A Wedding in Paris

by Barbara Bretton

  “Hmm.” He really didn’t care about the pastry chef or Giselle; he only wanted to keep Lacey talking. He moved closer, to the edge of the work counter. The overhead lamp shone like a spotlight on her, bringing out red-gold highlights in her dark hair. He raised his camera to his eye and studied her through the lens, framing the shot.

  “You’re not going to take a picture of me like this!” she protested, stepping back.

  “Go back to what you were doing,” he said. “You look beautiful.”

  Her expression softened and her lips parted, as if she was about to say something, then she shook her head and returned to scrubbing the table with new vigor. He snapped off shot after shot, focusing on the soft curve of her shoulders, the paleness of her cheek and throat against the fall of dark hair, the long, slender fingers of her hands.

  “Are you done yet?” she asked, straightening. “Because the table is clean.”

  He lowered the camera. Usually, he felt more vulnerable without the protection of the lens between him and his subjects, but with Lacey things were different. With her, everything was different. “Are you almost through here?” he asked.

  She folded the dishrag over the sink and untied her apron. “I’m done.”

  “Will you take a walk with me?”

  She turned to him. “Where do you want to walk?”

  “It doesn’t matter. This is Paris. It’s supposed to be beautiful at night.” Especially if seen with the right person. But he couldn’t say that. Not yet.

  “All right.” She hung the apron on a hook by the door. “I’d like that.” She let him lead her to the door. “You surprise me, though,” she said.

  “How is that?” He held the door for her, then followed after her.

  “Because.” She grasped his hand once more. “You told me the first night we met that you didn’t believe in romance. Yet I can’t think of anything more romantic than strolling hand in hand through Paris at night. Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”

  “Maybe there is.” They momentarily moved out of the glow of streetlamps and he was glad of the darkness to hide his expression. He could walk forever like this, holding her hand and saying nothing, enjoying the contentment of being in her presence. But she wouldn’t be satisfied with that, he knew. Women wanted words, and somehow, tonight, he was determined to find the right ones to say to her.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  PARIS AFTER DARK was a spectacle of sight and sound—the blare of a taxicab’s horn, the Arc de Triomphe bathed in golden light, the accordion blare of street musicians, the lights on the bridges over the Seine like strands of pearls suspended over the water, the musical peal of laughter and rapid conversation. And over all the Eiffel Tower shone like a confection of gold spun sugar.

  Lacey reveled in all of this as she and Marc walked along the Seine, but he seemed not to notice any of it, walking with his head down, his gaze fixed on the sidewalk.

  She tucked her hand in the crook of his arm. “Is something bothering you?” she asked.

  He lifted his head and stared into her eyes as if searching for some answer there. “You asked me about my father the other day,” he said.

  She nodded, waiting for him to continue.

  He shoved both hands into his pockets. “I guess you figured out he and I don’t get along.”

  “You said he and your mother are divorced.”

  “He walked out when I was ten. My mom came home from picking me up from school and there was a note on the table with a hundred-dollar bill, saying he was sorry, but things just weren’t working out.”

  Lacey tried to imagine the shock and pain of such a thing, especially to a child. “How awful for you.”

  “Yeah, well, the next day my mom found out that hundred bucks was the only thing we were going to get. He’d cleaned out the bank account and left us literally with nothing.” He glanced at her. “My mom got a job working in the school cafeteria during the day and cleaned houses at night to pay the bills.”

  “So your dad left and your mom wasn’t around because she was working all the time,” Lacey said.

  “That’s about the size of it.” He blew out a breath. “When I was eight, my old man was my hero. He was always laughing and joking. Everybody liked him and I wanted to be just like him.”

  “I think most little boys are like that.”

  A tourist boat passed them, laughter and snips of conversation in French, English, German and other languages Lacey couldn’t identify drifting over them. Marc turned his head to watch the boat pass. When it was gone, he said, “I spent the first year he was gone wishing he would come back. I used to dream about it. He’d walk in the door and we’d find out he’d been on some top-secret mission to save the world, or he’d been working around the clock in a secret laboratory, discovering a cure for cancer.”

  She smiled, picturing the little boy who’d dreamed such big dreams, and delighted to know his imagination had been as wild as her own. “Did you hear from him at all?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Not for four years. By then I’d grown to hate him. I blamed him for everything that was wrong in my life.”

  She tightened her grip on his arm. “Why did he stay away so long?” she asked.

  “He said life got in the way—that I’d understand when I got older.” He shook his head. “All I ever understood was that I couldn’t depend on him for anything. And I didn’t want to.”

  “You never forgave him,” she said, stating the obvious.

  “I never did. I don’t know that I can.”

  They turned to admire the lit facade of Notre Dame, its wedding-cake structure looking surprisingly delicate at night, the dirt of centuries erased by shadow. Lacey traced the outline of buttresses and gargoyles and thought of how much the past can stay with a person. “So here he is again and you’re stuck in the same place,” she said after a moment.

  “That’s it exactly.” Marc faced her. “So what do I do now? I’m thirty-two years old and I’m stuck feeling like a ten-year-old again. How can I make him understand I just want him to leave me alone?”

  She hesitated, reluctant to offer advice he might not welcome. But the pain in his voice moved her to want to help him. “Maybe the problem isn’t that he keeps pushing his way back into your life, but that part of you needs him there—and you can’t find a way to bridge the gap between you.”

  He looked away and her breath caught in her throat.

  “I’ve done fine without him all these years,” he said. “Why would I need anything from him now?”

  “I don’t know.” She put a hand on his shoulder, wanting to comfort him but powerless to do so. “But maybe you should ask yourself—are you punishing him, or are you punishing yourself?”

  His eyes met hers again, hollowed shadows in the streetlight’s glow. “What should I do?”

  She laid her palm against his chest. His heart beat strongly, in rhythm with her own pulse. “A wise woman once told me to trust the desires of my heart. That will tell you the right thing to do.”

  WHEN LACEY TOUCHED HIM, Marc stilled, scarcely daring to breathe. Her face was turned up to the light, more lovely than any of the spotlighted monuments they’d passed. The faith in her eyes—faith in him—made him feel both invincible and more vulnerable than he’d ever been. She was the desire of his heart—at least in this moment.

  He reached up and covered her hand with his own. “Do you think it’s possible to feel a deep connection to someone you’ve only known a few days?” he asked.

  Her eyes locked to his, she nodded. “I do.”

  He pulled her close and kissed her, pulling her tightly against him, his mouth firm against hers. The world around them shrank to the narrow space occupied by their bodies pressed together, the only sound their ragged breathing and pounding hearts, the only sensations the slide of warm flesh against cotton clothing, the taste of salty-sweet kisses, the faint floral scent of her perfume in the warm night air.

  “Stay with me tonight,” he
murmured, his lips against her hair above her ear.

  “Yes,” she said. She drew back and looked him in the eye, her arms wrapped around his waist. “Yes, I’ll stay with you.”

  He drew her head to his chest. She would be with him tonight. He wouldn’t think any farther than that right now. No more mourning the past or worrying about the future, at least for this one night.

  They returned to Milles Fleurs and slipped through a side door and up the stairs to Marc’s room. Marc held Lacey’s hand and led the way as they hurried on tiptoe, stepping carefully to avoid the one step that always squeaked, navigating by memory around obstacles in the dark hallway. Lacey’s body hummed as if she’d drunk an entire bottle of champagne, giddy with the tantalizing air of secrecy and the anticipation of discovery.

  Behind the locked door of Marc’s room, they fell on the bed in an embrace, already fumbling with each other’s clothes. Marc’s fingers were clumsy on the buttons of her blouse and she reached up to help him. Only then did she realize he was nervous. The thought that this man of the world, who had traveled everywhere and photographed every kind of dangerous situation, should be unnerved by the idea of making love to her, touched her. She wrapped her fingers around his and gave him a long, slow, kiss. “We don’t have to be in a hurry,” she whispered.

  “I don’t want to risk us being interrupted again,” he said.

  She smiled. “If anyone knocks on the door, we won’t answer.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” He attacked her buttons again, with more assuredness this time, and soon she was free of her blouse and was wiggling her way out of her skirt. He stood and stripped out of his own clothes and they faced each other, clad only in their undergarments, lit only by a thin strip of moonlight that shone through the closed curtains.

  “I’d love to photograph you like this,” he said, smoothing his hand down her arm. “In the moonlight, your skin like ivory.”

  “There’s no need for photographs, when you have the real thing right here.” She reached up and drew his head to hers, kissing him open-mouthed, tongues entwined. He cupped her breasts through her bra, then slid the straps from her shoulders and pushed aside the satin and lace to reveal her fully.

  She gasped at the brush of his fingers across the soft underside of her breasts, and felt a dizzying rush of heat as he bent to take her in his mouth.

  She reached back and popped the clasp on the bra and tossed it aside as they sat, then lay across the narrow bed. “I’ve been dreaming about this,” he said, raising his head to look at her once more.

  She smiled. “Those must have been interesting dreams.”

  “Yes. But nothing compared to reality.” He slid one finger beneath the elastic of her underwear, moving it back and forth, teasing her. She smoothed her hands along his sides, feeling the ridge of each rib, fighting the urgency that made her want to demand that he take her quickly—now!

  He nudged the panties down her hips, over her thighs, toward her ankles. She kicked out of them and he cupped her bottom in his palm. For one panicked moment she thought of cellulite and sagging and all the weight she’d meant to lose but hadn’t, then he said, “You’re beautiful,” and the reverent tone in his voice made her believe it.

  Tonight, at least, she was beautiful—the most beautiful woman in the world, as long as she lay in his arms. She slid her hands up his shoulders, everything in her that was feminine responding to his strength and masculinity. She clasped her hands behind his neck and arched against him, feeling his erection hard against her belly, evidence of how much he wanted her.

  He rolled to one side and shed his own underwear, then pulled her to him once more. They lay face-to-face, staring into each other’s eyes, their features blurred in the dim light, every other sense heightened. When Lacey breathed in, the fresh-linen scent of lavender and starch mingled with the musk of sex in a heady perfume that aroused her even more.

  “You smell like almonds,” he said, kissing her fingers.

  “Amaretto,” she said. “I spilled some when I was baking. The scent lingers.”

  “I’ll think of you every time I smell it now.”

  She started to make a joke about marketing her cherry tart as an aphrodisiac, but he slid her finger into his mouth, silencing her. A tightness, low in her womb, grew with the pressure of his mouth, until she was writhing beneath him.

  “I don’t…want to wait…any longer,” she gasped.

  He freed her fingers and propped himself on one elbow to look down at her. “Do you want to use a condom?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  He rolled away from her and leaned down to reach under the bed. She heard him slide his suitcase from beneath them, and the rasp of a zipper, then he was beside her once more, ripping the condom packet with his teeth.

  “Would you like to do the honors?” he asked.

  She rolled the condom carefully over him, the sensation of heat and hardness in her hand making her clench her thighs together.

  Then he was gently pushing her thighs apart and kneeling over her. She reached for him, inviting him in, welcoming him.

  He moved slowly at first, filling her completely with a sigh of satisfaction that mirrored her own feelings. When he began to withdraw, she arched to him, matching his rhythm of advance and retreat, a deft partner in a dance that left her breathless and always wanting more.

  She smoothed his hair, and murmured endearments even she could not make out. He cupped her bottom, bringing her more firmly in contact with him, and with his free hand began to stroke her breast. Every nerve in her was aware of the connection between them—both the physical sensations everywhere they touched, and the emotional bond that led them to move in concert, and to anticipate each other’s needs.

  When her climax came, she cried out, then, laughing, brought her hand up to muffle her shouts. Tears stung her eyes, tears of release and a joy she couldn’t begin to describe. Marc’s own release shook them both anew and afterward they remained entwined, rocking together, not speaking. Lacey feared words might break the spell that held them in thrall. If she gave voice to all she was feeling right now, would it frighten Marc away? He was a man who didn’t believe in romance. Did that mean he didn’t believe in love as well? Or was it only that he didn’t know how to express that most mysterious of all emotions?

  As she cradled his head on her breast, she closed her eyes and breathed a silent prayer that, somehow, Marc would see that love and romance were real. After all, what better place and time to learn, than in Paris, the city of lovers, a celebration of love itself.

  NEARBY CHURCH BELLS were striking three when Lacey reluctantly disentangled herself from Marc’s embrace. “I’d better go,” she whispered. “We both have busy days today.” The rough stubble of his beard grazed her cheek as she leaned in once more to kiss him—quickly, before she gave in to temptation and slid under the covers with him once more. These few hours in this little room, secluded by darkness and the late hour from all those sleeping around them had been the stuff of fantasy—the fairy-tale romance she’d often daydreamed about.

  “Photographing a wedding party is a lot different from my usual work.” Marc sat on the side of the bed and pulled on his jeans. “I’m used to action photos, pictures that tell a story.”

  “Your photos for the wedding will tell a story, too.” She climbed over him and stood in the narrow space between the bed and the door, buttoning her blouse. “The story of two people in love, and all those around them that are celebrating with them.”

  “I guess so. But it’s still different.”

  “I’d better go.” She picked up her shoes but did not put them on. It would be easier to slip barefoot through the hall to her room. She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, then let herself out of the room. “Au revoir,” she whispered. Until we meet again.

  In the hallway, she let her shoulders sag, no longer intent on hiding her feelings from him. Their night together had been wonderful, but his last words had remin
ded her that he lived in a world so different from hers. Marc’s was a world of excitement, adventure and danger, while Lacey surrounded herself with beauty, food and family. Even though she had chosen to move thousands of miles away from her home, family was still important to her. This week spent preparing for the wedding had reminded her of that. Marc was a man estranged from his family; she wasn’t even sure he wanted to change that.

  Her thoughts in too much turmoil to allow her to sleep, she went downstairs instead of up, intending to make herself a cup of chocolate before bed. She navigated the old wooden risers by feel, probing with her foot for each step, one hand grasping the balustrade.

  So intent was she on the task that in the darkness she didn’t see the figure approaching, until they collided at the bottom of the stairs. Lacey stifled a scream and a woman’s voice responded with a string of muffled French curses.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “GISELLE, IS THATYOU?” Lacey asked, startled to find her boss roaming the halls at this time of morning.

  “Lacey?” Giselle reached over and snapped on a lamp that sat on a table at the foot of the stairs, and the two women stared at each other. “What are you doing up at this hour?”

  Lacey tried not to stare at the older woman but couldn’t help herself. Instead of her usual apron or tunic, Giselle wore a fashionable minidress and tights. Her hair was swept up in a chignon and her eyes were heavily made-up. She wore red lipstick, much of which was smudged. She carried a pair of chic heels in one hand. “I…I was going to the kitchen to make a cup of chocolate,” Lacey said.

  “Carrying your shoes?” Giselle nodded to the flats that dangled from the fingers of Lacey’s right hand.

  “I could ask you the same thing,” Lacey said.

  Giselle’s face reddened. “I didn’t want to wake anyone, coming in so late.”