A Second Chance at Paris

by Cole McCade

  But before she could speak, he said, “Your work is your life.” His eyes flicked to her hand, barely a moment’s relief before he took her captive again with each soft word and the deep lancing blue of his gaze. “No ring. Not married. Anyone you’re dating isn’t serious or they’d be here—but I don’t think there is anyone. You’re too dedicated. Too focused. But you aren’t the committed businesswoman you want people to think. By day it’s power suits and lipstick in the perfect shade of red, but that’s not you. You put on a good front, but when you think no one’s looking…you wish on stars.”

  He stripped her with his gaze, delving deep and prying out her most vulnerable parts to leave her hollow and almost bruised inside. “You think you’ve forgotten how to dream,” he said, “but really…you’re just waiting for the right dream.” His lashes lowered, shading eyes that fell to her mouth. His voice gentled. “You’re lost, Celeste. You’ve lost your way, and you’ve been hiding from that for a very long time.”

  His insight was painful. Was she really so transparent? She stared at him, throat clotted with words she couldn’t say. Her lips tried to shape sounds but nothing escaped, lungs squeezed off and refusing to work.

  He looked toward the boat’s prow. A weight lifted off her chest; she drew in a desperate breath, pressing her face into her palms.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “Two years of psych at university, and I think I know everything.”

  She brushed back a few strands of hair that had escaped her ponytail—anything to give her hands something to do. Anything mundane to break this pall. “You can tell all that just by looking at me?”

  “You haven’t said I’m wrong.”

  She forced a laugh. She tried for light and careless, but came closer to needs a straightjacket. “Is this your usual pickup routine?”

  “No.” Ion chuckled and watched her over his knee like a drowsy lion. “My usual routine would involve something about how mercurial your eyes are, in this light.” A contemplative sound rumbled deep in his chest. “I can’t quite make out their color. Sometimes they’re flashing quicksilver. Running water. Then you turn your head, and they’re the violet of sunset shadow. Fascinating transition, really.” His smile turned wry, self-mocking. “Now this is the part where you laugh in my face and tell me to stop reading romance novels and smothering you with cheese.”

  Celeste ducked her head and told her stomach to shuffle right back down where it belonged. Casual flattery meant nothing. He was a writer, and writers liked pretty words. Flowery crap she’d be stupid to fall for.

  “Maybe I should. I’m less fascinating and more disastrous anyway,” she said, tongue thick. “L’Oreal may be my best friend, but we’re not on speaking terms tonight.”

  “You don’t need artifice to be beautiful, Celeste.”

  She couldn’t help laughing. “Smooth. Definitely a writer. Completely full of it—and slinging it everywhere.”

  “If by ‘it’ you mean bullshit, that’s been the story lately.” He flicked his hair out of his face. “Haven’t written a word in weeks.”

  “So you went sightseeing?”

  His lips twitched. “Something about the river clears my head.”

  “It is lovely.”

  “Brings back a lot of memories.”

  Memories like Lily?

  She went cold. If Ion knew who she was, he wouldn’t be rhapsodizing over her eyes or peeling her open with his unsettling perception. He’d be smirking and asking if she’d figured out the business end of a Bic.

  The boat gave a groaning creak. She looked up; the shoreline drew closer, and the dock loomed several yards ahead. She’d been so engrossed in Ion she’d missed the tour, and hadn’t even realized the boat had turned around.

  She needed to get away from him anyway. He made her wish for things she couldn’t have—things she’d learned not to want.

  “Looks like this is our stop.” She stood. Her first step made her wince. Pain shot up in electric frissons, jolting from her toes to her ankles. Her feet had swollen into her boots. Great. She took a few hobbling steps, sucking her breath through her teeth each time her weight pushed down on tender soles.

  A graceful exit, this was not.

  Ion caught up, a warm shadow at her shoulder. “You’re limping.”

  “I’m fine. My hotel isn’t far.” A lie, but she wasn’t about to tell him she’d been stupid enough to wander miles on blistered feet.

  “Let me call you a cab.” He caught her arm gently.

  She stopped and looked up at him. She wished she wasn’t so hyper-aware of his every touch, until even his light grasp burned through her hoodie like the core of the hottest star. She licked her lips. “I doubt we’ll find a cab after midnight.”

  “This is Paris, Celeste. The city’s barely waking up after midnight.”

  “It’s fine, really, I—oh!”

  Heated hands clasped her. The world tilted sideways. The riverside swung past in a blur as she was lifted up, gasping; her eyes crossed. When they uncrossed, her first impression was that she was very, very high, and staring dumbfoundedly at the river from a height several inches above her normal eye level.

  Her second impression as that she was very, very warm and Ion’s chest was very, very solid and oh God, he’d picked her up and was holding her and any moment now a witch would fly past on a bicycle and a house would drop on the boat and her blistered toes would curl up inside her ruby slippers, oh Auntie Em, Auntie Em…

  Her body went rigid, but inside she fizzed like a shaken can of soda. She stared at him. “Wh-what are you doing?”

  “Getting you off your feet.” He studied her with a hint of a smile, then turned and carried her toward the stairs. “And taking you for a drink.”

  “You could have asked,” she breathed.

  “If I had, you would still be limping.”

  Couldn’t really argue that logic.

  Ion carried her down to the lower deck, maneuvering through the narrow stairwell with ease, never even bumping her feet. She tried to relax, but felt like she’d been thrust on stage in the middle of a play without knowing her lines. She couldn’t figure out where to put her hands, and settled on draping one arm over her stomach with the other hand resting on his chest. The V of dusky skin past the open neck of his shirt tempted, drawing her to the dip of his clavicle and higher, where his pulse beat against his throat. Her fingers toyed, of their own volition, with his top button. Under her palm, his heart throbbed just a little harder. She wanted to lean into him, close her eyes, and just feel him breathe.

  He cleared his throat softly. She jerked her hand away and curled it against her stomach. Strangers. Right. This wasn’t one of her high school daydreams where Ion swept her up and kissed her. She could at least pretend to have her act together.

  With lithe surety, he toted her down the ramp onto the dock. Before she could protest, he’d cut a path through the other passengers and onto the sidewalk—and didn’t put her down.

  “Ion, I—”

  “Relax. It’s just up the block.”

  He brought her to an outdoor café lit by Christmas lights strung along the edges of white patio tables, shaded by canvas umbrellas. People dotted the tables in intimate clusters, leaning over drinks, faces bathed gold in the illumination from small tea lights. The scents of coffee and buttery bread reminded Celeste she hadn’t eaten since her in-flight dinner.

  Ion brushed past the concierge to an empty table, where he hooked a chair leg, drew it out, and settled her in the seat. His hand grazed her back before falling away as he straightened. She shivered and drew her hoodie closer. Only the cold, she told herself. Only the cold.

  “I could have walked here,” she murmured. “Really.”

  “I wouldn’t have enjoyed that nearly as much.” He claimed a seat and signaled a waiter. “Anglais?” The waiter nodded. “Bourbon, neat. Devil’s Cut, if you have it. Merci.”

  “Rum and Coke,” Celeste added. The waiter jotted it down and left.
She glanced around the café, out at the street, to the skyline, anywhere but at Ion—who watched her with a borderline expectant silence. Say something, idiot. “So…are you in Paris on business, too?”

  “Non. I live here.”

  She blinked. He’d moved to Paris? She opened her mouth, then snapped it closed. She wasn’t supposed to know he wasn’t from France, or anything else. Let alone that he’d gone to school in Louisiana, graduated second in their class after her, and…

  …and she was starting to feel like a creepy stalker.

  “Your…um…your accent sounds American,” she fumbled. Lamely. Oh so very lamely.

  He laughed low in his throat and leaned back in his chair. “I grew up in America…sometimes. My parents wander. They say it’s the Roma blood. I was lucky they settled in Louisiana long enough for my sisters and I to finish high school, when they flit around so much they still aren’t sure which country I was conceived in.”

  She knew this story. She knew far too much about him, but something about hearing him tell it, the way his voice lilted and rumbled, entranced her.

  But he’d trailed off, gaze unfocused, lips caught in the remnants of a smile. “I’ve never had the wandering urge. The first time I saw Paris, I knew I’d always come back.” He shrugged. “The French government lets me stay, provided I go back to America a few weeks a year and keep my visa up to date.”

  “Sounds like the perfect life.”

  After long moments, he said tightly, “I suppose most would think so.” His gaze cleared, fixing on her again. He rested his chin on curled knuckles. “So how much do you charge, Miss Consulting Astrophysicist?”

  “Um.” She froze. That…was abrupt. “Normally I, uh…negotiate a flat fee to complete a project over a certain period. Renegotiable if the project extends longer or requires anything outside the scope of the original service agreement.”

  “And in English that means…?”

  Celeste grinned. “A lot.”

  “No hourly rate?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “My books are about a girl who would be everything. Hence the film title.” He paused as the waiter returned with their drinks. He lifted his bourbon to his lips, but didn’t drink, murmuring against the glass. “The indomitable Violet Sparks. She’s been a spy, a programmer, a zookeeper, a fashion designer, a geneticist…maybe she’ll try astronaut next. For research, I interview professionals in the field. I believe ‘starry-eyed space cadet’ meets the required qualifications.”

  Celeste picked up her drink and took a sip so huge she almost couldn’t swallow. It burned her throat and forced her spinning thoughts to clarity. Oh, hell. He wanted her to consult on his book. The pit of her stomach tightened with mingled hope and disappointment. He’d been flirting since he’d approached her on the boat. Had he just been testing the waters since he’d found out about her work?

  Or was he genuinely interested in her?

  She nearly groaned. What was she thinking? She’d been through this before. She wasn’t hanging her star on Ion Blackwell again. A chance encounter in Paris meant nothing. She was getting as far ahead of herself as she had when, at sixteen, she’d already planned their wedding—outside under a starlit sky with an arbor arching overhead, and tiny flowers woven into her hair.

  She couldn’t think about this. Not when she had more important commitments. She couldn’t give a man what he needed; she’d learned that lesson already.

  And she couldn’t give Ion anything—so she had to believe he was only interested in business, and still she wasn’t sure she could help him. Consulting meant seeing him again. Being near him. Losing herself when her heart turned over every time he looked at her and said her name in that whiskey-soft voice.

  She wasn’t sure she could handle that.

  “Two fifty an hour.” She tossed back another swallow of her drink. Maybe the price tag would scare him off.

  He raised a brow. “Steep.”

  “So are my student loans. Doctorates don’t come cheap.”

  “All right, Doctor Consulting Astrophysicist. One fifty.”

  She laughed. “We’re talking American dollars, right? Two twenty-five.”

  “Two hundred.”

  “I’ll consider it.” Her eyes narrowed; she tugged her glasses off and idly slipped the end of one arm in her mouth, chewing at the already-ragged tip while she turned it over. She couldn’t actually be thinking about this, could she? “Maybe. But don’t call me. I’ll call you.”

  “You don’t have my number.”

  “That was a glaring hint to give it to m—” Her phone trilled in her pocket. Her blood turned to ice. She stared at Ion, too numb to move; fear fell over her like black rain. This time of night, it could only be Ophelia—which meant something had happened to their father. Problems with his meds, or he’d forgotten where he was and…and…

  Still ringing. Ion watched her with mixed concern and curiosity. She dredged up a plastic smile. “Just a moment.” To her, her voice sounded cracked and far away as a child speaking into a tin-can phone. She shoved her glasses back on and fumbled her cell from her pocket. The caller ID only confirmed her fears.

  Haverford, A. 985-555-3127. The house line.

  She closed her eyes, sent up a prayer, and answered her phone.

  * * *

  Ion watched Celeste’s face whiten, stark contrast to the living blackness of her hair. The fear in her eyes—silvery lilac in full light, their pale brilliance almost alien—roused an unfamiliar surge of dark, protective anger. Whoever was calling terrified her. He wanted to take the phone from her and throw it into the Seine.

  She held up a hand and answered the call. “Yes?” Tension sizzled along the lines of slim shoulders. “How? Is he all right? …no. Did you—”

  Celeste paused and flashed Ion a look, as if just remembering he was there. Her body hunched and she turned away. Ion arched a brow. If he didn’t know better, he’d think that was guilt flitting across her face and tightening the soft fullness of pale pink lips. He leaned back in his chair and watched, but politely held his silence.

  “Did you give it to him?” she asked, low and rushed. “No. No, that’s okay. I’d rather know than not.” She shook her head. A few strands of hair drifted free of their tail, resting against the china-smooth column of her throat. She toyed with them fretfully, fingers shaking. “Not here.” Another furtive glance for Ion. Whatever it was, she didn’t want him to know.

  Interesting.

  “I’m heading back to my hotel,” she said. “I’ll call. Yeah.” She hung up and stood with a hasty smile. “Sorry. I need to go.”

  He reached for her. “Wait. Are you in some kind of trouble?”

  “No, I just—” She pulled back as if burned. “It’s private. I’m sorry. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Blackwell. Thanks for the drink.”

  “Celeste.” He stood, but she backed away. “Your feet. You can’t walk.”

  “I’ll get a cab.”

  She thrust back from him, putting more distance between them. The hard beat of her pulse leaped against her throat, drawing him to the vulnerable, sweet slope tapering into the fragile ridge of her collarbone. Fear. He smelled it like a predator on the hunt. Right now he almost thought she was afraid of him.

  The question was…why?

  “Let me at least wait with you,” he said. “It’s after midnight. You shouldn’t be alone on the streets of a strange city.”

  “No,” she said with a ferocity bordering on panic, and shook her head, wild locks flying. She swallowed, throat working visibly, eyes sheened wet. “I’m sorry. I have to go. Goodnight, Ion.”

  Before he could stop her she turned and ran, threading through the chairs and tables. The last he saw of her was one graceful hand, gripping an umbrella post on the far edge of the seating area. Then she was gone, swallowed into the Parisian night.

  Ion sank back into his seat and picked up his bourbon. An irrational part of him wanted to chase her—to find out what co
uld make her look at him with such dread, and…something else.

  Almost as if she knew him.

  He’d think he’d misread her, but he hadn’t. Not when this was his life, his job: knowing the subtle cues of body language that expressed emotion. Her face, fine and fragile as glass, had shone with terror. She feared him, but it was more than that. She’d looked as if he’d hurt her, and he’d be damned if he knew why.

  He finished his drink, lingering, wondering just why she intrigued him. He’d come out tonight to find inspiration; instead he’d found a mystery.

  A woman who looked at him with eyes full of stars…and ran from him as if he’d already broken her heart.

  After leaving a few Euros on the table, he stood and walked out to the riverside. The echo of Celeste’s warmth and weight still tingled in his arms, surprisingly slight for someone so tall. She’d fingered his shirt, leaving tiny creases. He brushed the top button, half-loose from her gentle, questioning touch.

  Moments like these tended to stay with him the most: the way her fingertip had circled the button, the sweet shyness with which she’d withdrawn her hand. Such things were how he remembered people. He remembered his mother by the way her hair curled in little curves just under her ears; friends by a particular way of cocking their hip, the shape of the cleft above their lip. Those details, to him, made people real—and captured characters, committing moments to paper until they took on a stark granularity that made them definitive, singular, unique. When he wrote, he searched for those details to bring each scene to life and make it as real as possible.

  Make it unforgettable.

  But he couldn’t put his finger on just what made Celeste London leap out at him as if he’d imagined her long ago, and had been waiting for a story to bring her to life. When he’d seen her at the railing, watching the stars and whispering Guess I wasted a wish, that rush of familiarity had struck. His body had locked, and once more he’d waited, hoped.

  And once more he’d been disappointed. He smiled. He’d called Celeste a dreamer, which made him a hypocrite. He dreamed every night of someone who wasn’t real. The woman he’d met tonight was very real, and entirely captivating. He wasn’t sure how he’d found himself talking to her with such ease, but when she’d said study me and he’d looked into her wide eyes, framed by such pale skin and dark hair, he’d realized…he wanted to learn more about this woman who hinted at being more than the character archetype he’d outlined. So many didn’t. So many were their stereotype; rarely did anyone surprise him.