Forbidden Fantasy

by Tiffany White

  Maybe she was going round the bend.

  Having lost her appetite, Zoe decided not to stay for the tasting. Outside the Cordon Bleu, she was getting her bearings as to which direction the nearest metro station lay when she felt someone tug her arm.

  “Mademoiselle… mademoiselle.” A small boy shoved a bouquet of fresh flowers and a white embossed box into her arms, then started to leave.

  “Wait… I…who?”

  The young boy turned and pointed to the flower stall. “Ce monsieur.”

  There was no one at the flower stall but the old woman who sold the flowers.

  The boy looked surprised, then scurried off into the crowd.

  The old woman at the flower stand continued to smile. Zoe waved and started toward her. “Madame qui…le bouquet?” she asked with her limited French.

  The old woman shrugged to indicate she did not know.

  “Merci.” Zoe handed her a tip anyway.

  As soon as she was out of sight of the woman, Zoe tossed the bouquet of flowers into a trash receptacle. Flowers held bad memories. Her husband had used them as hollow apologies whenever he’d worked too much. She was also tempted to do the same with the white box, but decided instead to save it for Lauren-Claire to open, knowing she would get a big kick out of this latest development.

  As she rode the metro back to the apartment, she speculated as to who her secret admirer might be. With her luck, it was probably the little old man in the beret she’d sketched as a French king.

  Or was it the man with the long dark hair and wide shoulders leaving the metro? She glanced around the crowded car, but no one fitted the description.

  Having a secret admirer was flattering, even exciting. She shook off the little thrill that traveled up her spine at the thought that it was also a little dangerous.

  “See, I knew I was right!” Lauren-Claire exclaimed with a smug nod, when Zoe told her about what had happened at the cooking class and showed her the square, flat, white-embossed package.

  “What’s in it?”

  “I don’t know. I saved it for you to investigate.”

  “What? How could you carry it all the way home and not look inside the box?”

  Zoe shrugged.

  “What if it were a bomb?”

  Zoe let the package slip from her fingers and drop to the sofa. “Yeeck!”

  “I was kidding. Can I open it?” Lauren-Claire asked, reaching for the package, her dark eyes shining with excitement.

  “Sure.”

  Slipping off the lid carefully, she shoved the tissue wrapping aside and whistled. “Whoever he is, he’s got yummy taste… Agnès B.” She read the label as she lifted a pink mohair cardigan from the box.

  “Glad you like it, it’s yours.”

  “No way. This is a gift to you. You have to wear it first,” she added with a grin.

  “I’m not wearing it.”

  “I know, you can wear it tonight.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Right. Remember the students I met on the metro the other day? Well, I sort of promised them we’d meet at the Bus Palladium tonight. You’ll come with me, won’t you? I’d hate to go there alone.”

  “What is the Bus Palladium?”

  “It’s the club where everyone goes.”

  “I don’t know, Lauren-Claire. I’m a bit old for that crowd.”

  “Oh listen to you, Grand-mère,” Lauren-Claire joked. “You aren’t even thirty yet.”

  “I feel thirty when I’m around you.”

  “You’ll feel twenty if you come watch the dancing. Say you will, please. It’s my last night in Paris before I leave on holiday, you have to come.”

  “Oh, all right,” Zoe agreed, knowing she’d regret it.

  “Cool.”

  “But I’m not wearing the sweater.”

  The Bus Palladium was jammed, and after an hour or so Lauren-Claire gave up on finding her new friends. Instead she opted to go to another nearby dance club, which turned out to have enough room to mingle and see the dance floor.

  “Aren’t you glad I talked you into wearing the sweater? Pink looks so fine on you,” Lauren-Claire said as they stood watching the crowd.

  “It’s shedding all over my black jeans and everyone I pass,” Zoe grumbled. “I don’t know why I let you talk me into these things. I feel like I’m asking for trouble by wearing it.”

  “Trouble? What are you talking about? It’s only a sweater.”

  “So why do I feel like it has strings attached? Strings that are even now being pulled by the puppet master.”

  “Ah, but a très gorgeous one, no?”

  “Hey, Lauren-Claire…why did you leave the Bus? We saw you leaving.” The lanky Irish university student Zoe remembered from the metro was heading toward them with his two friends.

  When the three young men reached them, the music blaring over the loudspeakers took on a decidedly Latin beat.

  “Ah, the forbidden dance,” the Irishman said, wiggling his eyebrows. “Come, you must dance with me, chérie.” He took Lauren-Claire’s hand and led her to the dance floor.

  “Would you like—?” one of his friends asked, but Zoe cut off his request with a quick shake of her head, sure she would be arrested for corrupting the morals of a minor from the look of what was going on out there.

  “I really don’t know how,” she said with a smile, not wanting to offend.

  “I could teach you, mademoiselle,” a low, sexy voice whispered from just behind her ear. “That is, if I were to forgive you for trashing my flowers.”

  She was certain when she turned the phantom wouldn’t be there, but turned nonetheless—gasping when she saw dark hair skimming broad shoulders.

  “You’re the one who’s been following me!”

  He said nothing, just stood there in cowboy boots, jeans and Harley T-shirt.

  “Why don’t you leave me alone?”

  “The sweater,” he said, ignoring her demand, his eyes lingering on her curves. “You wore it.”

  “A mistake.” She turned away, dismissing him.

  “I don’t think so. You look very beautiful in it,” he whispered near her ear, his breath warm and sexy on her skin.

  “Go back where you belong.”

  “Dance with me.” It wasn’t a request.

  The two university students beside her were clearly oblivious to their exchange; their eyes were glued to the short skirts and sexy underwear that showed when the women moved in the risqué dance.

  “I don’t want to dance with you.”

  “Do you want me to make a scene?” he inquired, with quiet deliberation.

  No, she didn’t want that. It was Lauren-Claire’s last evening before her holiday and Zoe didn’t want to ruin it, so she allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor.

  She nearly choked at his next demand as he caught her up in his arms. “Spread your legs… about two feet apart,” he instructed, wrapping one hand around her waist and taking her hand in the other.

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Do it.” His intense look brooked no argument and she followed his instruction. Thank heavens, she was wearing her black denim jeans and not the short skirt that had practically become a uniform since her arrival in Paris.

  Just when she thought things couldn’t get any worse, they did.

  “Now… straddle my thigh,” he said, beginning the South American dance that was as hot as molten steel and as provocative as the glint in his blue eyes.

  Zoe glanced around and saw what he was instructing her to do was really part of the dance. Too late, she realized she should never have worn the sweater, never have let Lauren-Claire talk her into coming here. Most of all, she should never have come near a dance floor with him.

  The dance was at first embarrassing, then irresistible. She didn’t want to think about what the sexy, sinuous moves were doing to her libido. She didn’t have to imagine what they were doing to h
is. They were dancing extremely close—pelvises brushing.

  The song seemed to go on forever, circuitous with no natural end. She felt as if they had been dancing far longer than she knew they had in fact. Oh, no! Now he was beginning to shimmy to the beat, coaxing her traitorous body that wanted even more. The sultry rhythm of the music matched the fire in her veins.

  She was too old for this. She was going to have a heart attack and die. And then die again when they put the cause of her death in her obit.

  Zoe gave up. She lost herself to the music and the man.

  The puppet master pulling the strings. Her strings. All the right strings.

  Embarrassment flew out the window along with her inhibitions as she gave herself over to the dance. Allowed herself to do what she’d come to Paris to do.

  Live.

  “Ahem…”

  Zoe looked up into amused blue eyes. “The dance is over, mademoiselle.”

  “Oh.” She felt her face grow scarlet.

  “So, do you still want me to go away, chérie?” he asked, a knowing look in his eyes, a confident strut in his voice.

  “Yes,” she croaked, then turned and fled.

  2

  “SO YOU’RE FINALLY AWAKE,” Lauren-Claire observed when she returned to the loft around noon after a morning shopping trip—a last-minute indulgence before she left on holiday.

  “I thought I’d go with you to the airport to see you off,” Zoe said with a yawn, looking up from the magazine she was thumbing through absently. It was a French Vogue, so all she could do was look at the pictures.

  “Great. Hey, wait till I show you what I bought at G. Rodson for my trip.”

  “G. Rodson?”

  “It’s the name of a shop on rue de Chartres, specializing in beaux vêtements… stuff worn by Hollywood male stars in the forties, fifties and sixties.” She held up a jacket. “Isn’t it cool? It used to belong to Gary Cooper.”

  “I don’t think it’s going to do much for the cowboys back home,” Zoe said, looking at it doubtfully.

  “Well, what should I wear, then?”

  “You got anything in gingham?”

  Lauren-Claire looked aghast. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I’m kidding. What you’re wearing right now is fine.” Lauren-Claire was wearing her short black skirt and ballet slippers. “Besides, with eyes like yours, you don’t have to worry about a thing. Don’t be surprised if they make you register them as lethal weapons when you go through customs.”

  “Zo-o-e.”

  Zoe continued to tease. “The cowboys back home don’t have a fighting chance. With your eyes and French accent, they’ll be lassoed, hog-tied and eating French toast before they know what hit them. Come on, let’s get you on that plane.”

  “Let me get my bag. I’ve only got one, since everything I packed is black.”

  Not everything, Zoe thought, smiling to herself. While Lauren-Claire had been out on her last-minute shopping spree, Zoe had wrapped her pink angora sweater in tissue and slipped it into Lauren-Claire’s bag.

  “Oh, there is one more thing I need to know before we go.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Where to send bail money….”

  “Zo-o-e.” Lauren-Claire socked her in the arm as they left to hail a taxi for the airport.

  It wasn’t until they were waiting for Lauren-Claire’s plane to be called that Lauren-Claire brought up the subject Zoe had been hoping to avoid.

  “So you finally met your mystery man last night, no?” she said, taking a sip of the soda she was holding. “That was some dance the two of you were doing!”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Zoe said, sulking.

  “Okay, okay. But you do have to admit I was right. He is très gorgeous, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah, très,” Zoe grumbled.

  Lauren-Claire’s flight was announced and the subject of Zoe’s mystery man was dropped in favor of getting Lauren-Claire on the plane.

  “Oh, I almost forgot.” Lauren-Claire stopped and searched through her purse. “I bought something for you while I was shopping this morning, but you’ll have to pick it up. Here’s the address of the boutique and the receipt.”

  “Lauren-Claire…you shouldn’t have,” Zoe objected.

  “Nonsense, I wanted to. Now give me a hug and wish me a good holiday. When I return we’ll visit my family. They’re all dying to meet you.”

  Zoe gave her a hug, wiping away a tear. She was going to miss her friend over the next two weeks. “Speaking of dying, that’s just what your family is going to do when they meet Billy Joe-Bob, their future son-in-law, when you bring your cowboy home with you.”

  “Who said anything about marriage?” Lauren-Claire replied blithely, handing her boarding pass to the attendant and giving Zoe a quick wave and a wink before she disappeared.

  ZOE LOOKED at the address on the bit of paper Lauren-Claire had given her, then up at the address on the bistro she was passing. According to the bistro’s number, the boutique should be just ahead.

  For an overcast afternoon there were a lot of people out on the streets: students with Walkman headsets, old men heading for a game of boule, and young mothers hurrying along with their small children.

  Not a broad-shouldered man in a leather jacket among them.

  Yet she kept looking. She’d been shocked last night, but if she were to be honest, she’d have to admit she’d secretly liked being pursued by him… had liked his sexy recklessness.

  He was nothing like the husband she’d left at home.

  Ah, here it was, number eight. Zoe stopped outside the small boutique. Pulling out her compact, she applied a shade of bright red Chanel lipstick she’d treated herself to at the Chanel boutique. One couldn’t be in Paris without having something by Chanel. While the lipstick wasn’t inexpensive, it was the only Chanel article she could afford.

  Looking into the compact mirror, she smiled. The bright red color gave her a confidence she didn’t feel. While she didn’t know what to expect inside the boutique, she was working on not letting the French shop-keepers intimidate her.

  Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door. Inside the walls were painted a glossy deep pine green, an almost perfect match for her eyes, she thought. The long suede sofa and scattered plush ottomans were in a dark eggplant color. On one wall hung a large rug in a contemporary motif, while the pickled wooden floor beneath her feet was bare.

  The whole look of the boutique was sleek high tech. And she didn’t have a clue as to what they sold.

  Zoe swallowed dryly. So much for not being intimidated.

  “May I help, madame?” a chic older woman asked in a soft but assertive voice.

  Why do I feel like she’s inferring I’m in the wrong place? Zoe wondered.

  “Yes, please.” Zoe handed her the receipt Lauren-Claire had given her.

  “Oui… I will check. Please wait one moment.”

  The woman returned a few moments later with a package.

  “Follow me, madame.”

  Zoe followed her into the hall to three adjoining dressing cubicles.

  “Please try it on, madame,” the saleswoman said, handing her the package and pointing to the spacious cubicle. “The garment has been selected especially for you and we will take care of any alterations, should you wish them.”

  “Thank you.” Zoe took the package and entered the cubicle.

  The cubicle was as sparsely furnished as the rest of the boutique. Evidently less was more when you had money. In one corner was a rattan and Rilsan chair painted a vivid purple. Beside it on the wall was a Lucite shelf holding one Japanese iris in a chrome vase.

  Zoe moved to study her reflection in the mirror that took up an entire wall. Her image didn’t fit the sleek surroundings, though she liked the way she looked.

  She was wearing a rayon wrap dress in a tiny print pattern and over it a cotton jean jacket with the sleeves roll
ed to her elbows. The skirt of the dress hit her at midcalf. On her feet were white anklets and white baby jane sandals.

  There was that feeling again.

  She spun to the doorway, startling the saleslady who had entered with a cup of coffee. “Excusez, madame, I thought you might like a renversé.” Setting the delicate cup and saucer upon the shelf, she explained. “It’s a Swiss version of coffee with milk that our regular customers are fond of.” Bowing out, the saleslady said, “I’ll be back to check with you a little later, madame.”

  The music piped into the dressing cubicles was smoky jazz and Zoe’s body unconsciously responded to its lure. She began swaying to the rhythm as she opened the package containing Lauren-Claire’s surprise.

  Lifting it from the package until the tissue wrapping fell away, she smiled and shook her head. Lauren-Claire truly was incorrigible, she thought, studying the red leather bustier decorated with gold studs. It was the hot item of the new decade. Intended as outerwear, the elaborate and sumptuous bustiers had become all the rage. She’d seen several at the Bus Palladium and then later at the other dance club they’d gone to, where…

  She couldn’t possibly wear it.

  Not in public.

  Could she?

  Glancing up, she caught her reflection in the mirror and saw herself swaying to the provocative music. She looked again at the daring bustier in her hands and decided she should at least try it on. Dropping it onto the rattan chair, she gave herself over to sweet fancies and began to flirt with her reflection in the mirror… began undressing to it, as if for a lover. Imagined him watching as she shrugged out of her cotton denim jacket.

  Posing prettily, she let her hair swing forward, giving the mirror a peekaboo smile while she slowly began unbuttoning her soft, clingy dress. As the dress fell away, she plunged heedlessly into fantasy, imagining intense blue eyes flowing over her like slow, warm syrup. Her body began to heat, making her feel as if she were lying on a beach with the sun kissing her bare skin… the sand tickling in curious places….

  She placed her hands upon her body, slowly running them along her curves, arousing buried thoughts and secret yearnings.

  Peeling down the top of the lacy bodysuit she wore beneath her dress, she reached for the red leather bustier. Lowering her eyelids sleepily, she walked to the mirrored wall as if in a trance. Listening to the hot jazz, letting it take control of her movements, she trailed her breasts over the mirror’s cool surface, pebbling her nipples into a pale blush.