“Garrett Richardson, this is Kellen Bryant,” said the editor. Kellen held out her hand, and the man took it.
“Enchanté, mademoiselle,” he said, smiling.
"Enchanté, m’sieur.” Kellen smiled back.
“My god, can we drop the French? My brain is too tired tonight,” the editor said with a sigh. “Besides, Kellen’s American, Garrett.”
The stranger looked at Kellen with surprise.
“She writes our People column,” the editor went on. “So watch what you say around her. She’s very good. I treat her like Casey Stengel treats his twenty-game winners.”
The editor’s eyes darted across the room. “You’ll have to excuse me for a moment. Oh, Kellen, Garrett speaks English, too. He’s British. His father is Arthur Richardson, the owner of the London Sun. I’m sure that will give you two something to talk about.”
The editor left. Kellen glanced at Garrett Richardson. He was tall and wore a dinner jacket as if he had been born in it. His hair was black and wavy, and he wore it slightly long, over his collar. His features were sharp, with high cheekbones and a thin nose, but he had a generous mouth and dark blue eyes.
“I believe we’ve met already,” he said. “In a cafe. You were reading McLuhan. I thought you were French.”
“Why did you think that?” she asked.
“Because I thought you were quite pretty. And a bit rude.”
“Parisians are not all rude, Mr. Richardson. That’s a tourist cliché. The people here are no ruder than in New York, or London for that matter. I just don’t like being bothered by strangers.”
“I had no intention of bothering you. I simply needed a chair.”
They were silent, both staring around the room. A waiter passed by and Garrett took two glasses of champagne.
“Look, we’ve gotten off to a bad start,” he said, holding out a glass to her. "I’m sorry if I seemed intrusive at the cafe this morning.”
He was smiling, a warm, charming smile that made him look more approachable. Kellen took the glass and smiled.
“To cafes,” he said, holding up his glass. “In Paris, everything starts in a cafe.”
“That’s another tourist cliché.”
“Well, the funny thing about clichés is that they are usually true.”
Kellen sipped her drink. The bodies in the room pressed close, and the heat was lulling. She lifted her hair off her neck. She could feel Garrett Richardson’s eyes on her.
“So you write a gossip column,” he said. “That must be very interesting.”
“It is. I meet some intriguing people.”
“Really? Anyone intriguing in this priggish bunch?”
She looked at him. Brits could be so insufferably condescending, and when you got to know them they were timid bores.
“Oh, don’t let appearances fool you,” she said. “There are some real stories in this room. See that fellow over there? He’s a blacklisted Hollywood screenwriter who can’t get a passport to go home. That dumpy little man over there is a novelist who really works for the CIA.” She pointed to a distinguished-looking man wearing the Legion of Honor rosette. “And that gentleman is a diplomat who prowls the quay at night looking for young boys.” She smiled. “Does that shock you?”
“Not particularly.”
“Oh, that’s right. You’re used to shocking things. Your father owns that newspaper, the Sun. Isn’t that the one with all the scandals and nude women?”
“The Sun prints stories that people enjoy reading, Miss Bryant. You do the same in the States. You call them human interest stories, I believe.”
Kellen smiled. “Mr. Richardson, I’m familiar with the British tabloid press, and it’s nothing like the American press. We don’t pander to our readers’ lowest instincts.”
Garrett smiled back. “The Sun is an extremely profitable enterprise because of what you call pandering. And pandering is a very subjective thing. All newspapers pander to some extent to survive. The Herald-Tribune, for instance, is nothing but a specious small-town newspaper transplanted to Paris that panders to Americans who need to be assured that their dollar and sports teams are doing well.”
For a moment, Kellen thought of telling him that she was the daughter of Adam Bryant so he would realize she had real newspaper credentials. Anything to prick his balloon of self- righteousness. She decided against it.
“The Trib is a good newspaper,” she said.
“I didn’t say it wasn’t good at what it does. But one can’t take it seriously.”
“It’s good enough to cause the New York Times to start a competing edition.”
“Ah, yes, the battle of the boulevards. And neither side is winning.” Garrett finished his champagne. “Perhaps you should run pics of nude women.”
She looked at him and saw from his smile that he was teasing her. Her eyes dropped to his left hand holding the glass and she noticed he was not wearing a wedding band. Kellen glanced around the room. She could still feel his eyes on her. There was a long silence.
“It’s getting too hot in here,” Garrett said suddenly. “I’m leaving. Would you like to come?”
She looked at him. “Yes,” she said. She handed him her jacket. He draped it across her shoulders, lifting her hair out of the way. His fingers seemed to linger on her neck.
Outside, the air was warm, almost sultry. They walked along the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, each trying to keep the small talk going. It was near ten and the windows of the exclusive shops were dark. As they made their way along the narrow sidewalk, Garrett’s arm would occasionally brush Kellen’s. Each time, it would send a small current through her.
Despite the fact that she didn’t particularly like Garrett Richardson, she knew that she was attracted to him. She didn’t question the feeling; she had experienced it with other men she didn’t like. But the pull was never before so strong. It was as if she had known, from the moment she saw him in the cafe that morning that he would somehow fit into her life.
Even if it’s only for tonight, she thought.
They came to the Place de la Concorde. “Would you like a drink?” Garrett asked.
“Yes,” Kellen said.
“We could go to my hotel. The Crillon. It’s nearby.”
For the first time, Kellen felt a small pang of disappointment. She had met his kind before; seduction was a drink or two in an impressive hotel then upstairs for the quick and unimaginative denouement.
“I have a better idea,” she said.
They walked toward the river. At the quay, Kellen led Garrett down some stairs to a floating bar anchored near the bridge. It was a simple place, festooned with little white lights. They took a table outdoors.
“This is wonderful,” Garret said. “I haven’t had dinner. Are you by chance hungry?”
“Yes, a little.”
Garrett ordered a bottle of Chablis, bread and oysters, the only food the bar had to offer. The waiter brought a plate of enormous oysters. She tried one. It tasted fresh and salty, like the sea.
“These are fines de claires,” Garrett said, smiling. He ate one, closing his eyes in pleasure. “The working man’s oyster. Oyster snobs won’t touch them.”
Kellen smiled as she watched him devour the food. “You’re not a snob, I take it.”
“Absolutely not. I have a real talent for the baser things in life. That’s what makes me a good newspaperman.” He ate another oyster. “And I have a healthy appetite.”
Kellen sipped the Chablis. “Your French is perfect. Where did you learn it?”
“In school and then here. My mother’s family had a country place in Normandy. We came here often when I was a boy.” He went on to talk sketchily about his family. Kellen had heard of his father, Arthur Richardson. She knew that he had made his large fortune through a chain of tabloid newspapers in Great Britain, the largest being the hugely popular Sun.
“Tell me about yourself,” Garrett said as he poured out the last of the wine.
“The
re’s not much to tell,” Kellen said cautiously. “I grew up in California. San Francisco.”
“I’ve been there,” Garrett said. “A great town.”
Kellen told Garrett little, and lied about her father, saying that her parents were dead. She wasn’t sure why she did it. She told herself there was no point in complicating what she could see was rapidly moving toward just a brief sexual encounter.
“Why are you in Paris?” he asked.
She laughed. “For excitement. For fun. For romance. All the awful clichés. Isn’t that why everyone comes to Paris? I came for...”
Lost words from the past floated to her mind. “‘For a life that bums like a fabulous yellow roman candle exploding like a spider across the stars,’” she said.
Her thoughts drifted to Stephen, then back to the present. The wine was working its way through her body, nicely blurring the edges of reality. On both sides of the river, the city was quiet. The water lapped at the sides of the barge, and every so often the trees on the far bank were illuminated by the lights of passing cars.
Garrett’s eyes held hers. “This great, burning life, did you find it?” he asked.
“Yes...no. Not yet,” she said.
He took her hand and turned it over in his own as if carefully examining each line in her palm. She was aware suddenly of the pressure of his thigh against her own. He slowly brought her palm up to his lips. When he kissed it, she shut her eyes. She knew in that instant that she wanted him more than she had ever wanted any man. It had gone beyond physical attraction into something dark and irresistible.
“It’s late,” he said. “We’d better go.”
“Where?”
“We’ll get a taxi. I’ll take you home.”
She knew he wanted her. She could feel it. She had a sudden feeling that, after tonight, she would never see Garrett Richardson again, and she wanted to prolong the night as long as she could.
“No. Not yet,” she said. “Come with me...to a party.”
“Where?”
Kellen rose, smiling. “I don’t really know. My friend Nathalie only told me to come to the Place Denfert-Rochereau in Montparnasse. And to bring champagne and...oh hell, a flashlight. Where can we get one?”
“Well, I can take care of the champagne,” Garrett said. He had the waiter bring a bottle.
Kellen leaned over and blew out the candle on the table. “Here, hide this in your jacket.”
Garrett took the candle and stuck it in his pocket. He was smiling and shaking his head in bewilderment.
Kellen took his hand and pulled him to his feet. “Be brave, Mr. Richardson,” she said, smiling. “I promise you that this will be a night you’ll never forget.”
CHAPTER FORTY
It was nearly eleven by the time Kellen found Nathalie and her crowd gathered in the dark of the Place Denfert-Rochereau. Garrett watched as Kellen was embraced by the group, a multilingual clique of fashionably dressed young people. The warm night air was filled with wine-fueled laughter and the sweet scent of marijuana.
The troupe followed Nathalie down a dark and deserted side street. Kellen linked her arm through Garrett’s and they trailed along. Everyone paused, and two of the men reached down and pried open a manhole cover. There were suppressed giggles as Nathalie admonished everyone to be quiet. Garrett and Kellen watched in astonishment as, one by one, the party members disappeared down the manhole.
Then Nathalie kissed them both on the cheek and descended the iron ladder. Below, in the gloom, Kellen could see the crisscrossing rays of flashlights.
“A party in a bloody sewer?” Garrett laughed.
“It’s not a sewer,” Kellen said. “It’s the catacombs. Come on. It’ll be fun.”
They climbed down the ladder. Below, the air was moist and cool. It was pitch black. Kellen could hear Garrett breathing and reached for him.
“The candle,” she said.
He retrieved it and took a match from his jacket. He lit the candle, and his face appeared out of the darkness. They were in a narrow passageway. There was an old stone floor and a low, rounded ceiling. Far off, down the passageway, Kellen could see the flickering lights and hear the laughter of the others. There was a strange smell in the air, of something timeless and sacred, like the inside of an ancient cathedral.
“Let’s find the others,” she said.
They went down the passageway. Garrett had to bend over slightly to keep from bumping his head. The passageway opened into a small, circular room. The other party goers were gathered there, passing around bottles of wine. The flashlights made crazy arcs in the dark. Someone lit candles.
The walls of the room were constructed entirely of human skulls and bones. The bones were worn to a finely polished ochre patina and were carefully arranged in precise rows, like some bizarre, artful mosaic.
“What is this place?” Garrett whispered, unable to take his eyes off the walls.
“The catacombs,” Kellen said. “In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries Paris was being rebuilt, and the cemeteries were in the way. The skeletons were brought here. It’s a tourist place now during the day.”
“Charming,” Garrett said. “And now that we’re here what are we supposed to do?”
There was a shriek of laughter.
“Cache-cache!” Nathalie called out, and everyone ran, whooping gleefully down the passageways that led off from the room like spokes of a wheel. The sound of laughter and retreating footsteps echoed in the empty room.
Garrett turned to Kellen. “Hide and seek?” he asked.
She nodded. “Would you like some champagne?” she asked, holding up the sweating bottle.
He eased out the cork and took a long drink. “But no games,” he said, holding out the bottle to her.
She took a drink. “Then let’s take a tour.”
They chose a passageway. It was another dark and twisting tunnel. Kellen held the candle as they walked.
“You have some strange friends,” he said.
“I suppose. But at least they’re not boring.” She stopped and turned to look at him. “I like exciting people.”
“And what, in your mind, makes a person exciting?”
“Oh, I don’t know. You just feel it when you’re around them. They have a madness to them. A sense of danger and of possibilities. They’re willing to go farther and do more. They’re open to more experiences. They’re fearless.”
Garrett stared at her.
"They’re filled with life,” she said.
“Because they party in cemeteries?”
“No, because they have lives of passion.”
“It’s easy to say that,” Garrett said. “And quite another to have the guts to really do it.”
It was her turn to stare at him. She turned and walked on slowly. Garrett followed. They came to another room, smaller than the first, with only one wall of bones. It was marked with a stone inscription that noted the year 1804 and the name of the now lost cemetery.
Kellen turned away from the wall and set the candle on a ledge. She stared down one of the three passageways that led away toward darkness.
“They say these tunnels run for miles under most of Montparnasse,” she said softly. “You could get lost in here forever.”
Garrett took her by the shoulders, turning her toward him. His face was dim gold in the candlelight. He leaned forward and kissed her. Her arms went up to his neck and, instantly, his kiss became harder. His arms encircled her, and his hands pressed the small of her back, pulling her toward him.
Kellen moved her hands up under his jacket and over his chest and back. She lost all reference to time or place, sensing only being in a floating cool dark void with his body pressed tight against her own and his lips hot and moist on her face and throat.
They stumbled backward and she felt a wall, sharp and cold, against her back. The dark void began to swirl.
He was whispering something, but she couldn’t understand. His fingers pulled at the top of her dress a
nd when he kissed her breast, she moaned and wound her fingers through his hair.
There was no thought to what they did. Everything was reduced to an instinctive urgent need.
Suddenly, he pushed her dress up on her thighs. Before she could help him, she heard and felt the ripping of her silk panties giving way. Her fingers fumbled at his belt.
“Oh, god, hurry,” she whispered.
The wall ground into her back as he lifted her onto his hips and entered her brusquely, his lips buried in the hollow of her neck. She felt nothing but him, filling her, and then finally, a release so sweet and complete that she cried out, and tears fell down her face.
The cavern flickered back into her consciousness. The air swirled around them, cool and moist. She opened her eyes to see a shadow of their joined bodies on a far wall. Somewhere far off, like a faint echo, she could hear someone calling her name. Different voices, calling for her, over and over.
Kellen...Kellen. Where are you? Kellen...are you lost?
She felt Garrett’s lips soft on her neck, and she clung to him.
For the next week, they didn’t leave each other’s side. Garrett postponed his return to London, and Kellen called in to work to say she was ill. She stayed with Garrett in his hotel room. Neither of them understood completely what was happening, and they didn’t talk about it.
For seven days and nights, they were lost in each other’s bodies. They discovered they had an intuitive knowledge of each other’s needs and how to fulfill them. They were both aware of a force at work out of their control, that their being together had a strange inevitability.
“I feel like I have known you all my life,” Garrett said, “and that I will never, ever really know you at all.”
“I know,” Kellen said.
On the eighth day, Garrett told her he had to leave, that he had pressing business in London with his father demanded his attention. They had a quiet dinner in a restaurant on the Left Bank.
“I don’t know when I can get back to Paris,” he said. “As soon as I can.”
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