No Ordinary Love

by Ann Christopher

  “What the—? I didn’t force you!”

  He did his best to look innocent. “You were so eager to get me naked, but your shaky little hands couldn’t undo the buttons. What was I to do?”

  They laughed together for a wonderful moment. It dawned on him that she’d washed off her heavy Nefertiti eye makeup. Now she remained as beautiful, but it was a fresh-faced, early morning beauty every bit as fascinating as her sophistication last night.

  He wanted to spend the day happily staring at her face.

  Unfortunately, she sobered and locked that smile in some closet he couldn’t reach. He felt her walls coming up, pushing him away. It was a nasty feeling, being on the outside after the intimacy and wonders of last night.

  He didn’t like it.

  “Thanks, but I can’t take them,” she said firmly. “When would I give them back?”

  “Tonight when we have dinner.” He felt an unsettling flurry of nerves in his belly, the kind he hadn’t experienced since age twelve, when he first kissed a girl. “If you forget to bring them tonight, you could bring them tomorrow when we have dinner. Or over the weekend. I’ll be in Journey’s End for a while yet. So, you see? Problem solved.”

  She stared at him, a wide-eyed and elegant deer trapped in his headlights.

  At this point in any other conversation he’d had with a woman, she would have shrieked with delight, leapt into his arms and showered his face with kisses.

  His unease grew.

  Don’t get attached. Never get attached, he told himself, but no part of him was listening.

  “I want to see you again,” he said softly. “Say something.”

  She opened her mouth, but her voice was on a time delay.

  “I’m not sure what to say.”

  “Say yes. Simple.”

  She floundered and turned away, nervously smoothing her hair.

  His heart sank, leveling out with the dread deep in his gut as a new thought hit him.

  “You’re married,” he said dully.

  Why this possibility bothered him so much was anyone’s guess. As a French man and a longtime witness to his mother’s ongoing parade of future ex-husbands, his views on the institution were a great deal more circumspect than the average American’s. And if he ran the numbers, he’d no doubt discover that a healthy percentage of his sexual exploits were with married women.

  Yet the idea that Samira—

  “I’m not married,” she said, facing him again and releasing the sudden pressure on his lungs, allowing him to breathe. “I…was engaged.”

  “But it’s over now?” he demanded.

  She nodded. “But this isn’t the time for me to…I don’t know…”

  “Have fun with a sexy and wonderful man while he’s in town?”

  Her eyes crinkled. “Muddy the waters with another man who’s ultimately unavailable to me.”

  Ultimately unavailable.

  As the king of ultimate unavailability, this explanation should have made perfect sense to him. Instead, it made his jaw clench.

  “Samira—”

  “I don’t need the aggravation, Baptiste. Please understand that.”

  Aggravation? Was he aggravating?

  His disappointment and bewilderment were such that he blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

  “I don’t want to understand,” he said, well aware that he sounded like the spoiled brat he’d been as a kid. “I want to see you again.”

  One of her brows rose, punishing him with a million times more reproach than his mother or nannies had ever managed. “And this is only about what you want?”

  “Of course not. But we like each other. Why not enjoy each other while it lasts?”

  She thought that over for a minute, her gaze drifting out of focus for a beat or two. But then her attention snapped back to his face.

  “I’m not up for another round of being hurt and disappointed.” Maybe it was his imagination, but he detected a hint of sadness in her eyes. Of regret. “And I’d rather remember one perfect night with you than start hating you one day because you didn’t, I don’t know, call me from France when you said you would. Or maybe we’d spend a little bit of time together, and get on each other’s nerves. I’d rather remember our night than discover that you’re a jerk.”

  Fair points. Without breaking a sweat, he could probably march five or ten women in here, all willing to swear on a stack of Bibles that he was a jerk.

  And yet he was willing to swear that his past behavior had nothing to do with his relationship to Samira.

  With them, more often than not, one night was plenty, if not excessive.

  With Samira? He hadn’t even scratched the surface.

  She evidently didn’t feel the same way, but he couldn’t give up that easily.

  “Samira…”

  “You got a text, by the way. I wasn’t trying to see it, but your phone was sitting right on the table.”

  What difference did a silly text make at this critical juncture? He shrugged impatiently. “Okay…?”

  “It was from Daphne. Who evidently doesn’t believe in wearing clothes.”

  With numb disbelief—whose timing and luck were this bad? —he picked up the phone and checked the display: a close-up of Daphne’s pale breasts, including nipple ring. The only good thing? The message was in French. Hopefully Samira’s French wasn’t good enough to translate it:

  Come see me soon, my love, so we can work things out.

  Shit.

  His throat, heart and brain seized up, leaving him paralyzed with indecision. Anything he said would make him look like a heartless bastard. Which would be worse? Telling Samira that Daphne meant nothing to him and never had? Telling her that he planned to stop paying Daphne’s Manhattan rent at the end of the year, leaving her “homeless?” Admitting that he’d been with Daphne as recently as last week, when she’d been in Paris for a photo shoot?

  What explanation could he possibly give that wouldn’t blow up his fledgling relations with Samira? Christ. Best to hope that Daphne and Samira never crossed paths. Daphne would love to whisper as much poison as possible into Samira’s ear.

  He opened his mouth. Closed his mouth. Bit back a growl of frustration.

  “Don’t hurt yourself,” Samira said coolly. “You don’t owe me any explanations.”

  No, he didn’t, but he still wished he could think of one. Anything that might stop her from leaving like this.

  “Daphne and me… It’s over and it was never anything serious,” he said quietly.

  “It was a good reminder.” Blithe smile. “You wouldn’t want me getting too attached to you, would you?”

  Yes! He would!

  “And it’s none one of my business what you do with other women,” she said, but her smile was off. As false as an elephant pretending to be a giraffe.

  “I feel as though it is your business after last night, Samira.”

  She blinked. Hesitated.

  “I’m a big girl. I don’t need reassurance. And I’m not in the market for anything more, anyway.”

  Stunned and miserable, he watched her reach for the duffel.

  “So that’s it?”

  She kept her gaze lowered, refusing to look him in the eye.

  “I have to go.”

  With that, she picked up the duffel, knocking her purse and his watch off the table and to the floor in her haste. Several of her belongings tumbled out. Cell phone. Lipstick. Compact case.

  “Sorry,” she muttered, ducking her head as she squatted to pick everything up. “Here’s your watch.”

  He took the watch and automatically stooped to help, retrieving a package of tissues and a tiny bottle of lotion. He handed them back to her, more than a little shell-shocked by this sudden appearance of a brick wall in his face. She jammed the items into her purse, leaving nothing to tie the two of them together except for his borrowed duffel bag that she didn’t even want.

  Hell, she hadn’t even given him her phone numbe
r, and he hesitated to ask for it now for fear of another rejection.

  But he couldn’t just let her go. Not like this. Not after last night.

  They both stood.

  She started to say something. Struggled with words that didn’t come.

  He started to say something, some final plea, but the sudden hard lump in his throat blocked the words.

  “Thank you for an incredible night, Baptiste,” she finally said.

  “You can’t even look at me?” he asked in a desperation-tinged voice.

  Her gaze reluctantly flickered back to his.

  A wild swoop of relief allowed him to breathe again. It was all still there. Banked and unwanted, but still there. Her passion for him. Her interest in him. The connection they’d felt. The laughter, the fun. All of it was right there in her guarded expression and searching look.

  Close enough for him to touch, but impossible for him to reach.

  “Your eyes,” she said helplessly.

  “What, ma reine?”

  “I’ve never seen anyone with green eyes like yours before. It was too dark for me to see them clearly last night, but…”

  He shook his head, undone by some combination of affection and exasperation.

  “You think you’re telling me good-bye, but then you look at me like that? What am I to do with you?”

  He cupped her face, and she didn’t say no.

  He dipped his head, and she didn’t back away.

  He kissed her, and she melted for him the way she had last night, surging to get closer and go deeper.

  Until she caught herself.

  She broke away and pressed a hand to her mouth, her breath harsh and unsteady in the relative silence. Backing up a step, she looked to the floor, probably in the hopes that he wouldn’t see the glaze of passion in her bright eyes.

  “I’ll return the bag to the front desk for you,” she said, hurrying for the door.

  That bag was the very last thing on his mind right now. He shrugged.

  “If you wish.”

  “Good-bye, Baptiste.”

  He hesitated, not about to say good-bye to this woman.

  Good-bye had no part in whatever was developing between them.

  “Au revoir, Samira.”

  Until we meet again.

  8

  Baptiste arrived at the winery around seven thirty, well ahead of the eight o’clock meeting. He hadn’t planned to arrive so early, but what could he do after Samira walked out on him? Go back to sleep? Out of the question. So he’d lifted weights in the hotel gym, then showered and eaten.

  Now here he was, atop a hill overlooking the winding Hudson River below, a stunning blue sky above, and row upon row of burnt orange grapevines marching down to the water.

  He parked outside the tasting room and climbed out of his rental car (a Tesla; why scrimp?), taking a moment to enjoy the crisp fall air and the last golden rays of what had been a spectacular sunrise. The sun’s warmth and a nice breeze normally made him feel better. But his spirits had plummeted to the gutter and seemed determined to stay there no matter what he told himself.

  Samira’s a complete stranger.

  You didn’t know she existed this time yesterday, so there’s no reason why you can’t forget her by this time tomorrow.

  Don’t lose your head just because some woman you barely know pinched your ego.

  All valid points.

  And all completely useless to him now, with disappointment settling in his belly like the Rock of Gibraltar.

  He slumped onto the bench nearest the path that led into the vines, ran his hands through his hair and tried to get his thoughts together.

  What the hell should he do now?

  Pretend it was over, as she was willing to do?

  Absolutely not. Not when he felt the absolute certainty that he wasn’t in this alone. That she wanted to see him again, even if she couldn’t figure out how an affair between them might work.

  Hell. He couldn’t figure out how an affair between them might work.

  That didn’t mean he was willing to give up. It just meant that he needed to approach Samira with a bit more… finesse than was usually required.

  He knew how to find her again, of course. He’d planned to contact the hotel’s front desk, track down the driver and ask where he or she had taken Samira. A generous tip loosened most tongues and made people happy to help him.

  Did that make him a stalker?

  Then perhaps he was a stalker.

  And he was surprisingly comfortable with that.

  Luckily, though, he wouldn’t have to jump through any of those hoops.

  Because he had this.

  Reaching into the inner pocket of his blazer, he pulled out Samira’s American Express bill. With her address on it. Which she’d dropped when she knocked her purse to the floor, and he’d found under the table after she’d gone.

  Thank goodness she hadn’t elected to receive her bills electronically, eh?

  And what had this bill taught him about the fascinating and beautiful Samira Palmer?

  Well, she lived a few blocks from his hotel. Within easy walking distance, as she’d said.

  More importantly, she was nearly eleven thousand dollars in debt. The figure might or might not be a big issue, depending on her financial circumstances. Perhaps she was wealthy, as he was. Perhaps she came from family money. Or perhaps she had a high-powered career and could easily afford such a monthly expense. This theory was his favorite. Any woman as clever as Samira of course had a lovely career.

  Perhaps—this particular theory made the Rock of Gibraltar throb painfully in his belly—perhaps her former fiancé paid all her bills. Or split the bills with her.

  Equally unsettling to Baptiste? The charges underlying the bill.

  Catering. Flowers. A cake baker.

  All of which pointed to the inescapable conclusion that these charges belonged to the wedding that had not taken place. Samira and her former fiancé had, clearly, been within days—if not hours—of getting married.

  For all Baptiste knew, they may have been on the church steps.

  She must have loved her fiancé very much. Probably still loved him, because women didn’t recover from broken engagements overnight.

  The idea made him scowl. Why? For reasons best left unexplored for now. Besides. It wasn’t as if he were in the market for a serious relationship. On the other hand, if Samira found herself in the market for a no-strings-attached rebound man? He was the guy.

  The problem was…how to reestablish contact with her? Flowers? Chocolates? Drop by to return the bill while also bringing flowers and chocolates?

  He could…

  But, no. He couldn’t. How could he contact her again when she’d made her feelings (alleged feelings) so clear? He might be determined and tenacious, but he wasn’t a complete ass.

  What if he waited a few days, then contacted her? Absence made the heart grow fonder, correct? In a few days, she might well—

  A car horn tooted.

  Startled, he watched Daniel pull in and park, then stood and tried to get his head on straight again. Tried not to look the way he felt, which was dejected and lonely.

  “Bonjour,” he called as Daniel got out. “I would ask if you were now an engaged man, but your ridiculous smile gives you away.”

  “I’m an engaged man,” Daniel said, laughing as he approached the bench.

  “Wonderful. You’ve found yourself an exquisite woman. I hope you’ll be very happy together. At least until she discovers how far beneath herself she’s married.”

  More laughter from Daniel. “Sadly, true.”

  They shook hands. Hugged.

  “Come on,” Daniel said, swiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve. “Let’s get some coffee before the troops come.”

  Baptiste studied him with an odd mixture of unwilling fascination and vague revulsion. “Are you crying now? Have you turned into a romantic sap?”

  “Evidently.”


  “I want nothing to do with you ever again. What if it’s contagious?”

  Still grinning, Daniel led him down the hallway—the building was nice and the retail shop well-stocked, Baptiste noticed, but a bit shabby around the edges and in need of updating—and into the kitchen, where he went to the coffeemaker and got to work.

  “You should be so lucky, man,” Daniel said. “Because I’m the happiest guy in the world.”

  Baptiste leaned against the counter and crossed his arms, feeling unaccountably sour as he recalled the boredom he’d felt lately, the increasing emptiness. Nothing interested or surprised him these days, much less made him laugh or feel happy.

  Well…

  Except for last night. With Samira.

  He grimaced and rubbed his chest, trying to relieve the sudden ache. Even worse was his sudden curiosity about a subject that normally held no more interest for him than the atmospheric conditions on Mercury.

  “What is it about Zoya?”

  Bemused look from Daniel. “Huh?”

  “I mean…she’s beautiful and charming, of course, but there are many beautiful and charming women in the world. We enjoyed our share of them in Napa. What if you settle on Zoya, and then—next month or next year, or ten years from now—a better woman comes along? What then? And don’t give me any of this nonsense about meeting your soul mate.”

  Daniel snorted. “I thought French folks were supposed to be romantic.”

  “We’re very circumspect about love and marriage.” Baptiste was in no mood to let him off the hook. “It’s a fair question.”

  “It’s been over a decade since I first met Zoya, and that hasn’t happened. I don’t think it’s going to, or else I wouldn’t have proposed.” Daniel rubbed his chin and tipped his head thoughtfully. “What is it about her? Besides the obvious?”

  “What? That she’s sexy as hell?”

  Daniel glared. “Watch it. That’s my future wife you’re talking about.”

  “Unless you’re planning to make her wear a paper bag over her head, men will notice.”

  “True.” Daniel chuckled. “Besides that, the main thing is that she was always the one I wouldn’t stop thinking about. What was she doing? What would she think about this or that? What would her advice be? Would she enjoy trying some new thing with me? Why did she look at me that way? What was going on behind those eyes? What wasn’t she telling me? Why did she see right through me? Why did she understand me better than I understood myself?” He faltered. Managed a rueful smile. “Not sure if this is making any sense.”