It was the first time I'd seen the true color of his eyes. I owned a tee shirt that color and slept in it often. He'd pressed his palm to the window and I had placed mine over his. Our first touch. He hadn't rushed out to talk to me, to finally make real contact with the woman he had seduced through glass.
We had our rules.
Lifting the notebook to smell the rich oil that had been worked into the leather I blinked away a teardrop. I didn't know what to say. This gift was tremendous. It was everything.
It was a sign.
I exhaled, feeling my breaths flow out and my chest empty. A slow intake of air. A little yoga breathing always calmed my nerves.
"I'm going to do this. I have to. I'd be a fool otherwise."
Clutching the notebook, I grabbed the red envelope and sailed into the bedroom where my unmade, king-size bed welcomed my stomach-first plop onto its cushy, down comforter. The lamp by the bed glowed. If I wanted him to see me at night it had to be on. I'd performed as if on stage before the window, my audience rapt. And he had returned the performance.
Now…the next act.
I pried a fingernail along the sealed edge of the envelope. I wasn't going to open it without some damage to the fine paper. That upset me. I liked to keep things neat. The pile of clothes on the easy chair by the window didn't count. I didn't have a bedroom closet, so it was either the standing garment rack or...the toss. Neatness was more a mental control issue for me.
Rolling to my back, I unfastened the buttons on my blouse. The room was warm despite the cool weather beyond the window.
To tear or not to tear? I appreciated his exact attention to detail. If I wanted to venture to the next level with him, I was going to have to work for it. To pry things open and dive in.
I peeled at the corner, and since I'd already done the damage, tore it until I could stick my finger in and slide it along the uppermost fold. From inside, a piece of crimson paper half the size of the envelope dropped out and landed on my chest.
Anticipation tingled at the base of my throat. I sucked in the corner of my lower lip. Would his email address provide a clue to his name? That would go against our rules. I wanted to know his name. And I did not. The not knowing fueled this wicked fantasy that I currently cruised through reality.
Enough stalling. I flipped the card over and read the email address written with a black sharpie in neat, squared letters: [email protected].
I laughed. I'd never seen him fencing naked. But I had seen him moving about his living room wielding a rapier and clad in mask and padded vest. The way our buildings were angled, our living rooms were too far apart to see well. Our bedrooms, though, jutted up at a diagonal to one another, only fifteen feet from window to window.
The email address was the only thing written on the paper. No name. Whew. He'd stuck to our rule. The guy really was trustworthy. I sniffed the paper. No scent. No clue to his aftershave. I wanted him to smell like spices spilling from a terracotta jar.
Allow me my extravagant fantasies.
I held all the power now. I could Skype him. And we could continue our touchless liaison. But instead of being absent touch, smell, taste and sound, we would only be absent touch, smell and taste.
Sound.
I wondered what his voice sounded like. Was he the Frenchman I fantasized him to be? Or maybe he was some other nationality? He apparently understood English because we'd communicated in our notes that way.
Hooking up with a sexy Frenchman was tops on my fantasy list. It was one of the very reasons I'd moved across the ocean from good ole Iowa. I'd wanted to have a glorious affair with a musketeer—er, um, Frenchman. (But if he'd been a musketeer in his past life? All the better.)
Pinching the crimson card between my fingers, I tilted my head back to spy the gorgeous Christian Louboutin shoes sitting on the floor—black leather tied with black velvet ribbons about the ankles. The card was the same color as the shoe soles.
Coincidence?
I didn't believe in coincidences. Everything happened for a reason. And for some reason, Monsieur Sexy had tapped into my innate desires and touched me even while he was in another country.
"Naked fencer, eh?" A shiver of anticipation scurried up my neck and tickled my ears.
I eyed the laptop that sat on the vanity beneath a scatter of freshly-washed bras and panties I'd yet to put away. Contact with my window lover was but a few keystrokes away.
I grew wet thinking about how deep and sensual his voice might sound. Reaching down, I lightly danced my fingertips over my mons, the pubic hair shaved to a short and neat kinda-oval. I was still creamy from the daydream. I wanted to hear him whisper at my ear all the things he fantasized about doing to me.
Sitting up, I reached for the laptop and signed onto Skype. I typed in his email address, then back-spaced, deleting it completely.
"I can't use my regular email. It has my name in it."
Not cool. Names were everything. Names were power. Names…could be looked up online and a person's entire world could be discovered in less than five minutes.
I wanted to retain some mystery. It felt right. Besides, it was our rule.
It occurred to me that I didn't have a different email. A secret for-online-lovers-only email. So I browsed over to Google Mail.
What handle should I use? Windowstripper seemed too obvious, and not classy enough. Besides, it was taken. Sexthroughglass was just weird. Also taken. WishingforaFrenchman? Not taken, but again, reeked of desperation.
The notebook lay on the comforter next to my leg. I would never admit to him that I had a thing about writing in notebooks. I couldn't do it. Couldn't make a mark on that first pristine page. And I owned half a dozen blank notebooks to prove my strange affliction. I traced a fingernail along the bee's wing and got an idea.
I typed in beesweetforyou and, remarkably, that name was not taken. It was corny, but I liked it, so I registered, and headed back to Skype.
After I'd entered all the new info and added nakedfencer to my contacts list, my fingers hovered over the trackpad. It was nearing seven at night. Still early, yet if he'd worked since arriving in Berlin, he might like to get some sleep.
And you are making excuses. Do it!
I toggled from call to chat. A call would bring him up on the screen, and me as well. A chat would merely be like online texting. I knew he'd intended for us to video chat, but…
I clicked on chat. If he didn't have Skype open I could leave him a message, close the laptop, and bury myself under the sheets in embarrassment at having actually made the leap from window to keyboard.
But really? I had lost my inhibitions while doing the stripper pasty dance for his birthday before the window. The vixen I'd once kept secreted deep inside had skipped up to the fore and was eager for this next step.
So I typed:
Finally opened the envelope. Hi! Bonsoir, I mean. Uh, I'm a little nervous. Couldn't bring myself to video chat for this first contact.
I hit send.
The green light next to his name clued me in that he was online. A few seconds later, I got a reply. My heart dropped to my gut. "Holy shit." He was there. We were about to communicate in real time.
So pleased you took a chance opening the envelope. Chat is fine for tonight. I'm tired. Flight was turbulent and gave me a headache. Entertained clients all afternoon. Just arrived at hotel.
God, he typed fast, and I loved his typing voice.
Beesweetforyou, eh? I like it.
I typed quickly. Thank you for the pretty notebook. How did you know I like bees?
I've seen your robe. It was a guess. Pleased you like it.
I pulled the notebook onto my lap. I love it. But I don't know if I want to write in it. Wouldn't know what to write.
His green light flashed while he typed. Write in it all the things you don't dare type or say to me.
Oh, that sounded deliciously naughty. Notebook confessions? Salacious tidbits that I'd keep only for myself? I might be a
ble to manage that.
I wrote: So how do we start? This is...different. I feel like I know you and yet not. I sound like a fool. LOL
I love your laugh, he wrote. You always laugh after you come. That is sexy.
Seeing those words on the computer screen set my heartbeats to a rapid thunder. The man could seduce with only the written word. I didn't have to see his pretty eyes or his gorgeous smile. This man could keep me up all night—
Yikes. The battery level was on red. I had but minutes remaining. Where was the power cord in this mess of a room?
Have to find power cord. Running out of juice.
Don't worry about it. I hate to make this quick but... I need to get some sleep. Six a.m. meeting tomorrow. Can we begin for real tomorrow night?
I understand. And yes, tomorrow night.
I'm so pleased you took the next step, mon abeille.
Mon abeille? What had he just called me? Dare I ask? No. I'd look it up. But that confirmed that he was French. Mostly. Maybe?
I typed: I'll look for you around seven?
Sounds good. But will you really look? Will I be able to see you tomorrow night, as well as hear you?
I exhaled heavily, and typed. Yes. I promise.
You make me happy. Bonne nuit.
Same to you.
I clicked to sign off then because I didn't want to do the drawn-out linger, and even as I clicked the laptop screen went black.
"Whew. I did it!"
I rolled to my back, trailing my fingers over the warm aluminum laptop body. The crimson card crinkled under my elbow.
"Mon abeille," I whispered.
I had to plug in my laptop so I could look up that word.
Chapter Two
My bee.
The next morning I dashed from the bed to my desk in the living room. First thing I did was go to freetranslations.com and look up mon abeille. I'd learned enough French to get by since moving here, but that was still barely bonjour and merci. I could definitely understand it more than speak it. And that was more important to me, anyway.
He'd called me my bee. How cool was it that he had a nickname for me? Had he mouthed it as we'd stood before the windows baring our souls through naked skin?
I wondered what he'd think about the nickname I'd given him: Monsieur Sexy. A guy could go either way with that one. He could be flattered, or he could find it ridiculous and condescending. I wouldn't worry about it. Because overthinking always tended to segue into worry, and beyond that, freaking out.
I tapped the keyboard, eyeing the Skype app. It was nine a.m. He was at work. As should I be.
Pushing the laptop away on the desk, I spun up and floated into the bathroom to brush my teeth. It's difficult to brush when your smile wants to stretch ear to ear.
"My bee," I said as I tapped the water from the brush and then replaced it in the medicine cabinet. "Oh, Monsieur Sexy, I can't wait to talk to you tonight."
And I would talk to him. I'd utilize the video chat. I made that promise to myself as I wandered about my bedroom, gathering up clothes for the day from the floor. It was Tuesday. I had a lot of research work to do. And yet, the messy floor scattered with skirts, shoes, and books coaxed me to pick up more than a few things.
Two hours later, I sat on the bed in the pink tee-shirt and grey yoga pants I'd excavated from beneath a pile and exhaled a satisfied sigh. "I have not seen this room looking so clean in months."
I'd even organized the books by subject stacks. And, I'd checked online for bookshelves from Amazon. They were due to arrive within the week. I'd acquired a lot of books since arriving on French soil. They seemed to breed. But somehow the idea of actually installing bookshelves seemed so permanent.
I'd only intended to stay in Paris three years. The standard time for the skills and talents residence card I'd applied for. I could re-up for a ten-year resident card if I wished. I hadn't given it much thought yet. I loved Paris, but it would never be my home. I was American to the core of my red, white and blue bones.
With my library organized, I felt as if I'd made great leaps for womankind. I skipped out to the kitchen to make a salad for lunch. Spinach, snap peas, cauliflower, sunflower seeds, and feta cheese crumbles. A few sliced olives on the top, with a drizzle of olive oil as dressing. Voila!
I sat down to eat and eyed the bee notebook sitting on top of a stack of client files. I didn't dare touch it without risking olive oil on the leather cover. He was so thoughtful. The man was too good to be true.
I sat back on the kitchen chair, chewing. Thinking.
What was wrong with him? Most men would never figure out something so personal about a woman's likes without even holding a conversation with her. It was as if he were super-perceptive. Or one of those creepy stalkers who had investigated his prey and now was cozying up to her before he chained her in his basement.
My fork clattered onto the table. I shook the horrifying image out of my skull. Did something have to be wrong with him?
"No, he's just smart. And attentive."
I plucked an olive from the salad and popped it in my mouth. Surely, he had noticed the embroidered bee on my robe and took it from there. Which didn't make him ideal by any means.
"He could still have bad habits. Like leaving the toilet seat up. But he is a single man living alone. Why put it down? Maybe he never washes his dishes."
I couldn't see into his kitchen from my view across the street. A huge plant hung near the window that blurred view of anything beyond. Who watered the plant when he was gone? If he had asked me and I would have gladly agreed to do so. Then I could have snooped about his place—no.
Stabbing a fork into my salad, I shook my head. I had no desire to snoop. I'd witnessed his most intimate moments. Anything else was just window dressing. Or stacks of dirty dishes.
Ah heck. Who was I kidding? I belonged to the female species. Snooping was encoded in our DNA.
After lunch, I opened the notebook and...taking a deep breath and wielding a pen, lingered over the blank page. And lingered. And...
"Oh, just do it. Write something about him."
Pressing the pen to page, I actually wrote something. Yay, for me! I'd marked the clean page with my thoughts.
Okay. Enough excitement.
I checked Skype—no messages—then was determined to get in four or five hours of research before breaking for a muscle-stretching walk along the Seine. It was fall, after all, and I wanted to take advantage of the dwindling nice days before winter swooped in on icy wings.
The lure of roasted chestnuts also drew me. Vendors set up along the river to hawk their sweet autumn wares. I bought a crinkly package and nibbled the warm chestnuts while watching the bateaux mouches glide tourists before the Trocadero's bombastic fountains.
When I returned home after dark, a message waited on Skype. Almost dark, that is. The sun had set and the sky was gray, but it wasn't the liquid night that filled the sky when there was no moon. The city never managed to grow completely dark for all the streetlights and spotlights focused on tourist attractions and landmarks. Paris did not sleep.
Nakedfencer had sent me a message five minutes earlier. You there?
I sat before the desk, fingers poised above the keyboard. It felt almost as nerve wracking as it had when lingering over the blank journal page with pen in hand. Hmm, this didn't feel quite right. If I was going to hold a conversation with him tonight it had better be where I felt most comfortable chatting with him.
I picked up the laptop and padded into the bedroom. And...decided to shower before settling in for a chat, that, with hope, may stretch into the early morning hours. It had been windy during my walk, and more than a few times I'd dodged puddles disguised with colorful leaves. I needed some freshening.
I typed in: Taking a shower. Ten minutes and I'm all yours.
The quickest shower in my life still managed to get my hair clean. I scrubbed the stick-straight strands with a towel and combed it. I was growing it out. Past my shoulder
s now, I envisioned it spilling down to my hips so I could braid it a la some Disney princess.
Oy. That was a random thought. I didn't want to be a princess. Princesses got stuck in dusty old castles spinning wool and tending dwarves. I wanted to be queen of my castle. And whether or not a king sat beside me was entirely up for negotiation.
Padding naked into the bedroom, I tugged on the silk robe and pressed my fingers over the bee embroidered above the left breast.
"Mon abeille," I said with glee. Jumping onto the bed, I settled against the pillows and pulled the laptop onto my thighs. The wallpaper on the screen featured Romain Duris grinning at me. (French guy. Look him up.)
My naked fencer had written: Long day at work. Look forward to talking with you. Showered. Wine in hand. Music on low. You like to listen to music?
I replied: I love music.
With that cue, I opened up iTunes and found something to set the mood. Elvis's greatest romantic hits. I sang along, "I want you, I need you, I love you." Perfect.
Listen to music often, I continued typing, except when I'm working. Research assistant, as I wrote to you before. Work usually ten to four, but sometimes add hours on weekends. Hi! It's so cool chatting with you like this.
He replied immediately so I knew he was there, reading in real time as I had typed. I inhaled, countering my thudding heartbeats with a calming breath. He was so close. Much closer than the window had ever allowed. Because he was right there, beyond the screen.
He wrote: Can we switch to video? If you are nervous, you shouldn't be. I've already seen you. All of you. I want to hear your voice.
He followed that with a smiley face emoticon.
I rapped my fingers next to the trackpad. I knew it was coming. I wanted it to come. (And, oh man, could he make me come.) I needed to hear his voice, too. To finally hear the gorgeous laughter that had reduced me to swooning sighs against the window so many times.
The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin Page 14
