The Devil's Own Chloe (Bistro La Bohème Series)

by Alix Nichols

  When I return to the kitchen, I finally glance at Hugo, who hasn’t said a word while I bustled about. He’s leaning against the wall and watching me in all his Herculean glory.

  “Ready to explain?” I ask, motioning to the balcony.

  He nods. “But before I do, I have a message to relay. My parents would like to invite you to their thirtieth wedding anniversary next Saturday.”

  “That’s very kind of them, but I—”

  “They won’t take no for an answer.”

  “I’m flattered, I really am, but… I haven’t been in touch with your mom and dad since I left Nîmes.”

  He grins. “This isn’t an altruistic gesture. Now that they’ve made peace with my change of career, they want to ingratiate themselves with my new boss.”

  I arch an eyebrow at “boss.”

  “Business partner,” he corrects himself. “Please say you’ll come. It means a lot to them.”

  I doubt that.

  Hugo’s mom and dad have always been kind to me, but I really don’t think my presence at their anniversary would mean a lot to them. My dear boy, we both know whose idea this invitation is and who won’t take no for an answer.

  Oh well, I do owe Claire and Charles a visit, so if I’m to travel south it may as well be next weekend. I’ll spend Friday night and most of Saturday with Claire, stop by the Bonnets’ party to wish them thirty more happy years, and then go over to Marseille on Sunday to visit Charles.

  “OK,” I say. “Please tell Yvette and Hervé I’ll be there.”

  We step through the French window and sit down on the cushions, tailor style. I pick up a green macaron from the box. It could be pistachio or green tea, and I love both flavors, so it’s a smart choice. As I bite into it, the delicate cookie crumbles and melts in my mouth, coating my taste buds in its heavenly essence.

  Pistachio.

  Yum.

  Hugo sips his coffee, his gaze traveling across the roofs around us. The view is particularly impressive this time of day when slanting sunrays permeate nearly every roofing material, deepening its color. Only steel sheets bounce the rays in dazzling bouquets of light.

  I’m suddenly filled with a ridiculous sense of pride as if Hugo were admiring a canvas I’d painted. Which reminds me that I should show him Diane’s photographs of these roofs. They’re not just beautiful—they’re poetic.

  He’ll love them.

  I point to the roofscape. “The advantage of living in an ugly modern high-rise in Paris is that you can enjoy this view.”

  He nods and points to my plants. “So this is your secret garden?”

  “You could say that, yes.” I pick up a vanilla macaron recognizable by its telltale black dots. “I come here to read or just do nothing. It’s my happy place.”

  “I envy you a little,” he says. “I’ve never learned to feel happy on my own.”

  Oh you would, buddy, if that meant saving lives!

  “Where there’s will, there’s a way.” I say in a preachifying tone, patting his upper arm. “Your happiness is in your hands.”

  “Right.” He attempts to stifle a smile, but his lips won’t cooperate. They never do when something cracks him up. “Now that you mention the hands, I realize I am capable of solo happiness when I apply them to my…”

  He looks down at his fly.

  “Oh, please!” I roll my eyes, suppressing the laugh that ripples in my chest.

  “I’m sorry.” He schools his features into a serious expression. “Tell me about the roofs. Those two are zinc, right?”

  I nod. “As are most Paris roofs, thanks to Napoleon’s architects. They were far from stupid, by the way. Zinc is cheap, resistant, waterproof, and easy to fold and cut.”

  “I know.” He gives me a wink. “I’ve tried.”

  I point to a steep roof with dormer windows. “This one is slate. Beautiful, don’t you think?”

  He studies the slate roof for a moment. “A friend of mine lives in an attic apartment like that one. I avoid hanging at his place in summer.”

  “He should hire us to redo his ceiling insulation.”

  “I’ve told him the same thing.” He shrugs. “But his landlord has other priorities.”

  “Landlords!” I sigh. “Anyway, slate is my favorite roofing material. In case you were wondering.”

  “Note taken.” He picks up a chocolate macaron. “Mine is red tile, like on that crooked house to the right.” He beams, pointing his chin to the house. “In case you were wondering.”

  For a moment, I just drink in that toothy, disarming smile of his and then watch him eat his macaron, his eyes shut with pleasure.

  When he opens them and looks at me, I wake up from my trance, remembering that we’re having a conversation and it’s my turn to say something.

  Right.

  “It’s the oldest building in this neighborhood,” I say. “A survivor of Haussmann’s ambition.”

  “And the green roof behind it?”

  “Copper.”

  He nods. “I thought so.”

  I reach for another macaron, but Hugo catches my hand in his.

  Stay calm, Chloe.

  Slowly, I lift my eyes and give him a questioning look.

  “I’m going to deliver my apology now,” he says. “So I need some moral support.”

  Cheeky bastard.

  I consider withdrawing my hand, but then I change my mind. There’s no harm in letting him hold it for a few moments. I’m just being friendly here. The exquisite pleasure of his touch has nothing to do with it, obviously.

  Hugo focuses on the macarons as if counting them.

  “So?” I ask after a long moment. “Let’s hear it.”

  He lifts his eyes from the box. “I’m sorry for not calling your bluff.”

  I blink. “Huh?”

  “That night in the basement, remember how you said you didn’t want me?”

  I nod.

  “It’s bullshit, Chloe.” His gaze drills into mine, defiant. “I don’t believe you.”

  I’m too dumbfounded to speak.

  His lips curl. “Your bluff may have worked when we were sixteen, but not at twenty-five.”

  “What the—”

  “Chloe.” He sounds like a parent reasoning with a child. “I’m not a highbrow, but I’m not a half-wit either. And even if I were, I still would’ve ended up noticing how you check me out every time you think I’m not looking. And how you touch my arm all the time. It’s been going on for a year.”

  “I… You…” My mouth opens and shuts unproductively as I rack my brain for a good riposte.

  He grins. “You want me, pichune. You want me really bad, and you know it.”

  Incendiary, sarcastic words finally roll out of my brain—only to get stuck in my mouth, crowding and jostling one another. My lips just won’t open up to let them out.

  He gives my hand a squeeze. “And now you know that I know it, too.”

  I let out a deep sigh—and give up. I should have objected earlier, cut him off midsentence or stormed out instead of just staring at him like an idiot. Blanket denial at this point it would be an insult to his intelligence. It might put an end to our friendship. And to his presence in my life.

  I look down, completely at a loss for words.

  “Will you tell me what the real reason is?” he asks softly. “For old times’ sake, can you be honest and tell me why you’re denying us something we both want?”

  Should I?

  Can I tell him what I haven’t told anyone? Should I share my deepest, darkest secret? I can only imagine the relief unburdening myself would bring.

  I crave that relief.

  Oh, what the hell.

  And just like that, I tell him about my Midas touch—all of it, in every painful detail. All those tragedies because of me. All those good people punished for getting closer to me than was safe for them, and for caring more than I deserved.

  As I speak, I try to keep my tone neutral as if I was recounting a movi
e and not pulling out a disjointed skeleton from my closet and reassembling it bone by bone.

  Hugo says nothing, just stares at me with his brows bunched up.

  When there’s nothing more to say, I stop and stare back.

  He smiles.

  Does he think it’s funny?

  Oh, crap. Telling him was such a mistake!

  I lift my chin. “You think I’m crazy?”

  “Of course not.” He sounds sincere.

  “Then why are you smiling?”

  “Relief.” He eyes me for a moment, greedy. “I’m just immensely relieved it’s not what I expected.”

  “What did you expect?”

  He shrugs. “The classic scenario. You’re seeing someone, he’s married, so it’s hush-hush, but you love him, and he’ll get a divorce… one day. That sort of thing.”

  “Oh.”

  “So, yeah, I’m relieved. And no, I don’t think you’re crazy, pichune.” He touches my cheek. “With all the shit you’ve been through, I can totally see how you’d think you’re cursed.”

  I narrow my eyes. “But?”

  It’s tempting to lean my head into his palm, but I pull back instead.

  He shifts slightly. “There’s no but.”

  “Your eyes are screaming there’s a but.”

  He hesitates.

  Oh, come on, for heaven’s sake!

  I could tell him I already know what his but is about. He doesn’t believe in curses. Because what sensible person would, right?

  Hugo takes a deep breath. “OK, here’s the but. You’re too cocksure to believe I’ll fall in love with you as soon as we have sex.”

  My mouth falls open.

  He laughs.

  As always, his laughter is too contagious not to smile back. “You won’t?”

  He shakes his head. “Nope.”

  “You sure?”

  He bends his head in a slow, confident nod and begins to stroke my hand that he never let go of. My brain launches into the now familiar liquefying process. Hugo’s thumb joins in the sweet torture, drawing delicious little circles on the heel of my palm.

  So good.

  It gets even better when he slides his thumb to my wrist, rubbing softly.

  I want to say, OK, let’s do it—if you’re sure you’ll be safe.

  But what if he’s wrong? What if he does fall in love?

  I yank my hand from his grip and stand up. “I need a moment to think.”

  “OK,” he says.

  I nod and almost run to the bathroom, where I lock the door behind me.

  OK, let’s think. Could this work? Could he be right? Can I allow myself the pleasure of intimacy with him without jeopardizing his life? Maybe, just this once, the universe will grant me a few moments of happiness, no strings attached. No price tag, no retribution. Maybe I will get a reprieve, a chance to create a few beautiful memories to hold on to when the darkness catches up… Can I take that risk?

  A gentle clutter of china reaches my ears. Hugo must have brought the tray with our empty cups into the kitchen. Then I hear the sound of running water. I picture him setting the tray on the worktop, picking up the delicate cups with his large, long-fingered, agile hands and rinsing them under the faucet. I picture the rippling muscles on his arms, his broad chest, and his soft full lips.

  And I realize that this “thinking” I’m doing is a euphemism for delaying the inevitable. My decision is made. I’m going to sleep with Hugo, regardless of the consequences. It can’t be helped. All I can do is hope and pray that when we’re done, he won’t have to foot the bill.

  I march into the kitchen.

  He turns off the water and gives me an expectant look.

  “It’ll be short-lived,” I say.

  “OK.”

  “We’ll stop when I determine it’s time to stop.”

  “OK.”

  “If you begin to develop feelings, you’ll report them to me immediately.”

  “Yes, boss!” He claps his hand to his forehead in mock frustration. “Dammit! I mean, partner.”

  I give him a long, searching look and walk to him just as he moves toward me. We halt in the middle of the room, almost touching.

  He takes my hands in his without lifting them. We stay in that delicious anticipation, suspended in space and time, for a long moment. Our fingers are intertwined as desire grows and snowballs, filling the space between us.

  Hugo eats me up with his eyes, which have grown several shades darker.

  My heart hammers against my chest. I pull one hand away and start walking toward the bedroom.

  He follows, his grip tight on my other hand.

  A sense of inexorability comes over me. It’s strangely soothing, even though a part of me still wonders what’s at work here—my curse or just dumb randomness. But then I tell myself it doesn’t matter.

  Whatever it is, there’s no turning back.

  * * *

  Thirteen

  In the bedroom, we spend a moment just holding hands and staring at each other.

  Hugo’s gaze zeros in on my lips.

  I wonder if he’s going to kiss me. I can’t wait for him to kiss me.

  But instead, he lets go of my hands and pulls his sweater, along with his tee, over his head.

  My mouth waters at the sight of his tanned torso. It’s all chiseled muscle and smooth skin with a dusting of freckles across his shoulders and a scatter of hairs over his pecs. The hair trails down to his navel and disappears under the waistband of his jeans.

  My heart stops and then pounds like crazy.

  What’s happening to me?

  Hugo is not supposed to be my type. I’m not supposed to be into large, powerfully built men.

  So why, then, am I leering?

  With my eyes trained on his chest, I remove my sweater and bra faster than he can say, “Take off your sweater and bra, sweetheart.”

  He doesn’t say that, of course. Instead, he takes off his shoes and socks and draws the zipper of his jeans down.

  As if playing a game of Who Gets Naked First, I peel off my jeans and panties. My gaze is glued to his fly.

  He lets his jeans and underwear pool on the floor.

  Oh my!

  He’s large.

  I can’t believe this is happening. What’s even harder to believe is how much I want him to make love to me. But an equally strong need offsets my eagerness. I’d like to slow down the time so I can savor every second of this evening. I want to etch it into my memory.

  Our first time together.

  Hugo’s breathing picks up and he takes a step toward me. In a wink, his palm spreads across the small of my back. It’s big. It’s hot. I nearly whimper. He pulls me closer, and desire shoots from my groin, seeping into my mind and enveloping my brain in a thick lustful cloud of fog.

  But I battle it, the cerebral creature that I am. I try to guess what kind of lover Hugo is. Will he be gentle with me or rough or both? Will he draw out the foreplay into a boring mechanical show of prowess like so many misguided men do? Or will be plunge into me the moment we hit the mattress? Perhaps even before we hit the mattress—

  Hugo bends his head toward me, and his lips part. His warm breath fans against my face. He smells scrumptious.

  How come I never noticed how good he smells?

  Because I never let him this close.

  His hand on my back brings me closer still until we’re skin to skin, his groin against my belly.

  My skin prickles. Desire makes me tremble. My heart hammers with an ardor I’ve never experienced before. I give in to it gladly, completely. The fog in my head swaddles my brain, permeating every cell and taking charge of my body. When Hugo’s free hand lands on my nape, firm and gentle at the same time, my legs begin to quake. His gaze roams my face. I stare at his lips as I wet mine. Something molten flickers in his eyes, and the next moment he slants his mouth on mine.

  I open up greedily.

  His tongue explores my mouth, strokes my tongue, and m
akes me dizzy with pleasure. I kiss back, tasting him, drinking him in, and I rub his back and knead his butt.

  Hugo draws away ever so slightly and slides his hand down my belly. I stand on tiptoe and push myself into his hand. He strums me with his fingers, exploring me, learning me, as I sigh and moan. And then he uses his newfound knowledge to make me moan harder.

  I glide my hand over his hips to his front and wrap my fingers around him. A moment later, my internal muscles spasm softly and I come. It’s a small, no-fireworks—not even a firecracker-strength—orgasm that would normally require a lot more time and effort to wring from my body. Over the years I’ve learned not to expect more as this seems to be the only kind of release I’m capable of.

  Hugo withdraws his fingers and lowers us to the bed.

  I fumble for a condom on my night table.

  There.

  My hands tremble with giddy anticipation as I pull it on him.

  When I’m done, he braces himself on his outstretched arms, his hips wedged between my legs. I marvel at all that heavy muscle and restrained strength, at the sheer size of his body—so much larger, so much harder than mine. I’ve never been with someone like him. His size should intimidate me, feel like a threat, but instead it turns me on.

  All our contrasts turn me on.

  How can this be? How can a dyed-in-the-wool Loki girl feel this way about a Thor? Either I just spontaneously mutated or I’ve been feeding myself a big, fat lie.

  One of many?

  I’ll think about this later.

  Gripping the back of his head, I pull him to me, closer, closer, until his cheek touches my stiff nipples. I want more contact. I want to feel his weight, his strength. My mind is overwhelmed by a primal, cavewomanly need to be enclosed within that strength. To be overpowered and conquered with it. And then serviced by it.

  But Hugo balks.

  Could he be afraid of hurting me?

  “Come here,” I say, tugging at his neck without any tangible result.

  He smiles apologetically. “I’m too heavy.”

  “You’re silly.” I hope he doesn’t expect me to beg. Because it’s not gonna happen. “You won’t hurt me, I promise.”

  He doesn’t budge.

  OK, I’ll beg. “Please, Hugo. I need you closer.”