The Englishwoman Trilogy: Box set of: Englishwoman in Paris, Englishwoman in Scotland, Englishwoman in Manhattan

by Jenny O'Brien

  Making his way into the office he stuffed a pile of papers from the top drawer into his briefcase before shutting it with a sharp click. It was fortuitous she’d refused him because he’d need all his wits about him if tomorrow’s meeting was to go to plan.

  Turning off the lights, and pulling the door shut he cast a professional eye up at the roof. They’d just about finished the exterior now and with the electricians, plasterers and plumbers arriving tomorrow, it was time to look at the next stage of the project.

  Leaving the site, his eyes shifted of their own accord back to her apartment. He felt like a voyeur standing staring up at her window but he couldn’t seem to help himself, his eyes snagging on the sight of her sitting on the balcony with a mug in her hands. She didn’t look as if she was going out on a hot date. She didn’t look as if she had any intention of moving anytime soon. She looked sad, but there was nothing he could do about that at the moment that wouldn’t be wrong on all levels.

  He made his way off the building site, ensuring the security gate clicked shut behind him. He had more things to worry about than some chit of a girl with a penchant for saying no. Tomorrow he’d find out whether the bank would support his project for a little while longer. But even thoughts of the meeting ahead couldn’t dislodge the image of her from his memory or the smell of a summer garden that seemed to have possessed all his senses.

  “Bonjour. So who’s turn is it today boys?” he said, wondering who they were haranguing as he clambered up to the top of the scaffolding.

  Builders were the same the world over; if it was half good-looking and even if it wasn’t they wolf-whistled and cat-called like the best of them. The more prosaic would argue until they were blue in the face it was their social duty to help the less attractive of the species feel better about themselves. He’d even heard some argue that because they were offering a free psychoanalyst service, the government should offer them a tax discount. But as project manager he viewed it as part of his role to at least try to moderate their more extreme remarks. But this morning’s meeting with the bank had made him late; too late to even have breakfast as he crammed the remains of a croissant into his mouth with one hand while pressing a hard hat to his head with the other.

  “God, look at her, she’s right up for it.”

  “Come on boys, that’s a bit off now isn’t it,” he interrupted, joining them to peer over the edge of the roof.

  He’d promised himself he’d try to avoid her apartment block. After all it shouldn’t be that difficult as she’d have left by now. If he wasn’t on site by 7.30 on the dot, he’d miss her licking those last crumbs off her top lip, and that wasn’t something he’d miss out of choice any morning. If he had his way, he’d be there joining her.

  He followed their gaze more out of interest than anything. The street was starting to calm down with all the yummy mummy’s on the school run while the sexy secretaries would be well ensconced behind the Paris Match on the Metro. It was now the turn of the old ladies, their brown wicker shopping baskets loaded with an assortment of goodies from the boulangerie and charcuterie opposite. There was no way his men would shout out to these matriarchs, not if they valued their jobs.

  “Come on boss, you must admit those legs are a smasher. She’s a tease, that’s what she is lying stretched out on her balcony like that with her robe up to her…”

  “Who’s a tease?” He stumbled as he realised they weren’t staring at the road but at the block of apartments opposite, not just any old apartment, her apartment. His heart filled the sudden hollow inside his chest as his eyes fixed on the sight of her lying across her balcony with her robe indeed right up to her thighs.

  His eyes shifted across to his men, even though all his attention was still focussed on the apartment; her apartment. She must have fallen, be ill or worse. Thoughts scattered across his mind even as he started shouting out directions.

  “Right, back to it you lot. If we all pull our weight we’ll be able to work inside from midday and I’ll buy you a beer to celebrate,” his voice brusque.

  “But…?” Five sets of eyes followed him as he vaulted across the scaffolding like an ape before almost catapulting himself down the ladder at break neck speed.

  The knocking and shouting were relentless, but finally the sound of her name reverberating and echoing across the room brought her to her senses. Opening her eyes she found herself staring at blue sky even as she registered the hard cold metal of the balcony biting into her bum. Turning her head she fixed her sight on the trailing edge of a geranium head. She’d have some dead heading to do later but not now; now she had more important things to worry about.

  Her mind focussed; the relentless thumping pulling her back with a sense of immediacy. Why she was lying on her balcony in her dressing gown was another matter, one she’d have to think about later. First she had to stop the banging before the whole of Paris came out to see what all the commotion was.

  Sitting up was a mistake as a wave of nausea washed over her. Instead she rolled on her stomach and crawled into the living room, the ceramic tiles cool against her bare knees. It was more of a drag than a crawl as shooting pains attacked her right ankle with enough force to fill her eyes to overflowing.

  Reaching the door took an age, but was all the more rewarding when she finally managed to touch the dark wood before flopping out across the floor. It took another couple of minutes before she could leaver herself up to standing by gripping the frame with clenched fists. Stretching out a cautious hand, she fumbled for the lock, remembering just in time to secure the chain in place.

  “Oui?”

  “Sarah, it’s me.”

  Oh that’s great. Ever the comics these Frenchmen! She prised her left eye open to see who was shouting at her, her vision hampered by a sudden pile driving headache. She could barely stand, let alone see through eyes moist with unshed tears and yet was now expected to partake in some warped guessing game of “name that voice,” and in a foreign language too.

  “Come on Sarah. You can trust me,” the voice wheedled as she heard the sound of the door rattling against the chain.

  Oh yeah, well he’d be the first man who lived up to that label. She needed help, not long term promises he’d break tomorrow or the day after. She needed a strong arm to hang on to and perhaps some short term tenderness. She needed… Her grip on reality started to fade as her headache hit fever point and her ankle gave way from under her.

  “Sarah, for God’s sake remove the chain so I can help you,” were the last words she heard that morning before sliding back on the floor in a heap.

  Chapter Two

  7th May. I still don’t have a date for Saturday or a pair of shoes that I can actually wear. All I have is a thumping headache, a pair of black ballet pumps and an ankle the size of a turnip.

  Her eyes snapped open to stare at the now familiar wood clad ceiling of her bedroom, so very different from her pristine white one in England with its Laura Ashley curtains and matching bedspread. Here she made do with a cheap white cover from the local supermarket but at least it was warm and snug as she raised her hand to the bruise on the back of her head.

  She had no idea how or why she was still in bed, her fingers massaging the tender skin. She’d been having breakfast in her kitchenette and only gone outside to scatter some crumbs for the sparrows that visited each morning…

  Sitting up was easier than she thought, her eyes on the glass of water and the couple of tablets that lay beside it. There was a note too. Tablets downed she unfolded the paper, a piece torn from the pad she kept in the kitchen if she wasn’t very much mistaken.

  Rest ma petite chou. I’ll check on you later.

  Oh, sorry about your door.

  Pascal x

  She frowned at the note. Pascal? She didn’t know anyone called Pascal, did she? The name had a familiar ring to it but she couldn’t quite place it. Her frown deepened as she looked at the rest of the note, translating it as “my little cabbage.”

 
With that, she flung back the covers only to find herself still in her dressing gown, the belt of which was now knotted in the most peculiar knot imaginable. With a little shrug, her eyes landed on her ankle or, to be exact the neat bandage that strapped it in place. Getting to her feet she hobbled into the lounge to find he’d had to dismantle the security chain to gain access. Funnily enough she didn’t care. He hadn’t ravished her or anything, her hands fiddling with the knot to no avail. After another five minutes of fiddling she resorted to cutting the belt in two before shrugging it off and heading into the minute bathroom. She never bothered with pyjamas so if he hadn’t secured the gown tight she might be the one having to pick him up off the floor at the sight of all her wobbly bits, she mused, removing the bandage before rolling it up for later.

  Later found her curled up on the sofa in an old pair of black leggings with holes at the knees and a faded black t-shirt, her hair loose around her shoulders. She had an unintentional day off, a rare thing and, after emailing her lecturer at the Sorbonne, she sat with her leg up as she scrolled through her iPad for some way out of her dilemma. She needed a date for the weekend and frankly she was desperate. There was no one in college she wanted to ask, for no other reason than she didn’t want to lead them on. And she wasn’t into relationships, she never had been.

  As an only child brought up by a string of nannies before being offloaded to boarding school, she’d learnt not to trust anyone but herself. There’d been that brief fling her first year in university with Paul, which had ended in disaster and, at the grand old age of nineteen, she’d decided she wasn’t girlfriend material. If she couldn’t trust herself to pick a decent partner from the millions out there, then she was better off by herself. But that didn’t help her now.

  Half an hour later found her throwing her iPad across the coffee table in disgust. She’d found several balding men coming to Paris for the weekend on business that she could hitch up with if extramarital sex was her thing. She’d even found a few prepared to marry her on the strength of her passport. But men she could present to her parents as a possible partner - no chance. Was it true all the eligible men were already taken? What a depressing thought.

  She only stirred at the sound of a thump on the door.

  He looked even bigger now she was in bare feet, bigger and more approachable standing as he was with his hands full of the largest bouquet of cream roses she’d ever seen. Her eyes widened, her lips pulling into a gentle smile as she wondered if he was married, in need of a passport or both.

  “How are you feeling? How’s the ankle?”

  She pulled out of her reverie with a jerk and, placing the flowers by the sink, waved a hand to the only chair as her manners kicked in. She wasn’t in the mood for company, male or female but she couldn’t very well throw him out after he’d rescued her and brought flowers too.

  “Oh much better. Thank you for...” A frown appeared as she settled herself on the sofa. “How did you..?”

  “Oh my men keep an eye on what’s happening. They spotted you hadn’t moved for a while and...”

  “And you came to my rescue. Well, thank you again.” Her eyes shifting to the flowers, “and for the roses, they’re beautiful.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Her forehead wrinkled as she watched him move to sit beside her, lifting her leg on to his lap as if it was made of china. She didn’t know what he was playing at but the weight of his hand on her leg as he examined her ankle was certainly playing havoc with her insides.

  “It’s better, yes?” His eyes meeting hers.

  “Much, thank you. I must have twisted it when...”

  “When?” He interrupted.

  “I like to feed the birds.” She raised her chin a little in case he thought her childish, but he only smiled.

  “So do I.”

  “Sarah.”

  “Pascal.” Their voices ringing out in unison.

  “You first.”

  She’d only been going to offer him a drink anyway. Instead she scooped up her hair, allowing it to tumble over her shoulder. She always played with her hair when she was nervous and she’d never felt as nervous as she did now. She could count on one hand the number of times she’d been alone with a man and Pascal wasn’t any man; he was her dream man.

  Nestling back into the sofa she allowed her thoughts to admit what they’d been screaming out for the last three weeks. She fancied him rotten and, as he was here he must at least like her a little, maybe more than a little as she remembered the roses. Builders didn’t get paid well, even senior ones. What had he called them again?

  My men.

  If he was the boss, he’d still be on a pittance compared to someone like Rupert, for example. Her lip curled at the unwelcome intrusion of Rupert who was something high in banking. She’d much prefer a man high up on scaffolding with muscles rippling in the heat, even if he probably couldn’t afford a suit let alone a single rose. There were an awful lot of roses, her eyes flickering over to where she’d propped them up against the washing-up bowl.

  He lowered her leg to rest back down, his hand still resting on her calf. But she had the funny feeling he wasn’t aware of what he was doing, something she was sure of when his gaze finally landed on hers.

  “I’d like to take you out to dinner when your leg’s better, perhaps at the weekend?”

  Her hand automatically reached up to twist the end of her hair as she considered her reply. This felt right somehow. His long tapering fingers circling the sole of her foot, his skin surprisingly smooth for someone used to working with their hands. But would it be right, him crammed in a shirt and tie trying to make small talk across the table? There was a wealth of difference having this sexy man rescue her like some damsel in a Richard Gere movie and having him make small talk with her parents. They’d want to know what he did and be awfully polite when they realised he was one of those grubby commoners they’d heard talk of.

  Here she was desperate for a date at the weekend, more than desperate and here one turns up on her doorstep, even if he had decided to take the door apart first. She should jump at the chance being as he was the only one offering. He was good looking and suave in that sexy way only French men could be. He didn’t look married either, which was always a plus, her gaze hovering over his left hand. He probably had a girl in every port, or should that be on every rooftop? But as it was only for dinner that shouldn’t be a problem, should it?

  She bit on her lower lip, well aware he was still staring at her while he waited for her answer. She could always make something up for her parents benefit, something to do with cultural differences if he did something mega embarrassing like slurp his soup, but first she needed to ask him something.

  “Why?”

  “Why not?”

  “But I don’t even know you?” Her head tilted away, her eyes now focussed on the building across the street, his building.

  “So what do you want to know, Sarah? My age? My bank balance? My shoe size?” His voice hiding anger within its folds. “All I need to know is that I’ve wanted to kiss you for weeks, ever since I first saw you hauling all those cases out of the taxi.”

  His intense honeycomb coloured eyes imprisoned her to the sofa with a power she was helpless to resist, with a power she didn’t want to resist. She wanted nothing more right now than the pressure of his lips against hers and yet all those things, all those other things, whilst not important to her were important to her parents; apart from the shoe size that is.

  She shouldn’t have opened the door to him and she certainly shouldn’t have invited him in although, with the chain still in a pile on the table, she’d had little choice.

  He lifted a hand and, cradling her chin, moved his head a little closer. She knew he was about to kiss her and there was nothing she could do to stop him except perhaps ask him not to.

  With her pulse exploding in her ears, she felt her desire to do anything other than lift her lips to his overtake any last vestige of common sense. S
he wanted those lips to plunder hers and yet she couldn’t allow that to happen.

  Dragging her gaze away was difficult but not impossible as the image of Paul and what he’d done to her imprinted itself on her brain, and this was no Paul. This was some crummy builder with too much sex appeal for his own good. Her anger flared to match his as she remembered how damaging Paul’s little stunt had been. There was no way she would allow herself get into that position again.

  “And what if I said I wanted you to leave?”

  His eyes flickered from her parted lips to her t-shirt and the way it strained against her breasts before returning to her face. “I’d say you’re a liar.”

  He released her chin, his gaze never leaving hers. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.” He ran his hand through his hair with a rueful grin. “You must have your reasons…”

  She couldn’t believe how bereft she was at the loss. She’d been psyching herself up for the kiss of all kisses only for him to turn all honourable on her. This man was a complete enigma, but if it was a competition, he’d just passed the first test with glowing colours. The only problem was she was pretty sure what the prize was going to be.

  Struggling to her feet was difficult but she managed, one hand clinging on to the side of the sofa, all the time aware of his amber gaze following her every movement.