French Kissing

by Nancy Warren

  She shrugged. “Speaking for myself, I’m glad you were foolish. And please don’t worry. My mother did an excellent job. I didn’t miss having you in my life.”

  “You and Claudia—you look more alike than any of her sisters.” He rubbed his temple again. “It’s extraordinary.”

  “She seemed nice.”

  “She is. Thank you for not telling her who you are.”

  She smiled, but without humor. “I’ve kept your secret for twenty-eight years. I won’t reveal it now.”

  Holden chose that opportune moment to arrive on the scene with her coat over his arm. “Bon nuit, monsieur.”

  Her father bowed slightly. “Bon nuit.” Then he turned, gave Holden the once over and passed him as he returned to the party.

  Holden helped her into her coat then put his arm around her. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  She breathed in the crisp Paris air. “I want you to take me back to your place and make me forget all my worldly cares.”

  “I can definitely do that.”

  “Good. Do you have champagne?”

  “I can have some sent up to the room.”

  “Excellent.”

  HE WASN’T SURE what Kimi needed from him, but he wanted to give her all he had. He’d let Kimi take the lead. If she wanted to get plastered on that champagne, she’d earned the indulgence. If she wanted to cry and rant and throw things, he was there to be a handy target. And if she wanted to talk, he had it in him to listen.

  She didn’t say anything on the ride back to his hotel and she held his hand as though they’d be permanently separated if she let go.

  Luckily, most of the hotel staff spoke English, so Holden had no trouble ordering the champagne and, since he was hungry and he had no idea what Kimi might want, he ordered some kind of platter with cheeses and things, and, he said, bring extra bread. He was crazy about the bread.

  “Can I give Mr. Armani the rest of the night off?” he asked Kimi, who’d gone to the window and was staring out.

  “Yes. Of course.”

  He pulled out jeans, the new ones in her honor, and one of the shirts that looked like the ones he got at home at Eddie Bauer, only that cost six thousand times as much because some French guy put a squiggle in the pattern, and started changing.

  She turned around, took one look at him and screamed.

  “What?” he said, grabbing his jeans and holding them in front of himself. “You’ve seen me naked before.”

  “Never, never, never throw a designer suit on the chair like that!”

  “Is that what you’re screaming about? You gave me a heart attack over a suit? I was going to hang it up after.”

  She shook her head and walked over, picking up each piece and hanging it with meticulous care in the wardrobe. When she was done, it looked exactly as it had when he’d removed it from the garment bag earlier. She even helped him out of the cuff links.

  He finished changing and then went to answer the door. After he’d waved away what he thought were offers to open the wine, and tipped the guy profusely, mostly out of guilt that he didn’t speak the local language, as though he could buy forgiveness, he went back into the main room.

  And damn near dropped everything on the floor.

  Kimi was standing there in a couple of wisps of black silk and lace that revealed more than they concealed.

  And she’d left her heels on.

  He walked forward and kissed her shoulder. “Have I told you that you are the sexiest woman in Paris?”

  She chuckled low in her throat. “You know that thing you like that I do with my tongue?”

  He grunted in response, since the primitive part of his brain seemed to have taken him over and he was incapable of speech.

  “I’m going to do it again. Only this time there will be champagne all over my tongue.”

  Okay, so she wasn’t going to cry or throw things. At least not right away. Everybody had their own method of dealing with emotional trauma, and right now he very much respected Kimi’s method.

  “Let me get this champagne open.”

  “Good idea.” She picked up an apple slice and popped it into her mouth before wandering to the window to look out at the view. He thought the sight of her silhouetted in his window only enhanced the view.

  He poured champagne and walked over to pass her a glass. “Mmm. Thanks.” She turned and tapped her glass against his. “To an unexpected knight who rode to the rescue,” she said.

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Yes, you did. You were there when I needed you.” She leaned her forehead against his chest. “Thank you.”

  She sipped her champagne and sipped again. “Mmm. This is my favorite drink in the whole world.”

  He was a Budweiser man himself, but he didn’t figure this was a good time to mention it. Especially as she’d put her glass down, taken his from him and was currently pulling his shirt over his head.

  It seemed that overpriced golf shirts didn’t rate the same finicky care as a designer suit when she tossed the shirt to the floor and attacked his belt buckle.

  She used the bubbly champagne almost like a second tongue, teasing and tormenting him until he was rethinking his loyalty to Bud.

  When he could stand it no longer, he raised her up and turned her to face the long window. He left her in the lacy bra, but slipped her panties down her long legs and she stepped out of them. He tossed the sliver of black lace so it landed on top of his polo shirt.

  He nudged her legs apart, stroking his way up.

  “Bend over,” he instructed softly.

  She did, hanging on to the window frame. He could see her silhouetted in the window glass, her face dreamy and insubstantial, the black lace of her bra teasing him.

  The greatest thing about his room was the view of the Eiffel Tower, tall and proud and currently lit up. Sort of how he felt. He entered her slowly, enjoying that first long slide, and the way she gasped when he hit her G-spot. When she ground herself back against him he realized she wasn’t looking for slow and easy, so he slipped off his own leash and pounded into her.

  Their breathing grew harsh, her cries more guttural, below them the streets of Paris were busy with traffic and pedestrians, those little toy Smart cars people loved here.

  In a café on the corner, they were closing up for the night, and one last couple lingered over their wine.

  He viewed all that while he drove into Kimi’s wet, hot, writhing body, while he smelled her excitement and heard her cries begin to build. He reached for her hands and was shocked at the coldness of the windowpane, slid his palms back to her chest, brushing the lace-covered peaks of her breasts taut and straining with their passion, down her belly and finally to the center of her, where he found her so hot. He rubbed her clit in rhythm to their thrusting bodies and almost immediately felt her spasm around him.

  Oh, yes, his body seemed to shout as he joined in her explosion.

  They slumped to the floor spent. He toyed with her breasts while they got their breath back.

  “Thanks. I really needed that.”

  He kissed the back of her neck, which was still sweat damp and warm beneath his lips. “Anytime.”

  “I should probably get going.”

  “Stay.” He couldn’t believe he’d said it. The word slipped out before he’d thought about the implications. Going from sex to a sleepover was a big deal for him. He didn’t ever progress this fast. But, in spite of the idea that he should be horrified, he found he wasn’t. He really wanted her to stay.

  She turned her head and looked at him. “I don’t have a toothbrush or fresh clothes.”

  “We can send down for one. Room service has everything in this hotel. And I doubt you’re the first girl in Paris who ever went home wearing last night’s clothes.”

  She giggled. “True.” She hesitated long enough that he figured she had the same reaction he’d had about moving to sleepovers so fast, but, like him, she must know this was a time-limited affair. Ou
tside of fashion week he couldn’t imagine them together.

  She rolled over and pressed herself against him. “Sold. And tomorrow we have most of the day off. Heaven.”

  He organized her toothbrush and soon they were wrapped together in bed. She was curled up against him, her head on his shoulder. “You know what makes me sad?”

  “What?”

  “She seemed so nice. Claudia. That’s her name. I have a half sister named Claudia. I met her tonight and she seems very nice. And she will never know about me. What if we might have been friends? What if one day one of us needs a kidney and we’d be a perfect match but instead we’ll spend the rest of our lives on dialysis because we can’t know about each other?”

  He stroked her hair, knowing it was best to let her talk.

  “I don’t know her birthday or who her friends are, if she really prefers Italian designers or she’s just being patriotic. I’ve never met any of her boyfriends. She’s getting married, and I’ve never even met any of her boyfriends.” She sighed. “I always wanted a sister.”

  He thought of his own family, the noise, the fights, the tricks they used to play on each other, the way his mother would wonder aloud what she’d ever done to be cursed with four hellions. He wouldn’t have traded it for anything. He’d have to introduce Kimi to them. If she wanted to experience family, she could do worse. Except of course she wouldn’t be likely to be around his family any time soon.

  “Do you think they’ll leave?”

  She rolled to her back and stared at the ceiling, a furrow between her brows. “I don’t see how they can. What excuse could he give? She’s come to check out wedding clothes. Her fiancé is arriving tomorrow. They can’t just up and go.” She blew out a breath. “It’s a nightmare.”

  He kissed her. “You’ve got a week. Maybe he’ll get a clue. You’ll work it out.”

  She reached up and nipped his jaw with her teeth. “I think I’ll work you out.”

  So, she didn’t feel like talking. When her hands started moving over his chest, teasing their way down his belly, he decided he didn’t feel much like talking anyway.

  10

  KIMI SLIPPED into her hotel the next morning with her gaze focused on the bank of elevators. She’d be in her room in a few minutes and no one would ever know she’d strolled in the front door of her hotel in the middle of the morning wearing last night’s clothes. Well, Brewster Peacock probably would. The man had spies everywhere. Her only consolation was that there was bound to be juicier gossip this week than that she’d pulled an all-nighter.

  She made it halfway across the lobby before hearing words that made her stomach plunge into freefall. “Mademoiselle Renton.”

  There was no point in pretending she hadn’t heard him. She turned slowly and found her father rising slowly from one of the armchairs and folding this morning’s newspaper.

  He looked her up and down slowly and a flicker of distaste crossed his narrow, aristocratic face as he took in the cocktail dress, slightly creased from having been thrown to the floor in a fit of passion, the minimal makeup since she’d only had a few essentials in her purse. Her hair was hopeless, so she’d pinned it into a messy knot on top of her head. Her entire appearance screamed morning after and the way he looked at her made her feel like a tramp, which infuriated her. She was the daughter of a prominent feminist. She embraced her sexuality and would not be made to feel like a slut for the same behavior that would get a man praised for being such a stud.

  “Monsieur,” she said coolly.

  “I have been waiting for you. I thought we might have breakfast.”

  “Thank you, but I’ve already eaten breakfast.” Some devil prompted her to add, “With my lover.”

  It was almost worth it to see his nostrils flare. She thought he was going to say something stupid and chauvinistic and was almost sorry when he mastered the impulse.

  “Perhaps you would join me in a cup of coffee then?”

  “All right.” But she’d be damned if she’d sit there drinking coffee at eleven in the morning wearing a creased cocktail dress. “I’ll need twenty minutes to change.”

  He inclined his head. “I will wait for you in the restaurant.” He indicted the ornate hotel dining room.

  She took the elevator up to her room. What did he want with her? Why was he here? She opened the double wardrobe and pondered her options while she dragged off her clothes. Luckily, she’d already showered.

  A quick glance at her watch showed she had seventeen minutes until she’d said she’d rejoin the man whose sperm had had a big impact on her life. Even if he’d given her not much more, she had to remember she was grateful for that. But not grateful enough to be chased out of Paris—which she suspected was his purpose in showing up unannounced at her hotel.

  Kimi strolled into the restaurant exactly nineteen minutes after she had told her father to expect her in twenty minutes. She was wearing a blowsy Stella McCartney top and black Prada slacks with her Chanel flats. She had redone her hair into a sleek twist and her makeup was flawless. She liked to spend at least an hour on her appearance, but this wasn’t the first time she’d turned herself out in under twenty minutes still managing to look well groomed.

  She caught sight of him immediately. He was settled at a small table toward the back of the restaurant where it was relatively empty and there was little chance of any conversation being overheard. She experienced a rush of conflicting emotions as she studied him. Giovanni Ferrarro looked exactly like what he was: an Italian statesman, minor royalty, a well-to-do family man. Of course, being Italian, and a certain age, he also looked like a man with secrets, such as the daughter he did not publicly acknowledge.

  He held a French newspaper in front of him, and his other hand held a coffee cup. As he raised the cup to his lips he glanced up toward the doorway and their gazes connected. He lowered the cup slowly and rose, stepping around the table to pull her chair out himself. She walked forward, thanked him and sat and then he returned to his chair.

  A waiter hurried over. Her father was the kind of man who would always have waiters hovering and doormen springing to attention.

  “What would you like?” he asked her.

  “Un café au lait, s’il vous plaît,” she said to the waiter.

  Her father ordered a selection of croissants, breads, cheese and fruit in flawless French.

  When the waiter had left, her father said, “You speak French?”

  “Yes.” She settled herself more comfortably in her chair. “I also speak Italian.”

  His only reaction was a slight raising of his eyebrows.

  Her coffee arrived and she sipped it, grateful for something to occupy her hands. She noticed they were trembling slightly and her own vulnerability around this man annoyed her. He must be just as ill at ease as she was, but he was better at hiding his emotions.

  “Why did you want to see me?” she asked him.

  He smiled slightly. “You look Italian but you have the directness of an American.”

  He was a handsome man, her father. His hair was still full and dark brown, though flecked attractively with silver. He had a good mouth. Firm but sensual and, of course, those eyes she saw in the mirror every morning.

  Not being American, he seemed in no hurry to answer her question. He held out his hands in a palm-up gesture. “I thought we might have a meal and talk.”

  “Talk.”

  At that moment the food arrived, so several moments passed before he was forced to reply. She took a croissant, a piece of cheese and a slice of apple for form’s sake. She and Holden had earlier shared an omelet, which they’d eaten in his bed. Besides, even if she hadn’t eaten for days she couldn’t imagine pushing food down her throat when her stomach felt so jumpy.

  Finally, he said, “Seeing you last night gave me quite a shock.”

  “It was quite a shock for me too.”

  He nodded gravely. “I did not realize that you would be quite so much like me.” He picked up a croissan
t, broke it in half and then put the pieces back on his plate. “Or so strongly resemble my daughter.”

  She refused to make the obvious comment. How could her down-to-earth mother have fallen for this guy? But then he smiled and she realized that he was a very attractive man. Even his voice was appealing. His English was perfect, with just enough accent to be intriguing. Oh, women would notice him all right, but she couldn’t imagine her mother—her strong-willed, feminist mother—falling for him, not even when she was young.

  Perhaps his thoughts traveled in the same direction, for he said, “I offered to marry your mother. Did you know that?”

  She nodded. “My mother’s always believed in telling me the truth about things.”

  “She refused me. Your mother was always so…” He paused as though looking for the correct word in English. “Self-contained. I suppose that was one of the things that attracted me to her in the first place. She was very different from the women I was used to. I was drawn to her boldness and confidence. I was far from home, intoxicated by the ideas and people I discovered at university, and of course, we had no thought of consequences.”

  He glanced up at her as though realizing that referring to her as a consequence could hardly be flattering. “I did not love your mother, and she did not love me, but I was still very angry that she refused to marry me. Of course, the same confidence and boldness that attracted me to your mother were the attributes that made her so scornful of marrying a man simply because she was about to have his child.”

  “‘A woman without a man is like a fish without bicycle’ is one of my mother’s favorite sayings.”

  “I have never understood that aphorism.” He shook his head. “However, I had no choice but to respect your mother’s wishes. I made such arrangements for you as I felt would ensure your future was comfortable, and your mother and I agreed that we would both carry on as though our affair had never happened.” He shrugged as though absolving himself of blame. “I returned to Italy.”

  “But the affair did happen. I happened.”