Under My Skin: A Contemporary Romance Set in Paris (Bistro La Bohème Book 2) (7 page)

Didier rolled his eyes. “Please.”

“I’m not kidding. This place keeps them from depression and maybe even
from senility. If it becomes too trendy, they’ll stop going out.”

“They’ll go somewhere else. Paris hasn’t yet run out of shabby little
bistros where they can feel at home.”

“Honey, they’re
old
.
They won’t go somewhere else. They depend on their routines, familiar places,
familiar faces. They hate change.” Jeanne sighed. “They’ll stay in their stuffy
apartments and . . . let themselves disintegrate.”

“You called me ‘honey
,
’ ”
Didier said with a grin.

“I call everyone ‘honey
.
’ ”

“No, you don’t.” He picked up a croissant and pushed it in front of Amar
.
“Take it and run before I change my
mind. I’m happy today.”

And he certainly looked it. Jeanne couldn’t believe her eyes. The forever
sneering headwaiter glowed because she’d called him honey. How weird was that?
Over the past few months, he’d shown unequivocal interest in her, without going
as far as attempting to kiss her. Clever boy. He no doubt sensed she wasn’t
ready
.
Since the end of December,
they’d gone out three times and kept it cool and friendly. The latest date had
been just last week. They saw a movie and went for drinks afterward. She had a
good time.

Jeanne shivered as a gust of cold air whirled through the dining room,
and the first customers walked into the bistro. She wiped away her croissant
crumbs and went behind the bar. It was time to give her full attention to
business. Deciding whether Didier’s sudden passion was sincere or a sham to get
her to partner with him wasn’t a task for today. If it was the latter, he
deserved credit for the convincing show. But if he was for real, who
knew . . . Maybe she could form a romantic interest in
him . . . one day.

She was twenty-seven and longed for a relationship that wasn’t
impossible, doomed, or complicated. Unlike Mat, Didier was single. Unlike Mat,
Didier wasn’t above her on the social ladder. His background was similar to
hers
.
He was in the same profession.

But above all, he was
here
.
Available and willing.

While Mat was neither.

***

Chapter 5

February

What will I tell her?

Mat had been asking himself that question
over and over for the past hour as he paced up and down the hotel lobby,
waiting for Jeanne. She had no clue he was here in Copenhagen, stalking her in
front of the hotel’s reception hall. In fact, hardly anyone knew he was here.
When Rob had mentioned a week ago he and Lena were traveling to Copenhagen for
the baptism of Pepe’s baby, he’d asked if Jeanne was going
,
too. Rob confirmed, narrowing his eyes at him, as if unsure why it was any of
Mat’s business.

But Mat was beyond caring. He’d stayed away
from Jeanne for nearly three months now, ever since their kiss at Amanda’s
party. He’d been hoping that time would cure him. As it turned out, time had
other plans. His yearning for her had only grown stronger with every passing
day until it reached a tipping point. He could no longer bear it. He had to see
her.

When Rob told him about the Copenhagen trip
Mat had been racking his brain for a reason to turn up at
La Bohème
.

And it just so happened that he had an almost
plausible motive to go to the Danish capital himself. He’d been in touch with
the Greens in Humlebaek, a small town near Copenhagen twinned with Baleville
.
They’d discussed some common concerns and exchanged ideas. Before ending their
latest phone talk, they’d exchanged nonspecific invitations. From there,
telling Cécile he was invited to an important meeting in Humlebaek over the
weekend wasn’t a complete lie—just an extension of the truth.

Mat glanced at his watch. Nine o’clock. The
party would probably go on until midnight, but he hoped Jeanne would pop out at
some point to go to the ladies’ room. Right on cue, she stepped into the lobby
and hurried toward the elevators. She looked amazing in her 50s-style pastel
blue dress. Her hair was done up and her mouth painted cherry red. But her face
was contorted in pain.

Mat hovered by the elevators for about five minutes, struggling not to
bite his nails. Then, on a mad impulse, he jumped into one and rode up to the
eleventh floor
.

Thank heaven for Scandinavian helpfulness.

The friendly receptionist had given him Jeanne’s room number just because
he’d asked politely
.
Something like
that would never happen in France, or any other place he could think of.

The elevator came to a halt. Without taking a moment to question the
wisdom of what he was about to do, Mat strode over to Jeanne’s door and
knocked.

“Yes? Who’s there?” she said from behind the door.

“It’s Mat . . . Will you let me in?”

There was a brief pause, before he heard her shuffle toward the door.
When she opened it, she looked unusually pale.

“Are you OK?” he asked, touching her arm.

“I’m fine . . . Just a nasty stomach ache. Must be the
oysters.” She looked him in the eyes. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m in Denmark for work. Rob told me you were in Copenhagen.” He spread
his arms helplessly. “I had to see you.”

She sighed, turned around, and wobbled to the bed, leaving him stranded
in the doorway.

“Come in, if you want,” she said as she dropped on her tummy on top of
the neatly tucked bed cover. “But I won’t be great company tonight.”

Mat stepped into the dimly lit room and pulled the door shut behind him.
“Shall I get some medicine? I can ask the reception where the nearest pharmacy
is—”

“I downed a Coca-Cola from the vending machine. It usually helps. I just
need to lie down and wait.”

He sat on the bed by her feet and watched her. He couldn’t help himself.
Her dress wasn’t as revealing as the one she had worn at Rob and Lena’s party.
This one was more girly—cinched at the waist, flared knee-length skirt, and
puffy sleeves. The silky fabric draped her curves in a loose, gentle embrace.

Jeanne squirmed, groaned faintly and shifted her position, raising her
arms to put them under her head. She looked miserable.

Poor darling
,
he
thought and turned away, ashamed. Because part of him was wondering how much
longer he could stand being so close to her, looking at her—and not
touching her.

Say something, distract her from her discomfort.

“Would you like me to sing you a song?” he offered.

She lifted her head to give him an amused look. “Depends which song.”

“How about
“Frère Jacques”
?

“Seriously?”

“That’s the only one whose lyrics I can remember. Kind of.”

“Sing away,” she said with a sigh.

He began to sing softly. Jeanne closed her eyes, her expression a little
more peaceful. Then his hand went to her stockinged foot and stroked it as if
acting of its own volition.

She didn’t move.

Emboldened by her nonresistance, he stroked the sole and then the elegant
arch of her foot, before moving to the other one. Having spent some time on it,
his hand slowly climbed to her ankles, and then to her calves. He caressed them
lightly, his fingertips gliding over the sheer fabric of her stockings,
learning the shape and the feel of her legs. When he reached the back of her
knees, just under the hem of her skirt, he finished the song. For a few
excruciatingly long moments, he didn’t dare move, half expecting her to pull
away and ask him to leave.

She did neither, and he tentatively progressed another half inch up her
leg. His hand slid under her skirt and pushed it up a little. He continued
stroking the back of her thighs, revealing inch after delicious inch
,
until the hem of her dress barely
covered her bottom.

He paused there, just above the lacy edge of her stockings, and took in
the full length of her toned legs. Jeanne’s legs were a work of art. He had no
other word to describe the awe-inspiring sight of her high-arched feet,
delicate ankles, athletic calves, and slender thighs. Every curve, every dip in
her flesh was breathtakingly beautiful.

Sweet Jesus.

He crawled on the bed, sat on his heels next to her, and rolled her
stockings off, taking his time, reveling in every second of that incredibly
intimate act
.
He surveyed her legs
again and resumed his ministrations, working his way up from her bare feet.
This time, he used both his hands, applying more pressure, involving not only
his fingertips but also his palms. He stroked her, making sure to cover every
inch while his palms memorized the contours of her flesh.

Sliding down the curve of her calves, he bent down to nibble the tender
skin behind her knees and kiss the back of her thighs. She was firm yet soft
and painfully, almost unbearably,
right
.
Her skin was like the finest, warmest velvet under his lips. And her
scent . . . Oh God, that incomparable, heart-stopping scent.

She didn’t move, didn’t show any visible reaction to his caresses
.
But her breathing grew heavy and ragged.
It told him everything he needed to know.

By the time he made his way back to the hemline of her dress that he’d
hitched up to where her thighs joined her buttocks, he could no longer think
straight. With a low growl, he pushed the fabric up to her waist
.

And barely stopped himself from roaring his appreciation.

He pulled back a little, and placed his palms on her glorious bottom. She
had a tiny butterfly tattoo just above the waistband of her lacy boyshorts
.
He yearned to catch that waistband
between his teeth and pull her panties off. He ached to—

She shifted a little and moaned. But it wasn’t a moan of pleasure. It was
a plaintive, strained sound of pain.

He blinked a few times and gave her a comforting stroke. “Tummy still
unhappy, huh?”

“Yeah.”

And all at once, reason returned. His face flamed with guilt. She was
unwell, suffering—and he was taking advantage of the situation. He should
just talk to her and entertain her until she felt better.

With a superhuman effort, he removed his hands from her, untucked the bed
cover on one side and threw it over her.

OK. Now talk.
Say something neutral.
Something to distract
her
,
and to dissipate the images in
his head.

He moved to sit on the edge of the bed so he could see her face. “During
my master’s study, I spent more time trying to establish the shape of your legs
behind your loose bistro pants than writing my course papers.”

Neutral, my foot.

Jeanne didn’t say anything.

“I made sketches,” he continued
.
“I filled several notebooks with versions of your legs.”

She circled her index near her ear in a cuckoo sign.

“In memory serves me right,” he said. “Two or three of those sketches are
pretty close to the original. Even if my drawing skills are rudimentary.”

“No they aren’t,” she said.

“You haven’t seen any of my—”

“I have.”

He gave her a quizzical look.

“Pepe and I went to Rob’s one night, to watch the World Cup. You were out
of town. I went into your room for something… I think we needed an extra
chair.”

“And you saw my sketchbooks?”

Jeanne shook her head. “No. Even if I had, I wouldn’t have opened them.
But I saw this feminine nude by your bed. It was drawn on a large canvas, with
something like a pencil but thicker and blacker.”

“Charcoal,” he said. “I drew it with charcoal.”

“I knew that woman was me the moment I saw the portrait. I’m not saying
it was skillfully done, but you managed to capture something… Something that
defines me. Even if I have no idea what it is.”

Generosity
, he thought.
That’s what defines you, Jeanne. All of
you—body and soul
.

But he didn’t say it.

“When I was working on that portrait,” he said instead, “the legs were
the most challenging part, because I had to guess. I knew they were long and
slender. That much was obvious even through those god-awful pants. But I wasn’t
sure about their exact shape and fullness, the muscles of your calves, the arch
of your feet, the swell of your—”

“You’re a perv,” she said.

“And proud to be one. So, as for your bottom—”

She propped herself up on her elbows and turned her head to give him a
threatening look.

But he wouldn’t be intimidated. “I had a pretty good idea of its firmness
and roundness, but I wondered about this.” He uncovered her and traced his
fingers along the curve beneath her buttocks. “Until I finally saw you in that
blue bikini when we went to Nice with Lena and Rob.”

“And were you satisfied with what you saw?” she asked saucily.

“It blew my mind, baby. Just like now.”

***

Jeanne’s blood ran faster and thicker with every passing minute. It
pooled, hot and heavy, inside her lower abdomen, making her forget her pain and
her misgivings, along with the reasons why she should send Mat away. His
caresses were exquisite, as if some sixth sense guided him, telling him exactly
where and in what way she liked to be touched.

As for his words . . . It wasn’t the first time a man had
raved about her body. In fact, she’d been told she was hot too many times to
count. Her ex-boyfriends told her that, at least early in the relationships
.
Many of the bistro customers told her
that. Unfamiliar men on the street told her that. More than a few women told
her that. She’d grown to resent compliments—they made her feel demeaned.