The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin

by Michele Renae

  The mobile rang, and I dashed to it, glad to find the glass screen was not cracked from the fall. It was a text message from my student. He was cancelling because of a family emergency.

  Just as well. I pushed the off button and connected the mobile to the recharge dock in the kitchen. I'd make it up to Hollie tomorrow. And hope she didn't hold it against me like a certain woman was expert at doing.

  "Bitch," I muttered yet again. Couldn't help it.

  I marched down the hallway, ripping off my shirt and tossing it to the floor. I hit the shower with a yell, a cathartic release of voice. And I punctuated that sound with a pound of my fists against the slick tile wall. Bowing my head under the shower stream, I closed my eyes and shook my head.

  I had never thought to become a part of my own cautionary tale.

  Chapter Nine

  At noon, I Skyped Hollie but she was brisk with me. She'd taken a last-minute shift at the map shop and wouldn't be home until late because after work she planned to meet a girlfriend at Angelina.

  I was disappointed I wouldn't see her today, but maybe I deserved the shut out after last night. That whole woman scorned thing was working a number in my life right now. But I didn't suspect Hollie's engagement was anything but normal life, not premeditated to avoid me.

  Maybe?

  I hurried through the afternoon class and got my students set up with reading homework for tomorrow, and then dismissed them an hour early. There were five in the online class, two from Ireland, and three from here in France. They worked for various companies. None was qualified to actually teach virtual machines after this course. I did keep my eye open for possible employees during the classes.

  After work, I set out to pick up a single man's dinner. At the wine shop, I selected a particularly dry Zin. I'd worry about finding the right food to match with it as I walked. I strolled the Quai de Conti in the 6th arrondissement, parallel to the Seine and paused before an elite home decor shop that sold furniture from centuries past, and imported knickknacks to take home and set in a corner where they would collect dust.

  The featured piece of furniture in the window caught my eye. It was gray velvet and tufted, the color similar to the chaise in Hollie's living room. And it was huge and round.

  "She would love that."

  She certainly hadn't the room for it at her place.

  "But I do."

  I strolled inside and purchased the piece. And since the driver was in, they would deliver it today. I couldn't wait to see Hollie's reaction.

  ***

  The crowd at Angelina made the line stretch down the sidewalk, and our wait near twenty minutes. Even though the weather was chilly Melanie and I didn't mind. We were bundled with scarves and gloves, and standing close to the building we didn't catch the blustery December wind.

  "Where are you spending Christmas?" I asked as we neared the door, eager to finally breach the threshold and stand inside. Though I guesstimated we still had another five minute wait once inside. "Let me guess. Last year it was Greece. The year before, some sandy beach in Morocco. So this year I'm thinking skiing in the Alps?"

  "Cherie, I hate skiing. I don't like the danger, you know," Melanie said with a flit of her hand that said 'yes, I am a snob and pretty, so suck it' but without any snideness. She was a tall, gorgeous redhead who could attract a man from across the ocean with but a flutter of lash. And she collected lovers the way I collected books. "Burkhardt and I are traveling to Dubai. He promises to buy me whatever catches my eye."

  "Which could be diamonds, furs, watches, or a sportscar."

  "All of the above!"

  We laughed and the doorman signaled that we should enter the building. Melanie swept off her leopard print silk scarf with élan and unbuttoned her coat; shaking her hair over a shoulder with a practiced tilt of head only a model could manage.

  "What about you, Hollie? Will you still be sleeping in your sexy Frenchman's bed by Christmas?"

  "I hope so," I said without thinking.

  Her raised eyebrow only made me jealous of how perfectly tweezed it was, and that I would never manage such a gorgeous arch.

  "I know what you're thinking," I felt the need to say. "We've been involved since September. Why such a long relationship?"

  "Exactly, my dear. You don't want him to think you actually want this thing to get...cozy." She mocked a shiver.

  The line moved up quickly, and the hostess gestured we follow her through the elegant but crowded dining room toward the back where we were seated at the wall before an old gilt mirror that reflected Melanie's perfect hair and my wind-blown tangle. I avoided preening and shuffled off my coat before sitting. I already knew what I was ordering, and it wasn't going to be savory or healthy by any means, even if it was suppertime.

  One should never waste a trip to Angelina by ordering off the dinner menu.

  The waiter handed us menus and told us he'd return. Melanie thanked him in perfect French.

  Which reminded me. Jean-Louis had asked me to take a French class. I suppose I should look into that. Next year. I mean, I didn't want to push it. Learning a new language was quite the endeavor. I had to work up to it slowly, be really sure I was in for the experience. And that I wanted to do it for me, not just for him.

  Because cozy sounded good to me.

  I leaned across the small table and asked Melanie, "What if I'm up for cozy?"

  "Oh, cherie, no."

  "Why not? He's adorable. He loves me. I think I could love him."

  "Love doesn't have to last forever. In fact, a few weeks are just right. You can love him like crazy and fuck him as crazily. But you have many years ahead of you, Hollie. And he is married."

  She stated it as a finality, and should I be so stupid as to ignore that pertinent detail then woe be unto me.

  "You told me the wife is stringing him along with the divorce?"

  "Yes." I sighed. "You know, I initially felt like I was the other woman, but the more I think about it, I'm beginning to feel that she is the other woman."

  "Interesting."

  But she wasn't all that interested. I could tell that from her dismissive tone and her insistent need to make eye contact with the waiter.

  He responded quickly, and Melanie touched my wrist before I could order. "I'll do it, she said. Then she proceeded to order us hot chocolates (to-die-for; trust me) and macarons for me (she knew me well) and a fruit tart for her (her excuse to eating healthy because there was fruit nestled in the custard and sugary glaze).

  "Hollie, I think you are in danger," Melanie said after the waiter had flitted away. "Are you emotionally involved with this man?"

  "Yes."

  Simple as that. It had been over two months. Hard not to see the man almost daily—even if some times were only through a window or via a computer screen—without becoming emotionally involved.

  "I see." She rapped her glossy red fingernails on the edge of the white linen tablecloth. "Then I wish you well," she said airily. "He is a handsome man. Educated. Successful. I just hope he doesn't break your heart."

  "Heartbreak is a two-person enterprise," I suggested. "I don't believe it can ever completely be one person's fault. I am willingly investing my time in him. I have to expect he will do the same. And should his heart change about me then I'll face that when it happens. Not like I haven't been dumped before. And I have dumped a few guys in my lifetime, as well."

  "Don't call it dumping, cherie. It is merely moving onward. Packing up one's necessities and leaving the heavy baggage behind. One must always walk swiftly away from the past. And flip it the bird when doing so." Her wink relaxed my apprehensions. "So does that mean you and your Frenchman have Christmas plans?"

  I wiggled on my seat to think about it. The holiday was only a few weeks away.

  "We haven't discussed anything yet. His mother is a world traveler. His father lives in Marseille. I'm not sure if he spends holidays with his family. I'll probably send my dad a card. You know we're not close."
r />   "Family is tedious," Melanie stated. "But be thankful you still have some. And don't ever let the ties between you and your father grow too thin."

  "I won't."

  I knew Melanie and her parents were estranged because of money. They were rich and they wouldn't give any to their daughter because they wanted her to move home to New York and start a family while Melanie was content to travel the world and collect oodles of lovers. Stupid reason to deny a child financial support. But Melanie didn't need it. She could take care of herself nicely (thank you, sugar daddies).

  Now that I thought of it, what would I get Jean-Louis for Christmas? I'd never been big on holidays and exchanging gifts. Okay, that's not entirely true. I loved getting presents. It was the buying presents for others that drove me batty. I was thankful most people liked getting gift cards. Made gift giving less stressful.

  And in that moment the perfect gift did come to mind. Oh! I'd have to make a trip to Shakespeare and Company, the famous ex-pat-founded bookstore that sat across the Seine from Nôtre Dame. If my gift idea were to be found, that store might have it.

  The treats arrived and I poured a serving of hot chocolate into my white porcelain cup emblazoned with the Angelina logo. It was thicker than my grandma's gravy. And oh, it was delicious topped with the Chantilly cream served on the side in porcelain demi-cups. I bit into a macaron and took a moment to praise the heavens for chocolate.

  "Uh, huh," Melanie said from across the table. She held her own thankful vigil. "Here's to chocolate. And love," she offered, putting forth her cup to clank against mine.

  Surprised at the toast, I matched hers and offered, "And to hot sex."

  "Hallelujah. But not with the assistance of those silly blue pills."

  "Blue pills?" I paused mid-bite of another macaron. "You mean to get it up?"

  Melanie nodded. "My last lover was a bit older. We were in Berlin a few weeks ago. He took good care of himself and had a great physique, but when we were between the sheets and I was primed and ready..." She leaned forward over the table, lowering her voice, "He excused himself to take a pill. Said he needed it!"

  "Wow. Way to kill the moment."

  "Right? As if I wasn't enough for him. So he returns to bed with a big grin on his face and says it'll take a bit to get him hard. Meanwhile, I've come down and want to roll over and go to sleep."

  "Men. They think sex isn't sex unless they get off. They can't imagine having sex and letting the woman have pleasure. No hard-on? No fun."

  "Exactly! And do you know that thing stayed hard for over two hours? Hollie, I can only fake it for so long. Needless to say, I haven't seen him since."

  I rolled my eyes. I couldn't imagine being in such a situation. Buzzkill, for sure. "I'm so glad Jean-Louis has evolved."

  "Really? He doesn't need to come every time?" Melanie asked with great doubt in her tone. She ladled another cloud of Chantilly cream into her hot chocolate.

  "Nope. In fact, sometimes it's all about me."

  "Well then, I will not continue to berate you for your tediously lengthy relationship, cherie. Sounds like he's a keeper after all. But if he ever brings out the blue pills..." She sighed and tilted back a healthy swallow.

  "I'll tell him Melanie would like to have a word or two with him."

  "Yes, do that, please. We must stop the insanity, one man at a time."

  The two of us laughed over that one, and didn't care that the tables around us were staring. Had they heard our risqué conversation?

  If so, I could only hope the old man seated across the table from a younger lover would take our words to heart.

  ***

  I hadn't seen Jean-Louis yesterday and I missed his sexy smile. As well as his iron-hard abs that undulated like well-oiled machinery as he pumped above me. And his rigid cock. And his throaty groan when he came. And the sparkle in his eyes when he glanced over his shoulder at me while cooking. And the sable rum scent that lived in his pores. And...

  Yep, I was over being miffed at him for his abrupt departure during what should have been a romantic dinner for two. The poor man. That wife of his was putting him through hell. And I wanted to know all the details.

  Then I didn't want to know anything. Because to know would make me a party to the conflict. And as much as I wanted to know what sort of woman he had fallen in love with and married, I also didn't think it was right to be included in what should strictly be a matter between the couple.

  I could tell myself that, but did I buy into it?

  Hell no.

  I did want the juicy details. And I was thankful for another shift today at the map shop. It kept me from dashing across the street to my lover's loft and drilling him. I didn't even know the wife's name. I didn't want to know it.

  Jean-Louis and I had kept our names secret for a month before revealing all. Names were so powerful. And I think if I knew her name, it would become an earworm in my brain. She'd haunt me. I didn't need that kind of headache.

  Before landing at work, I ventured a block further to Shakespeare and Company and—score! They had exactly what I had hoped to find. The day could not get better. I had found the perfect Christmas gift for my lover. And now I could set that worry aside and concentrate on work.

  Hours later, snowflakes fell heavily outside the map shop window. I'd only helped one customer since arriving at noon for my shift. Richard, the shop owner, had sounded rattled, and said he'd be in later, around six, to take over for me. I'd said I could handle a full shift until eight or even ten if the tourist crowd was heavy, but he'd insisted.

  Days like today could be maddening if the shop didn't get a few customers every hour. Tourists bustled about on the snowy sidewalks. Photographers captured their opus works of the nearby Nôtre Dame festooned with a white draping of snow, and the bateaux mouches even glided up and down the Seine in this weather.

  I suppose if you're crazy enough to vacation in Paris in the wintertime, you'd want to do it all, even the hop-on/hop-off bus tours that stopped up the street from the shop. Tourists could get on the bus and hop off at a popular landmark, then get on another bus when they were finished, and do a circuit of the city.

  I spied a crazy couple, bundled in winter coats, knit hats, scarves and mittens, sitting on the open top of a bus.

  "Must be from Iowa," I muttered, and smiled at my own joke.

  Yeah, we Iowans were known to jump in freezing lakes clad in only our swimming suits for the heck of it. We held turkey bowling tournaments on shiny ice rinks. We even ran marathons during blizzards. Because we're cool like that.

  I was thankful Paris didn't see as much snowfall as Iowa. And living in the city, I could take the métro anywhere without having to walk out in the elements too far. Life was grand.

  Toss in a handsome Frenchman who adored me? I must be living the high life. And please, don't shoot me down. I intended to float on this cloud as long as possible. Even if Melanie poo-pooed the long term relationship. At least my man didn't need a little blue pill to get it up.

  Heh.

  The afternoon crept by. I had dusted every framed map on the walls, all the stacked upright map files, and even Richard's desk in the back room. The pink eviction letter still sat in his in-box. He'd not said anything to me about it, but when I did the math, I figured he needed to vacate the store before Christmas. Happy Holidays! Not.

  I would ask him about it when he showed later. I needed to know that he was going to be okay, that he had finances, a means to survive. He was a good man. I had overlooked the odd pass he'd made at me a few weeks ago. He'd remarked about my tight sweater and sexy shoes, and had stared at my breasts an inordinately long time. I'd marked it off as a bad day. Or maybe he was taking the blue pills, too?

  Laughing, I shook my head, and sat down behind the cash register, catching my chin in a palm. The snow had stopped. Street workers shoveled the sidewalk and chattered around the cigarettes hanging out the corners of their mouths.

  I laid my head down on my forearm a
nd...dozed.

  The shove to my arm woke me like a pitiful movie heroine, hair smushed against my cheek and muttering, "What?"

  "Do you often sleep while working, Hollie?"

  Richard. Shit. It was never cool to allow the boss to catch you snoozing.

  "This is actually the first time it's ever—"

  "An explanation isn't necessary," he said in sharp tones that heightened his British accent. "It'll make what I have to say all the easier. No patrons today?"

  "A few."

  I pulled the sweat-sticky hair from my cheek and tugged down my blouse. Whew! I must have fallen into some REM. I actually felt a little disoriented.

  "I don't sleep on the job, Richard. In fact, I got a lot done—"

  "I'm going to have to let you go, Hollie."

  Arm extended to display the excellent dusting I'd done today, it hung there, caught in the odd moment as I rewound those words through my head.

  "What?"

  "You're sacked, Hollie. Sorry. Have to do it. Can't have my employees sleeping on the job."

  "But I never sleep. Trust me, it was so slow and I was watching them shovel outside, and... You aren't seriously going to fire me because of this?"

  He strode into the back room, and I shuffled around the cash register after him. "Richard? Come on, it's almost Christmas. I promise it will never happen—"

  He put up a palm, stopping me. I stepped back at the rude dismissal. I'd never seen him act so confrontational. But beyond that, he was just being unkind.

  "Is something wrong?" I tried. My eyes veered toward the pink eviction notice. "If you need to talk about it."

  "Hollie, please." Richard's shoulders sank, his back to me. When he exhaled heavily, I could feel his pain as a dark cloud entering my heart. He turned, head bowed, and splayed out his hands. "It's not because of you sleeping. It's because..." The man winced.

  The tension that tightened his jaw and reddened his face made him look older than his forty-some years.