This was more than a daydream. Daydreams were generally good. This was a reality nightmare.
So was I concocting a wife for him? Perhaps the old man with the insurance papers had heard Monsieur incorrectly? Or if he was married, maybe it wasn't a happy marriage? Were they on the skids since she was away so much?
Could I hope?
I covered my face with my palms. I'd lain on the gray chaise in the living room since returning home from collecting my purse. Rain poured outside, battering the window. A reflection of my inner war? Of my inability to accept this one as a loss?
I sat up and shook my head. "I have to keep a calm head about this. I owe it to him. I owe it to myself."
Right?
I could do this. I had to get the facts before jumping to wild accusations.
I'd lain on the couch through his lunch break, so a lunch chat was out of the question. I'd sign on to Skype tonight and we'd talk. And I would ask. Just put it out there. Do you have a wife? I'd know if he lied to me. I just would.
He'd been so kind and good to me. He couldn't be married. Married men who cheated kept their mistress a secret, bought them expensive bribes, and—oh!
"Fuck!"
I had to stop thinking about it or I'd have a raging migraine by the time the sun set. I hadn't eaten lunch. Making something to eat would distract my thoughts. Or better yet, I'd run down the street to the grocery and look for some fresh salad items. The walk in the rain would clear my thoughts.
***
A man's hand reached for the fuzzy peach the same time I'd grasped the plump fruit. He playfully tugged, then relented.
"You have taken the best one," he said in what I guessed was an Irish accent.
Oh, but European accents were always my undoing. Hell, I was already undone. In the worst way possible.
What had the Irishman said? Indeed, I had taken the best piece of fruit. And I wasn't about to give up my booty. I'd just had something very meaningful ripped out of my life. I was keeping the damn peach.
"Naturally," I said, and looked up to fall into a pair of dazzling blue eyes.
He was older, probably pushing forty to judge the gray tufts above his ears and the creases on his forehead and at the corners of his eyes. Black hair had been shaved closed to his scalp and a short-trimmed beard framed his face and eyes. His handsome quotient was equal to the foreign accent quotient—killer.
My wounded heart managed a weak flutter.
"Could I trade you two plums for that one peach?" he said, plucking up two dark purple baubles and juggling them in his palm.
"I'm afraid I have my heart set on braised peach with goat cheese," I offered.
"You tease me with your culinary machinations. You are dining alone?"
An odd question. But I decided he was being flirtatious. And guess what? I liked it. I needed the release in my tight and tense shoulder muscles. While Monsieur Sexy's image had staked claim in the frontal cortex of my brain, I was desperate to paper over it with something different. Something kinder. Something not French. And not so…married.
My eyes veered to the man's fingers. No visible gold band or a tan line indicting a missing wedding ring.
Monsieur Sexy did not wear a ring either. Sneaky.
"Yes, alone," I finally answered. "I don't share my peaches with just anyone."
That got a blushing tilt of head from him. "I would hope not. Do you live in the area? I have not seen you before. I have lived in this neighborhood for five years."
"I do, but I'm not looking to share," I reiterated. I may have slipped into desperation but I wasn't certifiable. "Bonsoir, monsieur. I do thank you for surrendering the peach."
"Any day, mademoiselle."
I strolled toward the front of the store, plastic shopping basket hooked on one moist arm. It was still pouring outside, but I'd worn a scarf over my hair for the dash to the store. Tilting a look over my shoulder, I discovered the Irishman watching me. He tossed a plum in the air, and winked.
I returned a warm smile. Mercy. It had been a while since I'd flirted. The detour had been necessary.
As I paid with a credit card, and slipped the few items into my reusable bag, I tendered one last look back into the store before leaving. The man was nowhere to be seen. I couldn't manage a regretful sigh. Probably for the best. I didn't need him following me home or becoming a stalker.
The concierge had carried up two huge boxes from Amazon and leaned them against the wall outside my apartment door.
"The bookshelves. My books will be so pleased."
I dragged the boxes inside and found them a home against the inner wall, then made supper. Cut in half and pitted, the peach braised under the broiler and topped with softened goat cheese and a touch of brown sugar made for a delicious meal. A frisky white moscato and half a baguette topped it off.
Barefoot and clad in comfortable jersey slacks and a tee-shirt, I wandered into the kitchen, depositing the dishes in the sink. I'd wash them in the morning with the breakfast dishes. I had to work at the map shop tomorrow. Would I want to? Much as a distraction appealed, the idea of sinking into myself and wallowing lured more strongly.
Skyping tonight felt ominous. But necessary. I had to know. One way or another. I hoped for the best, but my heart was already picking out mourning black.
Really? Me, the girl who agreed with her best friend that the shortest relationships were the best? The one who had laughed off a desperate marriage proposal from a man whom she'd caught with his head between her BFF's legs? The one who wasn't ready to settle into anything except a sexy pair of high heels?
I tugged up my tee-shirt, prepared to slip into the yellow silk robe before opening up Skype. I pulled the shirt down. I didn't want to do this half-dressed. I would feel more confident with clothes on.
Actually, I'd gained a lot of confidence by basking before Monsieur Sexy's gaze while completely naked. I had become a goddess comfortable within her skin. It felt empowering.
Now the sigh did escape.
"A spurned goddess," I muttered.
Didn't all the pissed-off goddesses usually retaliate with hellfire and unspeakable punishments that lasted a thousand lifetimes? Monsieur Sexy should be glad I hadn't done research on Greek goddesses. I was out of my element regarding revenge.
Eying the laptop sitting on the end of the bed, I decided to take it out to the living room, away from the camera setup. He'd have to do with my face before the screen. And if I had blown things out of proportion, and it turned out Francois DeCardes the building manager was delusional, I could always move back into the bedroom to end the night in the usual manner that involved much heavy breathing and an orgasm, or two.
Setting the laptop on the coffee table, I then paced before the window. Still raining. Every-so-often lightning crackled the black sky. Nights like this usually put me in a smoldering, romantic mood. I loved to have sex while the rain pattered the windows.
I touched the cool glass. Beyond the water streaks, his building loomed. Would this be it? If he really was married, that meant I'd never see him, never touch him, never… Why did it bother me that I wouldn't be able to fulfill that need for touch?
Because! I am woman. Feel me breathe, sigh and desire. And oh, but I ached for contact.
It was about twenty minutes past the usual time we connected. I'm sure he'd already pinged me.
"Just get it over with," I coached.
The getting it over with part felt so…final. Would this be our last conversation? Ever? It could be if he was married. Because how to get beyond something like that? It would make me the other woman. I was no man's other woman. That was so not cool with me. I would not inflict that kind of pain on another woman.
But I may have already done so. Would she find the credit card receipt for the dress? Surely, he kept a private account for his liaisons.
Liaisons? Kill me now.
How could he do that to his wife?
I was working myself up again. My pacing had increased,
as had my breathing. Stopping to inhale deeply, I concentrated on the in and out, in and out of my breath. It brought me down, but could never completely tether me to calm.
I leaned over and opened the laptop cover. Skype automatically opened when I signed on, and it pinged, indicating he was online. Waiting. Completely unaware of what I now knew. Last time we'd chatted I'd confessed my underwear theft and we'd had a rousing cyber-sex session that had left us both panting.
My God, I'd sent him the All Saints Day party invitation. Damn it.
"Be cool," I cautioned. "He's playing reluctant anyway."
Was his reluctance due to the fact that he was married? Of course! Why else would the guy not want to meet me? Ugg. I so had not seen this coming.
I signed on and the video stream displayed the side of his face. Glasses on, he was reading, which he did when I hadn't made it to the computer before or at the same time as him. He held a newspaper, and I could make out the headline but couldn't interpret the German. Did he speak German? I think he had mentioned as much. He must if he were teaching in Berlin. Talented man.
There was so much about him to admire.
"Hey," I said, sitting on the couch and leaning forward, elbows on my knees. "Did you have a good supper?"
"Bonsoir, mon abeille. I did indeed eat well. McDonalds' big cheeseburger and fries."
That startled me. He was pretty health conscious. I mean, a guy who fenced regularly and sported washboard abs probably didn't touch the greasy stuff.
"Seriously?"
"Yes. I don't normally eat the fast food, but I walk by McDonalds every day on the way from work to the hotel and—I don't know—the smell lured me in. It was good. Though I may regret it soon enough."
"I guess a greasy, carb-loaded meal should be considered a necessary treat every so often."
"I had the chocolate milkshake, too. I haven't had one of those since I was a kid."
"Really? My favorite as a kid was a rootbeer float."
"I've never tasted rootbeer."
"Never? That's absolutely scandalous. I'm going to have to find you some rootbeer and STAT."
"Is it better than a chocolate milkshake?"
"By leaps and bounds. I promise you, after you've had vanilla ice cream mushed up in a glass of rootbeer you will have dreams about it."
"I dream about you."
I caught my chin in palm and smiled at his handsome and sincere visage. "I dream about you, too."
"About me fucking you?"
"All the time. All day. Every night."
"Did you run over to my place to get your purse?"
"Yes. Oh." I sat upright. My heart dropped to my gut. Ker-splash.
I'd forgotten. Seriously forgotten. I'd fallen into his sky-gray eyes and the surprise of his fastfood foray, and the utter shock of the man never having tasted rootbeer, and—had completely forgotten.
I clenched my fingers before me and looked at them. The knuckles turned white. I suddenly felt defensive. For no reason. He should be the one on the defense.
"I got the invitation," he said. "A costume party?"
I stared at the screen, hearing, but not processing his words.
"Two days following when I return? I suppose we can manage that, eh?"
He could manage that? What was that supposed to mean? Did he even care? Or would he have to schedule it around his wife?
"So what is it tonight, mon abeille? Shall we fuck together or can I watch you do a strip tease?"
"Are you married?" I blurted out.
I caught my fingers against my lips. My heart jittered as if it had just been poked with a cattle prod. I exhaled through my nose.
"Wh-what?" He leaned forward, catching a palm against his temple.
"You heard me. I asked you a question. You need to answer it truthfully. I need to know."
"Mon abeille—"
"Please! A man spoke to me after I left your flat. The building owner. He needed you to sign some insurance papers."
"Ah, yes. His email did not mention meeting you—"
"He called me Madame. Thought I was your wife. The wife you'd told him travels a lot and who isn't around much. What. The. Hell?" I gripped the computer screen as if it was his face and I needed to hold him there. To make him feel my consternation and pain. "Are you married?"
He bowed his head, rubbed his lips with his fingers. Looked aside, then directly at me. I couldn't read his expression. He conveyed no expression. His eyes were flat and his mouth straight.
Yet when he winced, I knew the answer before he plainly said, "Yes."
"Oh, fuck no." I stood and paced toward the wall.
"You need to listen to me. Let me explain."
"Explain?" I rushed back to bend before the screen. "What explaining is there to do? You're married! I've been having an affair with a married man. I can't believe this. I trusted you!"
"Mon abielle, you cannot do this. Do not rage as you are doing. Be calm and listen to me."
"Fuck calm." He was telling me what to do when he should be apologizing? "How can you do this to your wife?"
"Sit down."
"No. I'm not going to do anything you ask me to do. This is insane."
"You have to be calm."
"I will not!"
"Really? So you are going to stomp your pretty little shoes and pull out the dramatics?" He made that innately French phawing sound of disgust. "I thought you were different."
"What?" Heartbeats thundered now. And my fists were clenched so tightly I wouldn't have been surprised to feel blood drip from my palms.
"You heard me. Different," he reiterated sharply. "Not like other women who rant and toss out dramatics when they are upset."
"Oh, I'll give you dramatics, buddy."
"Why do I have to do this with you acting the child?"
"Child? How dare you accuse me, when you are the one who is in the doghouse, mister?"
"I do not know what that means."
"Oh, yes you do. You're just playing the French card to piss me off."
He waggled an accusatory finger at me. "You are annoying when you are like this. I will not listen to you until you are calm. And then we can talk."
"If we don't talk now, it's never going to happen. You explain yourself."
"Will you listen calmly?"
He was playing for time. I knew it! He was an asshole of the finest water. He'd confessed. Straight out said yes. The man was married.
I paced again, furious.
"Don't be stupid about this," he said. "You have a tendency to blow things out of proportion. You and your thinking too much. You know that!"
So I did just that. It wasn't his place to point that out. Especially now. I suddenly wished we could go back to how we'd started. With no sound, just gestures and movement. I had a hand gesture for him.
"Asshole!" I couldn't control my anger. I had to say it.
"You think I'd invest my time with you just to have it end because of this small detail?" he countered.
Small detail? The man was delusional.
"No," he continued. "I have spent the past month getting to know you. Learning you. Enjoying you. Hell, I don't even know your name, and yet I count the minutes when I can next see and talk to you. Is it fair to fall in love with someone and not even know their name?"
"Love?" I sat before the laptop, my body so tense my fingers hurt. "You have no right to use that word about us. You can't love a woman when you are married to someone else."
"Is that so? Who are you to tell me how to think and feel? How to love? Who to love? When to love? This is what I feel about you, mon abielle, and I mean it."
"You do not. You are tossing out that word to try and win my sympathy."
"I cannot do that. I have always been honest with you."
"Honest? Really? Seems like you forgot to be honest about something very important in your life. Would you have ever told me you had a wife?"
He exhaled. Ran his fingers roughly through his hair. Normally I wou
ld have creamed my panties at the gesture. Now, I wanted to punch the laptop screen.
"Honesty?" he finally said. "Being married is not a fact a man leads with when he's in a new relationship."
"I can't believe you."
"Je t'aime, mon abeille."
I scoffed loudly. Wasn't knowing you are in love a very specific point in a relationship when a man should reveal the wife? Aggh!
"Ah, but maybe you do not know the meaning of the word," he insisted. "Is it that you are one of those women who string a man along for a few weeks, perhaps a month, and then you dump him and on to the next lover?"
I breathed out. The exhale hurt at the back of my throat. Had he heard conversations I'd shared with Melanie as we extolled the virtues of the quickie relationship as opposed to investing more than a month's time in any particular man? We were right at that one-month expiration date.
And right now, this thing we had felt oh, so beyond the use-by date.
"I won't listen to you put me down to defend your betrayals."
I slammed the laptop shut and slammed my back to the chaise. A wave of tears spilled down my cheeks and I rushed to the bathroom. Turning on the shower and undressing, I stepped under the water so my neighbors wouldn't hear me bawling.
Chapter Twelve
I stared at the closed laptop for five minutes. Maybe it was ten? Could have been longer. Right now I wanted to talk to him as much as I wanted to physically hurt him. Much as I hated him, I had invested in him. The man had become a part of me in ways I couldn't define. He was Monsieur Sexy. My Monsieur Sexy. The man knew things about me I rarely shared with anyone.
Love? I wasn't sure. But I felt strong like for him most certainly.
Did he really believe he loved me? Some hearts worked that way. It wasn't my place to judge if the velocity with which he ransomed his heart was true or false. But if true, the idea of him loving me also sickened me. What would Madame think?
Madame.
Kill. Me. Now.
I had every right to rage and slam the laptop shut. Every right. But had it been the grown up thing to do? Definitely not. And hadn't I decided before signing on to Skype tonight that I was going to listen calmly? If I thought that I could think myself into all sorts of crazy scenarios, real life had a way of trumping that tenfold.
The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin Page 25
