“Because if I did, I’d eat five,” I said. “I’m a weak, weak woman when tempted.”
“Is that so?” he asked. And just like that, we weren’t talking about doughnuts anymore.
I met his gaze and felt the awareness roll between us like a ripple on the luscious chocolate in my cup. There was no ignoring it or denying it, but I wasn’t sure what to do with it either. Was the attraction real or just a fallout from my bitter disappointment in Jean Claude? Or perhaps it was manufactured out of the magic of being in Paris and had no real substance? Maybe I’d look at Jason tomorrow and feel nothing but my usual exasperation for him.
A man in an apron entered the dining area and began putting up the chairs, breaking the moment. He glanced at us and began to sing. It was not a song I recognized, but his voice was lovely and the tune made me smile. Every now and then, he would glance at us, wag his thick eyebrows, smile, and continue crooning.
“Do you suppose he wants a tip?” Jason asked. “Because truly, I have no idea what he’s singing. Do you?”
“Not a clue,” I said. “But he’s certainly enjoying himself.”
The serenade continued, and when the pretty brunette from the counter stopped by our table with the check, she glanced at Jason and asked, “Do you know the song?”
“No,” he said.
The woman glanced at him from beneath her eyelashes and said, “It is ‘Donnons-nous cette chance.’ How you say—give us a chance.”
Her invitation could not have been clearer if she’d stripped naked and crooked her finger at him. Knightley was not taking the hint.
“He has an excellent singing voice,” he said. He turned to me. “Don’t you think?”
“Most definitely,” I agreed.
I glanced around the café and realized we were the last ones here. I exchanged an amused look with Jason, and we made quick work of the remaining macarons and our chocolate.
Back out in the night, our cab was still at the curb. As Jason helped me into the back, he explained, “I figured having him wait was smarter than trying to find a taxi when we were finished.”
The neighborhood was quiet for being in the middle of the city, and I nodded. “Good plan.”
We were silent as we zipped through Paris back to our apartments. I tried not to think about what would happen when we arrived. I knew I was still smarting from my horrible evening with Jean Claude, but the night out with Jason had obliterated the bad memories, and for that I would be ever grateful. But did that mean there was more here? I didn’t know. And even if there was, there were serious ramifications to an office romance, and I was uncomfortable even thinking about it.
The cab pulled up in front of our door, and Jason helped me out and then settled the fare. I stood on the sidewalk, shivering in his jacket while waiting and wondering if I should just ghost into my apartment before he noticed. Yeah, because that was so mature.
Jason exchanged a farewell with the driver, who gave us a cheeky grin before tearing off into the night. When he turned to me, there was a flash of uncertainty in his eyes. Here it came, I suspected—either he was going to try to blow off our kiss on the Eiffel Tower as nothing, or he was going to take it as a green light and try to get into my bed. Men were so predictable . . . except Knightley did neither of those things.
As I stood on the curb, shivering, he walked toward me, looking like a big cat stalking its prey. He slid his hands under his coat and held my hips, the warmth of his palms heating my skin. He lowered his forehead to mine, our breath mingled, and he said, “I want to kiss you, just kiss you, for a few hours or possibly a few days.”
That sent a flash of pure heat rocketing through my body at the same time it surprised a laugh out of me. I leaned back to study his face. His gaze was tender with a slow-burning desire. Irresistible. To heck with work and its out-of-date policies. Kissing wasn’t that egregious of an offense.
“I think that’d be all right,” I said.
He grinned and pulled me close. While our earlier kiss had been a friendly exploration that revealed an unexpected connection, there was nothing friendly about this embrace. When his mouth met mine, it was raw with need and want. He kissed me with a ruthlessness that left me gasping. It felt as if he couldn’t get enough of me, and I felt the exact same way about him.
It was intoxicating, more potent than any champagne. I wanted to know the taste of his tongue as it twined with mine, the feel of his muscle-hardened body beneath my fingertips, and the scent of his hair and skin as I pressed closer to breathe him in. I wanted to know what made him sigh and moan, curse and grunt, and I wanted to know what he looked like when he went over the edge. Suddenly, I wanted Knightley. Desperately.
When we broke apart, we were both breathing heavily, and with unsteady fingers, he tucked a lock of my hair behind my ear. The gesture made me melt inside, but without his warmth, the chilly night air made me shiver.
“Come on—let’s get you warm,” he said.
He took my hand and pulled me toward the bright-blue door. He used his key to unlock it and then ushered me inside. He pulled the door shut behind us. I turned, took two steps, and faltered. Sitting on the floor in front of the mailboxes was Jean Claude.
chapter nineteen
JEAN CLAUDE LOOKED terrible. He smelled worse. The stench of stale cigarettes and alcohol surrounded him like a fog of sour stank. I blanched and put my hand over my mouth.
“Jean Claude, what are you doing here?” I asked.
“Mon chou!” he cried. He pushed up to standing. He was wearing the same suit he’d had on at the party, but it was untucked and wrinkled. His hair was disheveled, and his five-o’clock shadow was looking more like some serious past-midnight shade.
I held up my hands to ward him off when he reached for me. I felt Jason step up behind me. He put his hands on my hips and pulled me back against his chest. I didn’t have to look at him to know he was glaring at Jean Claude. I could feel the tension radiating out from him in waves.
Jean Claude glared right back. He looked at me with a frown and asked, “What is this? You are with him now?”
“No,” I said at the same time Jason said, “Yes.”
We looked at each other in surprise.
“What do you mean, ‘no’?” Jason asked.
“What do you mean, ‘yes’?” I countered.
“We were just kissing as if our lives depended upon it. I kind of figured the being-together thing was implied,” he said.
Jean Claude gasped and threw his arms up in outrage. “You kissed him? This, how do you say, tête de nœud!”
I gasped. “There is no need for that sort of language.”
“What did he call me?” Jason asked. He went to step around me, but I slid in front of him, halting his progress.
“The literal translation is ‘knot head,’” I said.
“All right, I’ve been called worse.” He visibly shrugged it off.
“But the slangy French meaning is more like, um, ‘dickhead,’” I clarified.
Jason picked me up by the waist, turned, and set me down behind him. Then he charged toward Jean Claude, who met him halfway. Both men had teeth bared and fists clenched, looking like they were going to tear each other apart. They circled each other, looking for the other’s vulnerability. First they went one way, then back, then back again. It was like watching a very poor showing on Dancing with the Stars.
I shook my head. Why were men so dumb? Was this supposed to be flattering? It wasn’t. It just made me think my taste in men was severely lacking.
“All right, you two, don’t be idiots,” I said. I crossed the vestibule and opened the door to the street. “Jean Claude, I think it’s best if you go.”
“Non non,” he said. He turned his back on Jason and approached me. “I came to explain to you about François.”
I gestured for him to go th
rough the door, but he shook me off.
“It was just a misunderstanding, mon chou,” he said. “I didn’t express myself very well. I would never ask you to do something you don’t want to do.”
I leaned against the open door, my arms crossed over my chest. “But you did, and what’s worse is that you made it a debt I was to repay you for this dress.” I looked at him with all the disappointment I felt. “You are not the man I thought you were, Jean Claude.”
He looked crestfallen. He reached for my hand, grabbing my fingers in his and holding them in a grip that was too tight and didn’t allow for escape. He pressed the backs of my fingers to his lips and said, “I would never have let any harm come to you. You have to believe me.”
I stared at the beautiful man in front of me. A few days ago—heck, a few hours ago—his attention would have meant everything to me, but now I knew he had a love greater than any other, and it was for himself. He would sacrifice anyone or anything at all in the name of his design house. I was nobody’s collateral.
I pulled my fingers out of his hand. “I’m sorry, Jean Claude, but we’re done here.”
“You heard her.” Jason stepped forward and grabbed Jean Claude by the arm. “Time for you to go.”
“Mind your business,” Jean Claude snapped at Jason. The two of them were nose to nose, and I noticed that Jason had a couple of inches and a lot more brawn than Jean Claude.
“She is my business,” Jason said. He began to push him out the door.
“Let go!” Jean Claude demanded. He tried to shake Jason off, but the man clung like a burr. “Ta mère est tellement petite que sa tête pue des pieds!”
Jason scowled. He glanced at me and asked, “What did he say?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “But it sounded like ‘your mother smells like feet.’”
Jason’s mouth popped open in outrage. He grabbed Jean Claude by the front of his shirt and growled, “Did you just ‘yo mama’ me? I am going to drop you, asshole.”
He shoved Jean Claude through the door, and they stumbled onto the sidewalk.
It was dark, and there was no one around but me to witness the two men now involved in an intense match of taking wild swings at each other while going insult for insult, which was ridiculous because neither one of them understood a word the other said, but I supposed to them the meanings were clear.
I clapped my hands. I whistled. I stomped my foot. Nothing. The sound of a high-pitched engine cut into the ruckus, and a mint-green Vespa popped up onto the sidewalk beside me. I feared it might be the National Police, but when the driver lifted off the helmet, a headful of thick braids cascaded down her back. Zoe.
“Mon Dieu!” she cried.
“Indeed,” I agreed.
“You don’t deserve her!” Jean Claude declared.
“Maybe not, but at least I’m not trying to sell her to the highest bidder,” Jason snapped.
Jean Claude cursed and swung at Jason’s head. Jason ducked and came back up in the circle of Jean Claude’s arms, connecting his meaty fist to Jean Claude’s nose. There was the sound of bones crunching, and then blood was spurting everywhere. Zoe and I winced and squinted our eyes, because that made it so much easier to tolerate. Not really.
“You son of a bitch!” spat Jean Claude.
He came back at Jason with a right hook that clocked Jason under his left eye. Jason staggered back, and Jean Claude jumped him, tackling him to the hard ground. The two men rolled as they tried to land punches and kicks, grunting and swearing as they went.
“I came in extra early to start the bread,” Zoe said. “I wasn’t expecting a show.”
“They’re being idiots,” I said.
Zoe nodded. “I’ll see if I have something to cool their fire.” She hurried toward the locked café, leaving me to monitor the morons.
They grappled, they grunted, and I heard someone’s clothing tear. Enough!
“Stop! Stop it right now!” I demanded.
“Here.” I turned to see Zoe hurrying back with a pitcher of water in her hands. I grabbed it from her and tossed the contents on top of the two men, jumping back as they broke apart, sputtering, dripping, and cursing.
Jason shoved Jean Claude away from him with a look of disgust and rolled to standing. He was filthy. His shirt was ripped, and his eye was beginning to swell. Jean Claude staggered to his feet. He was covered in blood and dirt. He looked like he had officially gotten his ass kicked.
Given what he had been planning for me earlier, I did not feel one bit of sympathy for him. Of course I didn’t feel any sympathy for Jason either. He’d had no right to attack Jean Claude like he had. I didn’t need him to defend me.
I handed Jean Claude the dish towel Zoe stuffed into my hand. “Go home, Jean Claude. I have nothing to say to you now or ever.”
“But, mon chou—” he protested, but I held up my hand in a stop gesture.
“Goodbye,” I said.
He stared at me for a moment before he turned away, looking utterly defeated.
“And good riddance,” Jason added.
I grabbed him by the arm and spun him around to face me. “What were you thinking, getting into a brawl when we are hours away from the biggest meeting of our collective careers?”
“He had it coming,” Jason protested. I would have continued to argue, but Zoe joined us with a cloth full of ice.
“It’s best if you go upstairs,” she said. She looked at Jason in sympathy. “Blood on the sidewalk is bad for business.”
“Thanks. Sorry,” he said. He put the ice on his eye with a grimace.
“What can you do when the heart is involved and the passions are aroused?” Zoe said with a shrug.
I felt my face get hot. The introvert inside me hated that there had been such a public scene, and it was so unnecessary, as there had been no heart involved, just stupidity.
“Keys,” I said and held out my hand to Jason.
Jason took his apartment key out of his pocket and put it in my hand. I led the way back into the building and up the stairs. I passed my apartment and unlocked the door to his place. It was laid out exactly like mine, so I headed to the tiny bathroom while he went to the couch.
I grabbed a hand towel and soaked it with hot water and a little soap. When I got back to the living room, he had his head tipped back on the couch with the cloth of ice on his eye. His knuckles were cut up, and he had blood splatter on his shirt, which was done for.
Without a word, I tended his hands. Once the blood was cleaned off, he wasn’t as banged up as I’d feared. This did nothing to calm me down. I was so furious with him for getting into a fight, I was practically pulsing with anger.
Jason watched me out of his one good eye. “What’s eating you, Martin?”
“Nothing.” My voice sounded like the crack of a whip.
“Yeah, when a woman says ‘nothing’ like that, it’s not nothing,” he said. “Out with it.”
As if he had popped my bubble of calm with a pin, I found myself exploding on him. “Of all the stupid, boneheaded, ridiculous displays of idiocy that I have ever watched from you over the years, that episode downstairs was the absolute limit. What the hell were you thinking?”
“Um, I was thinking that guy tried to use you, and I was going to rearrange his face for it,” he said.
“Humph,” I huffed. I was not flattered. I was not impressed. I was livid. I stormed out of the living room to rinse out the towel. I returned in a moment and lifted the ice pack off his eye to assess the damage and clean the scrapes on his face.
“No one asked you to defend me,” I said. “You had no right.”
“That asshole, Jean Claude”—he said his name in a mocking French accent—“got exactly what he deserved. In fact, he got less than he deserved. I wish I’d pounded on him twice as hard.”
“If anyon
e was going to punch him in the face, it should have been me. You behaved like a thug. I won’t tolerate that,” I said. I finished tending the cuts on his face and put the ice back on his eye. “I can handle my own life, thank you very much. Now I’m going to my place. You might want to take something for that eye.”
I dropped the hand towel in the bathroom sink, washed my hands, and headed for the door. Jason was leaning against it with his arms over his chest.
“Martin, you are full of shit,” he said.
I raised one eyebrow and put my hands on my hips. “Excuse me?”
“You don’t care that I punched Jean Claude in the face. You’re just using that fight to put some distance between us.” He pointed to me and then himself. “Because you are freaking out about what’s happening here.”
“Pff,” I scoffed. “As if. And for the record, there is nothing happening here.”
“Bullshit,” he said.
My mouth dropped open in outrage.
“Yes, this is me officially calling you on your bullshit,” he said. “I mean, damn, was I alone during our double make-out fest? Nope. I clearly remember you being there, too.”
“That doesn’t signify.” I tossed my head in a dismissive gesture. “It was the Eiffel Tower—everything is romantic on the tower, especially with champagne. And as for the second kiss, we’re in Paris in April. These things happen.”
Jason looked at me as if I were nuts. I lost my cool. I gestured with my hands, holding them out toward the window as if I were showing a prize on a game show. “April in Paris, surely you’ve heard of that ridiculously romantic setting? Everyone goes a little crazy in Paris in April, but it doesn’t mean anything.”
“What?! Of course it means something,” he argued. “In fact, it probably means ten times more because magic on the Eiffel Tower doesn’t happen for no reason, and how about Paris in April anyway? Pretty freaking great, right?”
Magic? I didn’t know what to say. If I said the kisses we’d shared hadn’t been all that, he’d know I was lying, but if I admitted it, then he’d win the argument, which could not happen for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was that we were colleagues who never should have been kissing in the first place.
Paris Is Always a Good Idea Page 23
