cotton panties, and then went to her core. If
he needed more proof of her desire for him, he had it now. Touching her like
that nearly sent him over the edge.

“I want you so much,” he whispered against her mouth.

Her eyes were glazed when she opened them. “I want you, too.”

He stroked her and a tremor spread through his body. “Let me make love to
you. Please, let me make love to you.”

She peered at him, her face flushed with desire.

Is that a yes?

He pulled out his strongest argument. “
Let’s
get it out of our systems. It’s the only way to cure this madness.”

He was about to ask if she had a condom when her expression changed.
She stiffened in his arms and put her hand on his chest
to push him away. Disoriented, he lowered her on the ground and searched her
eyes for an explanation.

“You’re a fool,” she said.

“Why? What did I do?”

“Don’t you get it?” Her voice cracked with
emotion. “Do you really believe we can
screw
this ‘madness’ out of our
systems?”

She opened the door. “I’d like you to leave
now.”

He stared at her for a
few moments, and then nodded and rushed out without daring to turn back.

***

It had been over a week since Claude had given in to his demons and
stopped coming to work. He didn’t answer or return Jeanne’s calls, which worried
her a little more every day. On Tuesday she got bad news from Nîmes: Her mom
had tripped on the stairs and broken her leg. After talking to her on the
phone, Jeanne took the first southbound train and spent two days at the
hospital entertaining and distracting her.

Back in Paris, she endured another sleepless night because of Daniela and
Nico’s fighting.

Then Mat turned up on her doorstep with his ingenious idea to “get it out
of their systems.”

Jeanne sighed as she emptied the filter basket and began to wipe the
coffee machine. Could this week get any worse?

It just might
, considering the look on Pierre’s face as he
approached her, accompanied by Didier.

“Let’s finish this morning’s conversation,” Pierre said.

“OK.” Jeanne put her hands on her hips. “You have to fire Thierry
.
”

“Isn’t it a bit drastic?” Pierre asked. “Didier thinks highly of him.”

Didier said nothing, but a muscle twitched in his jaw.

Jeanne turned back to Pierre. “Amar saw him use the toilet and then go
back to the kitchen without washing his hands.”

“Amar is lying,” Didier spat out. “He’s probably trying to get us to fire
Thierry so he could bring in some uncle of his.”

“I believe him,” Jeanne said. “And, by the way, Thierry’s cooking isn’t
good.”

“Nobody’s cooking is as good as Claude’s,” Pierre said with a sigh. “But
Claude is on sick leave getting treatment for his depression, and we have no
idea when he’ll return to work. We’re stuck.”

Jeanne frowned. “We can call at least three other chefs who’ve filled in
for Claude in the past. I don’t see why we’re stuck with Thierry.”

Pierre turned to Didier. “Is he a friend of yours?”

Didier shook his head. “But he was highly recommended by a good friend of
mine. I don’t believe Amar’s tales, and there’s nothing wrong with his cooking.
I don’t see why we should let him go.”

He gave Pierre a defiant look.

Jeanne narrowed her eyes at the proprietor.
Decision time
.

Pierre closed his eyes and remained like that for a long moment. When he
finally spoke, his voice was firm. “We’ll keep him for now.”

Jeanne swirled around and marched to the other end of the bar area. She
wanted to punch something. Not only did Pierre choose to keep someone who was
no good, his decision implied he trusted Didier’s judgment more than hers. This
was a bad sign. A
very
bad sign.

Jeanne smirked. At least, she had no more doubts about Didier. She’d
known for a while she could never be in a romantic relationship with him. Now
she could see that a business partnership wasn’t an option, either. They
disagreed on everything that mattered. In spite of what Pierre hoped and
believed,
La Bohème
couldn’t be Didier’s and hers. It had to be his
or
hers.

And, judging by Pierre’s decision about Thierry, things weren’t looking
good for her.

She needed to focus on something positive.

Has anything good happened recently?

The Krav Maga classes—that was the good thing. And that Daniela
wasn’t quitting.

Yes, definitely the Krav Maga classes,
she repeated to herself
,
trying to smother another thought that
edged its way to her conscious mind. It wasn’t even a thought, strictly
speaking. There were no nouns or verbs or even interjections in it. It was a
breathtaking image, a heady smell, a delightful prickling in her
skin . . . It was a memory. A memory of something precious and
beautiful. Something that had blown her mind away.

Jeanne gave another heavy sigh and finally allowed herself to acknowledge
it, to admit how humbled she was by its glory. Yes, it would have been the
bright spot of her week, the brightest spot of her entire
year . . . had it not held as much bitterness as beauty.

Her phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID. Lena.

“How’s your mom?” Lena asked.

“Adjusting to her reduced mobility. Luckily, my parents had planned to
take some vacation this summer. So now they’ll just close the bakery for a
month and rent a small house by the sea.”

“Sounds like a great plan. I suppose your dad and brother could do with a
little rest, too.”

“My brother will go hiking in Corsica with his buddies. He’s really
looking forward to it. What have you been up to?”

“The routine
.
Translate a few
pages, run to the bathroom, vomit, repeat.”

“Poor darling! Are you guys still planning on that North Sea cruise?”

“Maybe not. I’m sick enough as it is.”

“Isn’t your nausea supposed to be gone by now?”

“That’s what I keep telling my doctor. Apparently, it can linger beyond
the first trimester in some cases. I just hope it won’t stay throughout the
entire pregnancy!”

“There must be some Russian grandma remedy for it, no?”

“Believe me, I’ve tried everything. Russian, French, Chinese,
Indian—you name it.” Lena sighed before adding, her tone brighter now.
“Anyway, I didn’t call you to whine.”

“Of course not.” Jeanne grinned. “You
never
call me to whine. That
you end up whining is purely coincidental.”

“Smartass. I called for a status update on the ‘Mat situation.’ ”

Jeanne’s smile slipped. “I wish I could tell you I’m miraculously over
him.”

“Oh, sweetie.”

“Hey, I’ve been trying a new tack,” Jeanne said doing her best to sound
light. “The other day I dug out some old pictures from our trip to Nice four
years ago, when he was still super skinny.”

“Ooh-la-la, he
was
skinny,” Lena said. “I used to think of him as
‘Mr. Clothes Hanger’ before I found out what his name was
.
”

“That’s a good one. You should’ve told me earlier.”

“So, what did you do with those pictures? Don’t tell me you stabbed his
chest with a needle.”

“You’re full of great ideas today! No, I just looked at that thin
toad-eyed guy with wild hair and told myself,
This is who he
really
is,
behind his sleek
suits and hard muscles
.
”

“Did it work?”

Jeanne bit her nails. “I’m starting to find the guy in those pictures
attractive.”

“Shit.”

“As you said.”

***

The town of Baleville reelected Mat to sit on the Municipal Council and
the Communal Council. But it favored Laetitia Barnier—the outgoing deputy
mayor and Mat’s main rival—for the top job.

That was three days ago. This morning, the new Municipal Council
formalized the citizens’ vote by electing Laetitia mayor of Baleville
.

When the results were announced, Mat smiled and shook Laetitia’s hand. It
wasn’t too difficult. Despite his conviction that he’d be a better mayor for
his town, he’d never stooped to personal attacks during the campaign. Laetitia
was unimaginative but upright. He admired her for having played her “benevolent
matriarch” card so well.

It was a lot more unpleasant to continue smiling when the Councilors took
turns at patting him on the shoulder and saying stupid things like “You’re
still too young for this job. Try again next time.”

The next municipal elections were in six years.

He’d be thirty-three by then and probably married with kids. He’d enjoy
more notoriety and influence. With some luck, he might lose his hair and sport
dark circles under his eyes.

Would they see him as better mayor material then?

It isn’t the end of the world
,
Mat rationalized on the way home. He still had his PR job that he liked, was
reelected Councilor, and would continue his involvement with the Greens. He’d
remain active in their pesticides and GMOs regional working group. The members
appreciated him and he was eager to do more.

This is just a setback
,
he told himself,
not the end of my political career
.
The whole running for office thing had
been a great learning experience, and he’d established a solid foundation to
build on over the coming years.

Only . . . why this guilt? And the shame?

“Watch out, you moron!” someone yelled, startling Mat and returning him
to reality.

He stopped in his tracks and looked around. He was smack in the middle of
a busy intersection surrounded by cars, scooters, and bicycles.

Fuck.

Raising his hands in an apology, he rushed to the sidewalk where he
leaned against a wall, loosened his tie, and tried to collect himself. It was
there by that wall, his heart racing from his near escape, when he realized
what bothered him almost as much as his defeat.

Actually, more.

With sudden clarity, Mat knew why he felt so guilty and ashamed. There
was no more hiding from the truth: He hadn’t given his campaign all he had, all
he could, and should have given. For one simple, embarrassingly banal
reason—his obsession with Jeanne.

For the past ten months, he had been consumed by his longing, crushed by
his lust for her. He’d lost his drive and sharpness. He’d thought about her all
the time—as he shot ads with his mom, sat on the Municipal Council, took
Cécile out to dinner . . . He’d been chronically sleep deprived,
but not because of stress or too much work. Every night, he would go to bed
with a stack of papers in his hands, full of noble intentions to read a report
on organic farming or draft a speech. And then, half an hour later, he’d catch
himself fantasizing about making love to Jeanne.

While Cécile would be halfway through her own stack, a highlighter
between her teeth, and a look of fierce concentration in her eyes.

Mat took a deep, ragged breath, and resumed his walk.

You brought this upon yourself.

As he pushed open the door to the apartment he and Cécile occupied in a
handsome limestone building, he knew she was home. Had she seen his text? She’d
been devastated by the results of the public vote, but she’d held onto the
crazy hope that the Council pick him in spite of Laetitia’s majority. He was
going to tell her it was over now. She’d put on a brave face, swallow her
disappointment, and say something to comfort him
.
Like she always did.

“You pathetic, frolicking fool,” Cécile spat as soon as he walked into
the kitchen.

His jaw went slack. In their two years together, they’d never insulted
each other in any circumstance. He’d thought Cécile incapable of uttering an
insult.

She strode over, stopped a few inches from him, and gave him a withering
stare. “Last summer you were Baleville’s golden boy. You had the town eating
out of your hand. And you lose to that old cow who has no ideas and no charisma!”

“She’s a seasoned politician, and she knows her stuff—”

Cécile shook her head. “She’s nothing. She got elected only because you
gave up at some point.”

“What do you mean, I gave up?”