by T L Swan
“Hey,” he says.
I keep my face to the side as I pant. Tears threaten.
I’m completely overwhelmed.
“Anderson.”
I drag my eyes back to him. I like it when he calls me that; it’s playful and mindless . . . not deep and emotional, like how I’m feeling. His eyes hold mine for a moment, and as if reading my mind and knowing exactly what I need in this moment, he says, “You fuck all right for an old duck.”
That was the most unexpected thing I have ever heard. I smirk, then smile, and then break into a chuckle. Oh Lord. This man kills me. I laugh out loud as I stare up at the ceiling. “Only you.”
Unable to hold himself up any longer, he falls on top of me, and he laughs too.
He pulls out of me and kisses me once more and then hops up and goes to the bathroom.
My body is still throbbing from the pounding he has just given it, and I still feel like I’m teetering on the edge of insanity. I lie in the dark, still panting, as a myriad of emotions run through me. I’m sated and full and lethargic, and a strange twinge of fear loiters in the dark corner of my mind. I push it away as fast as I can.
He reappears from the kitchenette in my room and hands me a glass of water. “Here you are.”
I sit up on my elbow and take it. “Thanks.”
“Well, your voice is hoarse from moaning ‘Tristan’ all night.” He shrugs casually. “It’s the least I could do.”
I giggle. “Feeling proud of yourself?”
He puts his hands on his hips and puffs his chest out. He’s soft now and completely natural, but just as beautiful. “Ten feet tall, actually.”
I smile up at him and tap the bed next to me. This man is so unexpected; it’s like he’s two different people. He’s hard on the exterior for the world to see, but as soon as he got naked with me, it was like a different side of him appeared. This Tristan is a lot more appealing, and I wonder how many people get to see this part of his personality. “You should be; I’m very impressed.”
He gets into bed beside me and pulls me into his arms, and I put my head on his chest. “And before you kick me out in two hours,” he says, “I have the morning off, so I’m staying in this bed until everyone has already left for the conference, and then I will leave.” He kisses my temple.
“But if you’re still here,” I whisper, “how will I sneak in my other conference lover for a prebreakfast nooky?”
He reaches down and twists my nipple hard. “Shut up, or I’m going to fuck you into a coma.”
I burst out laughing as I try to escape his grip. “You already did that.”
“I’m going to do it again.”
The group laughs at something the lecturer says as he walks around the room.
It’s three o’clock in the afternoon, and I hate to admit it, but Marley was right: this conference was exactly what I needed. I feel refreshed and energized, and of course, that could have a lot to do with the nocturnal company I’m keeping, but whatever it is, it’s worked.
I’ve achieved what we set out to find—a clean and uncluttered mind. Ready to focus and tackle the next six months. I’m even considering signing up for next year’s conference as an early bird to get the pricing discount.
“Hello.” Tristan’s voice comes from the side of the room. In surprise we all turn toward him.
He’s wearing a light-blue suit, a white shirt with a paisley tie, and expensive brown shoes, and his hair is perfectly styled.
I want to beam a big smile at him, but I pretend not to care.
“Mr. Miles,” the lecturer says in greeting.
“Sorry to interrupt; I just came to say goodbye,” he replies, addressing the group.
I glance toward the door and see his black leather suitcase and suit bag waiting for him.
What?
He’s leaving?
He walks to the center of the room. “I have an unexpected meeting in Paris that I have to attend, so this is it from me. My flight leaves in a few hours. I’m on my way to the airport.” He smiles as he looks around at everyone.
What?
“Congratulations on what you have all achieved this week,” he continues. “You should be very proud of yourself for putting yourself out there and attending this conference. Success doesn’t just happen; it is a mind-set. And I urge you to put into practice what you have learned and stop and take the time to celebrate the small victories along the way.” He puts his hands in his suit pockets, and he walks across the stage. “You only get one life. So you need to grab it with both hands.”
His eyes scan everyone in the room as he addresses us, and I wait for them to come my way.
Look at me.
“Put your hands together for Tristan Miles,” the lecturer says. “He’s a very busy man, and for him to donate a week of his time is almost unheard of in the corporate world. Thank you, Mr. Miles.”
Everyone claps, and he does a demure bow. My heart begins to race into a panic. He’s going.
Look at me.
He holds his hands up and claps with the crowd and then turns toward the door and takes his suitcase. After one last wave, he leaves without looking back. I stare at the door he has just left through. Not even a goodbye?
I drop my head.
Fuck.
I know that I should have expected this from him. I knew he was a cold, soul-sucking jerk, and yet somehow I’d convinced myself that I was wrong about him.
Seems not.
“Let’s discuss the theory that was bought up this morning, shall we?” the lecturer calls.
I want to run out there and tell him off for being so insensitive.
But I won’t. My dignity will not allow it.
Like a slap in the face, I’m instantly reminded of who Tristan really is and why I’ve kept him at arm’s length. I knew this about him; I knew all along he was a cold womanizer, but for some reason my mind didn’t reconcile it with the man I’ve slept with.
It doesn’t make me feel any better about last night.
I turn my attention to the window and stare outside at the trees blowing in the wind.
I feel . . . like a number, decidedly cheap.
It’s ten o’clock before I head back to my room. I trudge up the corridor. My feet are sore, and I am looking forward to a long hot shower. We went for a drink after the day’s events, and that turned into dinner. They’re all still going, but I’m not really in the mood.
Welcome to the world of casual sex, Claire, where the only rule is there are no rules. I swipe my key and walk into my room and frown. A huge bunch of red roses sits on the table, a small white card carefully pinned on the red ribbon.
ANDERSON
My heart races as I read—it’s from him.
I nervously open the card.
WE HAVE UNFINISHED BUSINESS.
COME TO PARIS FOR THE WEEKEND.
xoxoxox
“What?” I whisper.
I plop down on the bed and stare at the card in my hand.
This is not what I was expecting at all. After mentally throwing daggers at him all day, this is a huge surprise. I read the card again as I consider his proposal.
I can’t go to fucking Paris. I have to get home to the kids.
I get a vision of spending three days in a city I’ve always dreamed of visiting . . . alone with him . . . it could be so fun.
Damn it . . . I want to go.
I just can’t. Stop it, Claire; it is what it is.
I exhale heavily and make myself a cup of tea.
My phone beeps with a text. It’s from Tristan.
Are you back in your room yet?
I smile softly and put the phone down on the coffee table. He’s expecting me to call him to say thank you. I go to the flowers and stare at them. I touch the petals—the flowers have huge heads and a strong perfume. French roses. I inhale the beautiful scent.
So unexpected.
Well played, Mr. Miles. Well played.
I decide to check on th
e kids, and I call my mother. “Hello, dear.” I can hear her smile down the phone.
“Hi, Mom. How are you surviving?”
“Oh, we’re having a great time. How are you?”
“Good.” I pace back and forth. I am filled with nervous energy. “Are the kids home?”
“No, they’re all at sports training. They’ve been angels.”
“Listen, Mom.” My eyes close. What the hell am I doing? “I’ve been offered an extension conference in Paris for the weekend.” I scrunch my hand up in my hair. “But I don’t think I’ll go,” I add.
“Why not?”
“It’s a bit much to ask of you.”
“Oh no. Go, honey. The boys and I are having a great time. It’s no difference to me when you get home.”
“Really?” I frown.
“Yes, I’m loving the quality time I’m getting with the boys. Let off some steam and have some fun, Claire. If anyone deserves it, it’s you.”
“But what about Patrick? He’ll be fretting.”
“He’s fine and happy, Claire, and, I hate to say it, not missing you at all.”
I smile as hope blooms in my chest. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Oh.” I pause as my mind wanders off on a million tangents. “I’ll think about it. I’ll let you know tomorrow; is that okay?”
“Of course. It must be late there. Get some sleep, and call me tomorrow. But I say go for it. Paris is beautiful, and you’ve never been.”
“Maybe.” I shrug.
“Goodbye.” She hangs up.
In a daze I walk into the bathroom and run the hot water. I need a hot bath to think about this.
An hour later I sit forward and turn the tap off once more. I fill the bath up, let it cool down, let some water out, and repeat the process. My mind is ticking at a million miles per minute.
Tristan is a soul-sucking bastard who left without even a goodbye.
But then . . . he sent roses.
But I don’t want roses, because that’s not who we are . . . but maybe he was just being nice because he couldn’t say goodbye properly?
He’s a bastard . . . but he’s a fun bastard. Or maybe that was just an act, and I fell for it hook, line, and sinker.
Oh God, I’m so confused.
If I go to Paris, I’m guaranteed laughter and fun.
If I don’t go, there’s no chance of me getting attached to him.
He’s a player. He probably has ten girlfriends. He is not the kind of man you get attached to.
But he’s so fun.
Over the last two nights we have laughed and laughed, and it felt good, even if I knew it was only temporary—just in that moment, it felt really good.
There’s absolutely no chance of a future or anything; I already know that. We’re from two different worlds.
Am I okay to spend a weekend with someone knowing that? I think on it for a moment.
I’ve had enough heartache. Maybe it’s time to throw caution to the wind. Maybe it’s time to just . . . no, it’s just safer not to go. I mean, what’s the point?
Why prolong what was only a one-night thing? We already extended it to two nights. That’s enough.
My phone rings, and the name Tristan lights up the screen. Oh fuck.
I close my eyes and answer. “Hello.”
“Anderson.”
A broad smile crosses my face just at the sound of his voice. “What do you want?” I tease.
He chuckles. “I’m calling to see if you got my gift in your room.”
“Oh.” I smirk. “I haven’t; I’m in Nelson’s room.”
“What the fuck? You better not be.” It’s loud where he is, like a bar or something.
I giggle. “They’re lovely.”
“So?” he asks.
“So what?”
“Come to Paris. Spend the weekend with me.”
I stay silent.
“It’s one of my favorite cities. I can show you around. We can go sightseeing.”
“I thought you were working?”
“Only tomorrow morning.” I hear ice tumble into a glass.
“Where are you?” I ask.
“At the hotel bar.”
“Trolling for your next victim?” I tease.
“Nobody here has what I want.”
I bite my lip as I listen to him.
“You have what I want, Claire.”
“You’re not going to get all sentimental and needy on me, are you?”
“I don’t do sentimental and needy.” He chuckles. “Down and dirty is more my thing.”
I smile goofily. “I don’t know if I can change my flights.”
“I’ll organize our jet to pick you up.”
“You have a plane?” I frown.
“Company plane.”
I stay silent as I think.
“Well?”
“Thank you for the roses,” I whisper to change the subject.
“That’s okay. They were being thrown out from reception, and I didn’t want to waste them. My good deed for the day.”
I smile at his appalling lie.
“Come on, Anderson; don’t make me beg.”
“Fine.”
“Fine . . . as in it’s a chore?” He scoffs. “At least act enthusiastic.”
“I can’t wait to spend the weekend underneath you, Mr. Miles.”
He laughs out loud. “That a girl. I’ll call you tomorrow with the flight times.”
“Okay.”
“Oh . . . and, Claire,” he says, as if it’s an afterthought.
“Yes.”
“Do your Kegel exercises tonight. I want that pussy nice and tight.”
I burst out laughing. “You are an idiot.”
“Takes one to know one.”
“Goodbye, Tristan.” I smile.
The phone goes dead.
I throw my phone onto the stack of towels and put my hands over my mouth.
I was supposed to say no.
Oh jeez, that did not go to plan.
Chapter 7
The plane pulls up to a slow halt on the tarmac at the Paris airport, and my nerves are at an all-time high. I already know that this is the stupidest thing I have ever done, and I haven’t even done it yet.
Anastacia, the flight attendant, smiles warmly. “I hope you had a good flight?”
“Yes. I did, thank you.”
I look around to see if I’ve left anything. The plane is, in one word, ridiculous. Luxurious on all fronts, and if I had forgotten for one moment who Tristan is, I have been promptly reminded.
A Miles.
Heir to the most successful media empire and from one of the wealthiest families in the world.
And a week ago . . . I hated his guts . . . and maybe I still do.
But there’s something about him that makes me want more.
I feel foolish being here. All it took was a few jokes and a little pity, and I fell into his arms and did the unthinkable. If I wanted a future with him, I would leave and play a little hard to get.
But I don’t.
I know what this is—one weekend away from routine, a sleazy conference encounter. And that’s okay with me. The reality of the situation is actually more than fine.
It’s a relief.
I don’t have to impress him, I don’t have to believe anything he says, and I most definitely don’t have to pretend to be someone I’m not.
He’s fun and comfortable, and surprisingly he fits like an old shoe. His sexual prowess is just an added bonus.
My stomach drops as a wave of guilt runs through me for being here, for being sexually active with another man.
For loving every hard inch of him and then craving more.
It was supposed to be just one night.
I think back to what Marley said to me before I left. Shouldn’t I be living life for Wade and me?
If it were me who’d died, I would never want Wade to be untouched and unhappy.
I wou
ld want him to be happy and fulfilled as a man.
After we go home to New York on Sunday night, Tristan and I will never see each other again, and I can go home reinvigorated with enough sex in the tank to last me another five years. To be honest, I’m kind of proud that I’m doing something for myself for once.
This is so unlike me.
“The car is waiting for you, Mrs. Anderson,” Anastacia says.
“Thank you.” I walk down the stairs and out onto the tarmac. A black car is waiting.
The driver smiles and opens the car door. “Merci,” I say as I get in.
He goes around to the driver’s side, gets in, and pulls out.
Tristan called earlier, and he couldn’t pick me up because his meeting ran late. He’s meeting me at the hotel. I smile as I think back to taking his call when I was sitting with his groupies, and none of them had any idea that he and I had hooked up.
It all feels so naughty.
So not who I am.
I clutch my handbag on my lap with white-knuckle force. My breath quivers as I try to calm myself down.
This is the craziest, most spontaneous thing I’ve ever done.
Half an hour later we pull into the hotel, and I peer out the window at the sign.
FOUR SEASONS HOTEL GEORGE V
Jeez, looks fancy.
“Arrived safely.” The driver smiles over at me.
I take my purse from my bag.
“No, no, it’s all taken care of,” he says as he gets out of the car. He retrieves my suitcase from the trunk and wheels it up to the doorman. He introduces me. “Mrs. Anderson.”
The man in a white doorman uniform smiles and nods. “This way, Mrs. Anderson,” he says.
“Merci,” I say to my driver as he returns to his car.
“Au revoir,” he calls.
The man leads me to the reception desk, and I look around. Everything is beige marble, and big exotic artwork lines the walls.
Huge vases of pink fresh flowers are everywhere, and I mean everywhere. It looks like an over-the-top wedding venue.
“May I help you?” the lady at reception asks.
“Yes. I’m here to see Tristan Miles.” I clutch my bag.
She types into her computer. “Your name, please?”
“Claire Anderson.”
“Yes,” she replies. “He’s expecting you. Do you have identification, please?”
