Where would I go if I were Christophe?
A few moments of thought, then it hit me—I knew exactly where he had gone.
***
Thankfully, the lobby wasn’t quite as crazy as the casino. Starting at one end of the Euphrates, I followed the winding stream as it meandered under bridges, around corners, through the vast expanse of the lobby. I was beginning to doubt my assumptions about my young Frenchman when I spied a flash of green and blue among the reeds on the opposite shore. Bolting to the nearest bridge, I crossed and raced back. Parting the reeds, I stuck my head through and found myself gazing at an almost hidden glen.
Christophe Bouclet sat cross-legged in the middle, his eyes as big as saucers as he watched a mother duck and her brood of babies. As immobile as a statue, only the boy’s eyes moved as the ducks came closer and closer, unaware of the tiny human lurking there.
Keeping my eye on the boy, I backed away so as not to scare the ducks, and keyed my Nextel. “Jerry,” I whispered. “I’ve got our missing boy.”
“That was fast.”
“I know it won’t come as a surprise, but I have no trouble thinking like a five-year-old.”
He rewarded me with a laugh.
“Please tell Chef Bouclet immediately that I have his son and will return him in a few. I’d like some time with the boy. Jean-Charles will understand.”
“You got it.”
“Take care of it personally, will you? Last I saw him, he was headed toward his restaurant. It’s important and I want to be sure he gets notified quickly—he’s frantic.”
“Will do.”
Turning down the volume, I repocketed the Nextel and took a deep breath. Here goes nothin’.
Tiptoeing, and careful to move slowly, I stepped into the small glade. Lifting the lid on a small canister hidden among the bushes, I took a fist of duck food, then sat down, Indian-style, next to the small boy.
He put a finger to his lips as he looked at me with his father’s eyes, and crawled right into my heart. “Shhh,” he said. “Don’t scare the mama.” His English was as good as mine, but with a much more attractive accent.
“Here.” I opened his small fist and poured in a bit of food. “Toss it out there. Don’t feed them from your hand—the big ducks will bite the poo out of you. Watch.” I sprinkled a little food just beyond his feet, luring the ducks closer.
Christophe giggled as the ducklings swarmed around him—the mama duck quacking orders, which her babies seemed to be ignoring. Used to humans, the mother duck didn’t seem too worried by our presence. When Christophe’s hand was empty, he stuck it out for a refill without taking his eyes off the birds. My handful was about five of his. I kept dribbling food into his hand until, finally, we had exhausted the supply.
“Can we get more?” Christophe asked, giving me his full attention for the first time.
“We don’t want to give them so much they pop.”
The boy smiled. “Okay. But can we come back again?”
“Any time you want.” We watched as the mother duck herded her brood through the reeds into the water. “Christophe, perhaps we should go find your father. He is very worried.”
The boy turned to me, his face turning serious. “Worried?”
“You didn’t tell him where you were going. He couldn’t find you.”
Tears welled in the boy’s eyes. “I didn’t mean to make him afraid. Do you think he will be mad?”
“Not too.” I stood and held out my hand. Christophe tucked his in mine, and hit my heart—a child’s hand strums a primal chord. “We’ll find a way to make him laugh.”
“What is your name?” Christophe asked as we stepped through the reeds and out of our own little world.
“Lucky.”
A smile tickled his lips, chasing the worry from his eyes. “That’s a funny name.”
That’s me, good for a laugh. “Yes, but it’s the only one I’ve got.”
“I like funny names. My friends think my name is funny.”
“I think it’s very unique and grown-up.”
Pride puffed the boy’s chest. “I like you.”
“I like you too.”
People filled the lobby, bumping into us and almost tripping over the small boy as we worked our way toward the entrance to the Bazaar. Pulling Christophe to a stop, I knelt down so we were eye to eye. “Would you mind if I carried you? I think it would be better that way.”
He extended his arms to me.
Propping him on a hip, I held his small body to mine. “Better?”
His hands gripped my sweater—one in the front, one in the back. “You are almost as tall as my father. Do you think I will be this tall when I grow up? I like it.”
“Whatever you will be, it will be special.”
We paused at the glass in front of the ski hill and watched the skiers. Christophe delighted in one man who skied effortlessly down the hill, graceful, as if the skis were extensions of his legs. “My father told me, when I get bigger, he will take me to ski in the big mountains near my grandparents’ house.”
“You can learn to ski here, then you can practice on a mountain north of here, Mount Charleston.”
“Really?”
“The skiing is not like the Alps, but it’s a good place to practice.”
“Will you come?”
“Sure. That’s where I learned to ski when I was your age.”
He looked at me as if he couldn’t imagine me being a five-year-old, but he took me at my word.
***
Jean-Charles paced in front of the restaurant, working the crowd, his eyes scanning. Chatting with customers in line, greeting each of them with a handshake, or a pause for a picture, he looked relaxed, casual, but his posture belied his tension. When he caught sight of us, he visibly relaxed, his shoulders losing their hunched look, his face settling into a gentle smile, his eyes holding love—a little of which I hoped might be for me.
“Papa! I have made a friend!” Christophe shouted when we got close, turning heads.
“I see.” Jean-Charles’s eyes held mine as he ruffled his son’s hair and gave him a kiss on his cheek. “But you and I must have a talk about disappearing like that. You know better.”
“Yes, Papa.” The boy’s face fell.
“But not now. Rinaldo is making you a fresh milkshake.”
Christophe’s smile returned. “Papa, this is Lucky. She showed me how to feed the baby ducks! They came right up to me. I wanted to touch them, but she said no, they bite. We are going to feed them again and then ski on the mountain!”
Christophe wiggled in my arms like a puppy, his excitement bubbling over…contagious.
“Really?” Jean-Charles smiled at his son, then gave me a wink. “You two are going to be busy.”
“I found him down by the water in a clump of reeds—he’d been following the mother duck.”
Jean-Charles stroked my cheek, the look in his eye a mixture of emotions I couldn’t read. “Thank you for my son,” he said, then, ignoring Christophe’s shocked look, he leaned in for a very satisfying kiss.
If he kept doing that in public places, eventually I was going to embarrass myself.
“Papa!”
“Lucky is my friend, also.”
“Really?” The boy cast a delighted look between us. “Then can we invite her over to play?”
“May we?” Jean-Charles corrected. “You’re not tired?” he asked his son, who clung resolutely to me.
“No! Pleeeease?” Christophe drew out the word, pleading as five-year-olds do.
Jean-Charles, a smile lighting his face, and something altogether different lighting his eyes, turned to me. “Would you like to come home…to play?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Chapter Twenty
Christophe proved to be a delightful host, squiring me around his house, showing me all the good places to hide. We looked at his toys—he was seriously into heavy equipment. We played several tennis matches on his Wii
, before the boy’s energy began to flag. Seizing the moment, Jean-Charles bustled his son off to a bath—I got in on the sudsing, then we both put him to bed. Before I left his room, Christophe rewarded me with a kiss—one on each cheek. The kid was going to be a heartbreaker.
Waiting in the family room, I chose a modest Bordeaux from Jean-Charles’s impressive collection, decanted it to breathe, and set two bowl-shaped wineglasses on the bar.
I was really getting in deep. Things were happening so fast. I felt adrift, yet strangely anchored. My mind shouted for me to run, my heart willed me to stay.
So, I did what every self-respecting woman of a certain age would do in this situation—I poured myself a drink. A glass of wine, to be more precise—Jean-Charles would just have to catch up.
Sipping my wine, trying to make it last, I stared through the French doors to the patio and pool—lights casting shadows that moved with the invisible wind—like ghosts…or angels, waiting, watching.
Jean-Charles snuck up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist, putting his chin on my shoulder. Our reflection in the glass made me smile.
“You were a huge hit with my child, as I knew you would be.” He took my wineglass and set it on the bar next to him.
“He is his father’s son, delightful in every way.” I leaned back, pressing against him, my head lying back on his shoulder, my cheek against his. “Would you like some wine?” I asked.
“Mmmm, that means I would have to move.” He nuzzled my neck, sending delicious jolts to my core.
“Jean-Charles, right now all of this seems so fantastic, so perfect. But what if we don’t work? We’re adults and can deal with the fallout, but what about Christophe? Aren’t we setting him up for a fall?”
“Is that what you believe the future holds for us?”
“If I did, I wouldn’t be here. But I’m smart enough to know there are no sure things.”
Jean-Charles turned me to face him, holding my body pressed to his. Gently, he brushed my cheek with the back of his fingers. “None of us gets through life without a little heartbreak. I want to teach my son to seize life, squeeze the joy out of every day. Life is wasted if you let worry and fear make your choices for you. We are resilient—so is Christophe. Trust life, Lucky. Trust me.”
His kiss was tender, with a hint of things to come. My body molded to his, my arms around his neck, my hands in his hair. He deepened the kiss and I lost myself.
Pulling back, his breath coming hard, he said, “The time must be right for you. You do not have to stay.”
“No. I don’t.” I tried to calm the beat of my heart, but it wasn’t happening. “Do you want me to stay?”
“More than anything.” Jean-Charles met my gaze, his eyes dark and serious.
“Then ask me.” I no longer cared whether this whole thing was too fast, or not fair to Christophe, or the wrong thing right now, or whether I was on the rebound, or would get my heart broken. I simply had to be here—I had to stay, to feel his arms around me, his flesh on mine.
“I know this seems so fast, too fast to be real,” he said. “But, when I look at you, when I hold you, I know in my heart this is right, this is good—it is real. Please stay with me. Let me show you how I’ve come to feel about you.”
“Only if you let me do the same.”
***
The shades in his bedroom were closed, the lights dimmed, a few candles flickering softly. I gave him a grin as he led me inside then secured the double doors behind us.
“I had hopes,” he said with a shy, half-embarrassed smile that warmed my heart. Opening the doors on the fireplace, he lit the logs, then extinguished the lights leaving us bathed only in the glow from the flickering flames.
My hands moved to the buttons on my sweater.
Jean-Charles shook his head. “Let me.” His head bowed, he concentrated on undoing each of the tiny buttons. His hands shook a little—I liked that.
Where his fingers brushed my skin, warmth radiated. If he didn’t hurry, I wasn’t going to have a functional sweater to wear home.
When he had my sweater undone, with both hands he pushed the delicate fabric back, over my shoulders, letting it drop to the floor. He swallowed hard when he looked at me.
From the look on his face I guessed the black lace had been a good choice.
“You are beautiful,” he whispered as he hooked one finger under a strap. “Did you wear this for me today?” he asked as he slid both straps over my shoulders. His breath caught as the delicate fabric gapped away from my skin.
“I wear this every day—for me.”
“You are more French than you think.” His hands slipped around behind me and undid the catch, letting the lace fall away. His hands found my flesh—his thumb brushing an already taut nipple, taking my breath. “Every day, when I catch sight of you at work, this is what I will see.” His hands drifted to the waistband of my slacks.
I stilled them. “Not yet. Now it’s my turn.”
He waited while I unbuttoned his shirt. His eyes never left mine as my hands roamed over his chest before pushing his shirt away. Warmth radiated from his skin, taut muscles rippled under my touch, his desire barely contained.
“You know what they say about not trusting a trim chef?” I teased as I delighted in him.
“In Europe, we know how to appreciate the finer things in life,” he whispered as his eyes wandered the length of me, then recaptured mine. His hands filled with my flesh. “Quality over quantity.”
“Show me.”
His mouth captured mine, demanding, plundering, taking my breath and firing a need, a desire, like none before.
Finally, flesh on flesh, we fell on the bed, a tangle of limbs…feasting. His mouth, his hands, tasting, touching, for the first time…arousing, making me his own.
***
Wrapped in Jean-Charles’s arms, thoroughly sated, yet somehow knowing a lifetime of having him would never be enough, emotions tumbled through me. So fast, yet so perfect. Terrifying, yet comforting. A complete surrender.
A cool breeze wafted through the open doors—I vaguely remembered him opening them. Actually, what I remembered was brief moment where his skin was not on mine, his hands were not teasing, arousing…pleasuring. I sighed and pulled him tighter to me, burrowing into him. My Frenchman and his emphasis on quality had been mind-blowing—but the quantity was pretty darn impressive as well.
As I nuzzled his neck, I felt him stir. “Are you asleep?”
“Drifting,” he whispered as he nibbled my ear. “From the first day I met you, this is what I have been dreaming about.”
“As I recall, our first meeting was a shouting match.”
He chuckled. “Yes, there was fire even then. And we will argue more—it is inevitable.”
“Lovers and business partners,” I mused. Life with the volatile Frenchman wouldn’t be dull, if we lived through it. “I’ve heard make-up sex can be amazing.”
“What is this? Make-up sex? I do not think imaginary sex would be so much fun.”
“That would be made-up sex. I’m talking about where a couple fights, then reconciles—in colonial English that is called ‘making up.’”
“Ah. Sex is about passion. Anger is passion. So, one could make the other better, non?”
“Between you and me,” I whispered as I pulled his lips to mine. “I don’t know how it could be any better.”
***
A scratching noise jolted me awake. Disoriented, it took me a moment to remember where I was. Then the memories flooded back, warming me to my toes. Spooned around me, Jean-Charles breathed softly in my ear, the measured cadence of sleep.
The noise sounded again. Someone was at the door.
“Papa?” Christophe whispered as he worked the door handle.
Jean-Charles didn’t stir. Clearly he was exhausted. For some reason, I didn’t feel badly about that at all.
Easing myself from his arms, I rooted in his closet for a pair of sweatpants and a shirt. Cloth
ed, I unlocked the door and greeted a very surprised little boy.
“Shhh. Your father is asleep.” I took his hand. “Let’s go to the kitchen. I’m starving.”
Christophe allowed me to lead him across the great room. At the foot of the stairs curving upward to the second floor, he paused. “We have so many rooms. Why did you sleep in my father’s bed?”
Formulating an answer, I stared into his wide, innocent eyes.
“You slept with Uncle Jean?” came a lilting, female voice from the landing above. A trim young woman, with a tangle of brown curls, wide, knowing eyes, and a lush mouth, which was now curved into a huge grin, bounded down the stairs.
The two youngsters stared at me.
“You must be Chantal,” I said to the beautiful girl standing in front of me. “My name is Lucky, and to answer your question…yes.” I never had learned the subtle art of beating around the bush. “Would you happen to be hungry? I know it’s only six a.m. here, but it must be dinner time in France.”
“Can you cook?” The girl eyed me warily.
“What I do in the kitchen would probably be a punishable offense in your family, but I can make pancakes. You two up for that?”
***
Chantal took my list of ingredients. Searching the cabinets, she found all the essentials—only a chef would have made sure his kitchen was fully stocked when he moved in—a chef and a father. I melted butter, while the girl sifted all the dry ingredients together in a large bowl.
“I want to help,” Christophe said from his perch on the edge of the counter. “Pancakes are my favorite.”
“Your turn is coming up. You have the most important part.” I caught Chantal looking at me and I gave her a wink. She rewarded me with a grin.
I turned on the griddle and plopped a wad of butter on it.
Handing me the bowl, Chantal asked, “So how was it? Uncle Jean is pretty good, non?”
Caught by surprise, I juggled the bowl, catching it in the nick of time. I gave her a wide-eyed look.
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