Gettin' Hard (Single Ladies' Travel Agency Book 1)

by Carina Wilder

  I only have to wait a minute or so before she shows up dressed in a beautiful pair of linen pants, high heeled sandals and an off-white white blouse. She’s got such an elegant European thing going on that I feel almost plain in my little pink dress and flats.

  “Don’t you look amazing?” she asks before laying kisses on both my cheeks once again. She holds up a piece of paper in response to the inquisitive look on my face.

  “Two e-tickets,” she says.

  “For what?” I ask.

  “A concert in the most beautiful spot in Paris. It’s a bit of a secret, but in a minute they’ll open these doors and I’ll take us through.”

  “Concert?” I ask, excited at the prospect.

  “Yes, it’s a group of classical musicians from Paris. They’re very good, but I have to tell you—the star of the show is the building itself.”

  I look up at the façade. “I thought this was a courthouse or something,” I say. “It doesn’t exactly scream ‘concert hall.’”

  She nods her head. “That’s right; this is part of what’s called the Palais de Justice. But we only walk through it to get to the chapel. Security’s pretty tight, and it’s all very hush-hush.”

  By the time the doors have opened, about thirty people are lined up behind us. We head through into the entryway, where armed guards look through our purses and pass our belongings through a metal detector.

  Some woman guides us through the building and back outside into a sort of enclosed courtyard where the strangest sight greets us: a building that looks like a very tall, stretched-out section of a gothic church. The building is entirely hidden from Paris’s streets, and it seems that the only way to reach it is to walk through the courthouse as we did.

  The church’s tall windows are made of stained glass, but other than that I can’t tell much about it from the outside.

  “This is the Sainte Chapelle,” says Katherine as we walk towards it. “It’s one of Paris’s gems.”

  “Impressive. This has to be the best-guarded building in the city.”

  “Yes, it may well be. Just wait until we’re inside; I can’t wait for you to see it.”

  A few minutes later we’re seating ourselves in one of the most beautiful rooms I’ve ever seen. The narrow stained glass windows must be twenty feet tall each, and there are so many of them that I’ve already lost count. The richest colours pour through their multicoloured panes from the late day sun, landing beautiful shapes on the inlaid stone floor beneath our feet.

  I’ve walked through another Parisian portal, this time into an alternate universe. In this place I feel isolated from the world, but only in the most lovely way. I spend the next few minutes just marvelling in silence at the gorgeousness of the space, and Katherine leaves me to it, seemingly understanding my need to gawk. But eventually she leans over and whispers in my ear, “Any news on the mysterious Mr. Davies?”

  I turn her way and smile involuntarily. “I ran into him on a soccer field. Sort of.”

  “And?”

  “You were right about him. He isn’t married. Doesn’t have a girlfriend. We talked; I saw his workplace. It was very impressive.”

  “I’m sure that’s not all that’s impressive about him.”

  I give her an I don’t know what you’re talking about look before turning around to see if the room has filled up. That’s when I let out a gasp, my eyes catching sight of Conlon and his brother Galen, making their way through the far doors.

  “Oh God,” I stammer. I guess this was what Galen wanted to do tonight. I have no idea if I should be happy or traumatized.

  Katherine turns to follow my gaze. Apparently I don’t need to explain what I’ve just seen. Even as she takes in the sight of the two very handsome men she raises her eyebrows approvingly.

  “Well, isn’t this interesting?” she says. “It would seem that fate has once again brought Mr. Davies your way.”

  “Fate is a strange, beastly bitch,” I reply. “And here I thought Paris was a big city.”

  There are two free seats to Katherine’s left, so she stands up and waves the men over, ballsy woman that she is. I feel my face redden, more from excitement than anything else. And the closer Conlon moves to me, the more excited I become.

  “I’m Katherine,” she announces, and Galen greets her with a friendly smile. Meanwhile, Conlon and I have already begun staring at one another, surprised smiles on both our faces. It’s okay, I tell myself. Maybe fate isn’s so evil after all.

  Katherine moves out into the aisle when both men have introduced themselves and lets them slip by, Conlon first, to sit beside me. It seems that suddenly I’m on a date. Well, I’m now officially glad to have worn the little pink number.

  Galen follows, and Katherine slyly seats herself on the other side of him. I consider protesting this makeshift arrangement, but what would be the point? She’s the one who wants me to learn to enjoy life; she knows perfectly well that sitting next to Conlon is what would give me the greatest enjoyment.

  Katherine and Galen strike up an easy conversation while I look shyly at the man whose dick I’ve now seen twice in forty-eight hours.

  “So, these were your mysterious plans,” he says, leaning towards me so that he’s pressing into my shoulder. “I was thrown over for a redhead.”

  “Yes, but in my defence she’s a very good-looking redhead.”

  “She has nothing on you,” he whispers as the lights go down. A moment later, ten musicians walk out to the front of the chapel and bow as we applaud them.

  “I have no idea what we’re about to hear,” I admit to Conlon in a low whisper. It doesn’t really matter, though; whatever it is, I have no doubt that it will be beautiful. The magic of Paris is winding its way through my bloodstream. I’m inside a secret, exquisite building in the centre of the city, the strange, gorgeous, amazing man who’s been slowly stealing my heart has just shown up by some miracle and I’m…happy.

  As the music echoes around us in sweet, longing strains, I keep my distance, trying my best not to touch Conlon. I’m a little too excited by his presence; my heart’s beating a little too fast.

  The music is beautiful. Vivaldi, I think, from the Four Seasons. One violinist is playing the solo line, a man with longish blond hair who looks a little like one of the villains from Die Hard. He’s standing as he plays, gyrating about dramatically, but it doesn’t take away from the gorgeous sounds coming out of his instrument. The choice of repertoire is perfect for this setting, and I’m transported to thoughts of all the lovers who’ve ever sat in this space, listening to similar sounds. I can almost feel the joy around me, the ghosts of happy people who once came here and felt loved.

  After twenty minutes or so, I feel something touch the side of my left thigh. Looking down, I notice that the backs of Conlon’s fingers are stroking me lightly. For a moment I wonder if it’s accidental, but he leaves his hand there, pressing into me as though inquiring as to whether he’s welcome. I don’t reject him, but I also don’t reciprocate, at least not yet.

  I did tell him I wanted to keep things professional. But I’m not sure now that I should have. The truth is that I want him so badly that it’s painful. Oh, God, I don’t know what I’m doing. All I know is that I’m enjoying this a lot.

  A pulse of excitement shoots through me, just like that first moment on the airplane when he laid his fingers on my knee. I want him all over again. If we weren’t in such a classy environment, surrounded by people, I might steer his fingers between my thighs and up my skirt. I’d like to writhe against his touch, to show him how wet he’s making me.

  But I don’t. For the time being at least, I’m going to attempt self-control. I have a sort-of-date with this man tomorrow, anyhow; I’ll see him then. If all goes well and if I feel like letting loose, maybe I’ll get to see every inch of him. But not tonight.

  Conlon reaches for my left hand, and I let him take it. This is innocent enough, I rationalize. This is fine. Slowly he clasps his fingers around min
e and presses my hand into the top of his rock hard thigh, a gesture that makes me smile. I know that Galen can see what’s happened, and so can Katherine. Conlon is claiming me in public, telling the world that he and I are together, at least for this evening. I have a sneaking suspicion that this isn’t something he does often, especially not in full view of his brother’s curious eyes.

  He holds onto my hand throughout the concert, occasionally bringing it to his lips to kiss. I melt each time he does it, the barriers I’ve erected around my heart breaking down little by little. I begin to imagine what may transpire tomorrow for us both, and wonder if I should cave and invite him back to my place tonight.

  Occasionally I look over at him, studying his serious profile as he watches the musicians work. He’s absorbed, enthralled just as I am. He’s stunningly good-looking, a fact that I forget for a moment here and there, until my eyes find his face again.

  At one point he turns my way, leans in, and presses a kiss into my cheek. There’s something so affectionate about the gesture that I almost believe for a moment that he’s actually developing feelings for me, just as I’m doing for him. Sex is one thing, but affection is something entirely different. He and I are craving constant contact tonight, but this is something deeper than sex. This is something even more wonderful. Something that frightens me a little, because of how real it is.

  I promise myself that I’ll let him go when I need to. I will release him back to Paris and I’ll return to New York, and he’ll become a beautiful memory of something that could have been.

  The concert is brief—maybe an hour and a half long, with no intermission. By the time it’s over I’ve shed a tear or two, but I wipe my eyes and turn to the others when the lights come up.

  “Amazing,” I say, my eyes looking towards Katherine’s face. She’s smiling, pleased. I’m having the adventure that she wished for me.

  “Isn’t it lovely?” she asks. “This is a magical place.”

  Magical. Yes, that’s it exactly.

  “Speaking of magic, what say we all go for a drink?” Galen asks. “There’s a little place across the street…”

  Conlon turns to me, an inquisitive look in his eye that says, “Drink, please?” I’ll admit that part of me wants to just run off with him and get naked somewhere, but I came here with Katherine; I should do her the honour of buying her a drink as a thanks for the concert. Besides, I’ve already decided I’m going to go home alone tonight, just to prove to myself that I can. I’m going to see what it feels like to exercise power and fight back my hormones.

  “Drink,” I say. “A quick one, then home to bed.”

  Conlon raises an eyebrow, questioning my meaning, but I just smile.

  We follow the other audience members out and down the stairs, making our way out of the complex to the thoroughfare outside. A minute later we’re sitting at a small, round table on a restaurant’s patio, and Galen has already ordered a bottle of wine in perfect French.

  “You too, Galen?” I ask. “What’s with you Davies boys and your language skills?”

  “Our parents were fussy about our educations. Dad wanted to make sure we didn’t end up working in awful factories and the like.”

  Galen’s smiling as he utters the words, but I notice that Conlon’s lips turn downwards at the mention of his father. There’s still so much to learn about this man, about his family. There’s a dark side to him that he keeps well hidden.

  “Why not factories?” Katherine asks.

  “Because our father worked in a sodding factory,” Conlon utters in a snarling tone that I’ve never heard out of him. “He was a failure and his life was pure shite.”

  Whoa. That was…abrupt.

  “Con,” Galen retorts. “Harsh.”

  “Perhaps it was, but well-deserved,” Conlon says. “Now, can we change the subject?”

  “Sure. Let’s talk about Katherine,” says Galen, turning his attention to the redhead sitting to his left.

  “Oh, I’d sooner talk about Adriana,” Katherine says, winking as she turns the attention my way. “Tell us, what’s your favourite thing about Paris so far?”

  “Hard to say,” I reply, shyly glancing at Conlon, who seems to be calming down a little. “The soccer players are interesting.”

  Katherine lets out a shimmering laugh. “Aren’t they, though? Listen—speaking of interesting, you need to head to Versailles sometime. I’m sure you know it’s the massive palace that Louis the Fourteenth used to run. Perhaps Mr. Davies could take you?”

  Galen can’t resist the opportunity to pipe up. “I’m heading to London first thing tomorrow, but otherwise I’d love to.”

  Conlon swats him in the chest. “Mischievous imp, she meant the other Davies,” he says, then he turns my way. “What do you say? Versailles? You and me?”

  “We’ll see,” I reply. “It’s on my list.”

  I’m not committing to anything. Not tonight.

  Katherine is making quick work of her wine, as is Galen. But she wins the race, quickly rising to her feet and saying a breathy, “Well, I should head out. I promised Claude I’d see him for a nightcap this evening.”

  “Ah,” I reply, smiling internally at the image of naughty Katherine with young Claude. “Well, okay. Enjoy, and thanks so much for the concert.”

  “You’re very welcome,” she replies. “Keep in touch, will you?”

  I nod. Of course I will.

  “I should head home too,” I say when she’s left. “I’m a little tired.” I have to admit that I’m observing Conlon’s face for a reaction, and I get exactly what I hope for. He looks disappointed. “We’re still on for tomorrow though, aren’t we?” I ask. “For our business meeting, I mean.”

  “Absolutely,” he says. “Could Galen and I walk you home? Or perhaps just me?”

  Naughty, naughty.

  “I’m good,” I tell him, knowing perfectly well what he was hoping for. But I won’t cave. I won’t be weak. I’m going to end our outing on my terms. Tomorrow is another day, after all. “I sort of like the idea of wandering alone.” I rise to my feet, feeling the sort of female empowerment that I’ve only ever dreamed of. It feels good, sometimes, to resist one’s own desire.

  Conlon and Galen rise as well, gentlemen that they are. Conlon steps around the table and kisses my cheek. “Til tomorrow night, beautiful woman,” he says, sending goosebumps down my entire body. Strangest, sexiest business relationship ever.

  “Until tomorrow,” I repeat. I smile at Galen and turn towards the Seine.

  Twenty

  Conlon

  I hate to see you go, but I love to see you walk away.

  She left me again. The beautiful sex goddess has headed home, rejecting the opportunity to spend time with me. Ah, well, it only increases my interest. Makes me more excited to see what tomorrow evening may bring.

  Anyhow, I have a secret weapon.

  I have her phone number.

  Galen’s crashing in my guest room tonight, as he often does on his frequent visits to Paris. He knows there’s no risk of intruding on my time with a female visitor, given that I never have female visitors.

  When we get home I tell him I’m turning in early, and he looks at me with an expression of pure and utter shock.

  “That’s not like you,” he says, one eyebrow raised. “Everything okay?”

  “Absolutely,” I tell him. “I think I’ll check in on the lovely Adriana, actually. Make sure she got home safely.”

  “Ah, I see how it is now,” my brother says, a smile lighting up his face as he reaches into the fridge for a beer. “She’s something, isn’t she?”

  “She’s a lot of things,” I reply.

  Galen straightens up and looks my way, beer securely locked into the grip of his prosthetic hand. “You’re falling for her,” he observes, his smile only growing broader.

  “I don’t know about that,” I say, quickly turning reticent.

  “I do. I know you, Conlon. You don’t get excited about wom
en, not like this. You don’t check in on a woman to make sure she’s gotten home; you’re more likely to throw away her number. You have feelings for Adriana.”

  “I’ve only known her for a few days,” I protest. “How could I possibly—”

  “Believe me, you could. Good God, you two are such a couple of stubborn arses. She’s got the same attitude as you, you know. She thinks there’s a time frame that dictates the parameters for falling in love. They’re an artificial construct, nothing more.”

  “Love is an artificial construct.”

  “Love is grand, and you need to get over your allergy to it. That woman is magnificent. Don’t fuck this up. And maybe you should start not fucking it up by going into your room, shutting the door and sending her the text I know you’re aching to send.”

  “Fine,” I reply. “But this doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a text. I’ll say good night, that’s all.”

  “Mmm hmm.” He swigs his beer. “Enjoy your insignificant correspondence with a woman whose hand you held throughout an entire concert tonight.”

  In my room I pull out my phone and wallet, extracting the business card on which Adriana wrote her number earlier today. Without hesitation, I poke in a text.

  “Adriana—it's Conlon. Just checking in to make sure you and your lovely short dress made it to your flat in one piece.”

  I lay the phone down and strip off my clothing, down to my boxers, before climbing into my sizeable bed. Ironic that I should own such a beast of a bed when I’m the only one who ever sleeps in it. The truth is that I’ve never found a woman worthy of it. Until now, that is.

  I stare down at the dark grey sheets, picturing her body under them. Naked, of course, the top sheet just loosely draped over her perfect breasts…

  My phone beeps.

  “Yes, thanks. Both dress and I are fine.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  I pause for a moment, assessing whether it’s really a good idea to ask the next question.

  Oh, fuck it. I’m asking.

  “Tell me, are you still wearing said dress?”