Under My Skin: A Contemporary Romance Set in Paris (Bistro La Bohème Book 2)

by Nichols, Alix

  He looked her over, then turned to Daniela and sneered. “Sounds like you’ve got yourself a friend. Or maybe she’s your special lady friend?” He glanced at Jeanne. “Not a beauty”—he hiccuped—“but so”—another hiccup—“hot.”

  Nico narrowed his eyes, trying to focus his gaze on Jeanne. His mouth fell slightly open and a small stream of drool trickled down his chin.

  Jeanne nearly choked with disgust. “If you don’t leave right now, I’m calling the police.”

  “Really?” He put his hands on his hips and snickered. “And what will you tell them—that you heard lovers bickering?”

  “You hit her,” Jeanne said. “I’m not blind. And neither are the cops.”

  Daniela pushed him to the side and pointed at her eye. “This isn’t his fault. I fell this morning and hurt myself.” She gave Jeanne a pleading look. “Please don’t call the police. They’ll only add to my problems. Please.”

  Jeanne shook her head in dismay. How did you help someone who refused to be helped?

  She turned to Nico and said as ominously as she could manage. “I’m going back to sleep. And I suggest you do the same.” Her gaze fell on his drool again and she winced. “And if you hurt her once more, I’m calling the cops, whether Daniela wants me to or not.”

  Then she spun around and strode to her apartment, praying he’d do as instructed.

  Nico wolf-whistled. “Nice ass.”

  Jeanne chose to ignore him and pushed her door open.

  “Ooh, I’m so scared, I’m trembling,” Nico said before Daniela pulled him inside and shut the door.

  The rest of the night was quiet, but it took Jeanne several hours to fall asleep again. She thought about the incident and played alternative scenarios in her head. In all of them, she was a lot stronger and stood up to the jerk much more convincingly. In one of the versions, she even punched him in the face and knocked him out. And then said to Daniela, You’re wasting your life with the wrong man.

  Then, somehow, her thoughts wandered to Mat—the wrong man in her own life. She hadn’t seen him since their kiss at the bistro, but he’d been ever-present in her thoughts. She’d lost count of her daydreams where he’d show up at La Bohème to announce he had broken up his girlfriend because he wanted Jeanne too much to fight it. In other fantasies, he’d knock on her door, tell her the same thing, kiss her, and make love to her.

  But it had been almost two months since Amanda’s party, and she hadn’t seen or heard from him. Not even a note or a text to say he was sorry. Nada. Which meant only one thing—she should stop thinking about him and get real. He wanted her, all right, but he was clearly able to fight it.

  And so would she.

  In the morning, just before heading to the bistro, she called her old friend Greg.

  “Hey, how’s my favorite barista doing these days?” Greg asked, sounding happy to hear her voice.

  Jeanne told him about Daniela and her violent boyfriend. ”Can you help her?” she asked. “Your NGO’s there to help people who are in trouble, no?”

  “First, I’m in Nîmes, so it’s difficult to reach out to someone in Paris,” Greg said. “Second, we help refugees and asylum seekers—people who have no one to turn to.”

  “And how about battered women? Who helps them?”

  “I know just the person, as it happens. I’ll talk to her and call you back,” Greg said.

  Jeanne let out a sigh of relief. “You’re a darling.”

  “Let’s just hope your friend will be willing to accept help. A lot of women in abusive relationships underestimate the gravity of their situation.”

  “I know,” Jeanne said. “But then again, she seems to be a sensible person. Besides, she has a kid. I hope she’ll do it for him, if not for herself.”

  ***

  The aspirin finally kicked in, and Jeanne inhaled, relieved her head was no longer squeezed by invisible forceps. She turned the coffee machine on, tamped a coffee cake in the filter basket, and poured milk into a steel jug.

  “Hey, Amar, come over here. It’s time for lesson number . . . what number did we leave off on?”

  “Forty-seven? Or was it four hundred forty-seven?” Amar planted himself next to her and dipped the steaming wand into the milk. “I really need my crème this morning.”

  “So do I,” Jeanne said. “But, remember, the main purpose of these two cups is to test the grind. You’ll tell me if the grinder needs adjusting after you’ve had your crème.”

  “Whoa. This is going too fast. I’m not ready for such a big step.” Amar pulled a panicked face.

  “Don’t worry; I’m not assigning points today. Now, pay attention. You want to heat the milk to seventy degrees, no more. If you overheat it, your crème will taste burned.”

  She poured the heated milk onto the coffee, creating a perfect froth, handed the cup to Amar, picked up her own espresso cup, and inhaled its full-bodied aroma.

  Thank God for coffee.

  Didier arrived with bags of fresh croissants from the nearby bakery. He removed his coat and gloves, and offered a croissant to Jeanne. “In exchange for your smile, princess.”

  “You’re mistaken, monsieur. I’m a baker’s daughter.” Jeanne smiled and took the croissant.

  “To me, you’re a princess,” Didier retorted.

  Amar placed his cup on the countertop. “Can I have one, too? I’ll smile as much as you want, and you don’t have to call me a princess.”

  Didier glared at him. “If you want a croissant, greenhorn, you have to pay for it. La Bohème isn’t a charity.”

  “I’ll buy you one if you diagnose the grinder correctly,” Jeanne offered.

  Didier rolled his eyes. “Still trying to train him? It’s a waste of time.”

  He put a few delicious-smelling specimens on display and packed the rest.

  Jeanne turned to Amar. “Don’t mind him. He isn’t as mean as he’s trying to appear.”

  “I agree—he isn’t. He’s much meaner than he’s trying to appear,” Amar said.

  Didier tied his black apron around his hips. “When we take this place over, we should refurbish it to make it trendier. The neighborhood is gentrifying at rocket speed. We need to make La Bohème attractive for the local bobos.”

  Jeanne squirmed. What made him so sure it would be we? “I agree it needs refurbishment. Badly. And those god-awful flowery tiles definitely have to go.”

  “I’m glad you agree,” Didier said smugly.

  “Yes. But . . . I would keep most of the original fixtures. They give La Bohème its identity. And I wouldn’t worry about the bobos. This place tends to grow on them.”

  “Let’s not argue about it now, but . . . wouldn’t you prefer to tend a chic lounge bar rather than a bistro counter?” Didier arched an eyebrow.

  “I like this counter. Besides, if La Bohème became a lounge bar to attract more bobos, we’d lose a good share of our usual patrons. The old people will stop coming. We’d lose clients like José, Madame Blanchard, Monsieur Pascal, the Costa couple, and many more. To some of them La Bohème is life support.”

  Didier rolled his eyes. “Please.”

  “I’m not kidding. This place keeps them from depression and maybe even from senility. If it becomes too trendy, they’ll stop going out.”

  “They’ll go somewhere else. Paris hasn’t yet run out of shabby little bistros where they can feel at home.”

  “Honey, they’re old. They won’t go somewhere else. They depend on their routines, familiar places, familiar faces. They hate change.” Jeanne sighed. “They’ll stay in their stuffy apartments and . . . let themselves disintegrate.”

  “You called me ‘honey,’ ” Didier said with a grin.

  “I call everyone ‘honey.’ ”

  “No, you don’t.” He picked up a croissant and pushed it in front of Amar. “Take it and run before I change my mind. I’m happy today.”

  And he certainly looked it. Jeanne couldn’t believe her eyes. The forever sneering headwaiter
glowed because she’d called him honey. How weird was that? Over the past few months, he’d shown unequivocal interest in her, without going as far as attempting to kiss her. Clever boy. He no doubt sensed she wasn’t ready. Since the end of December, they’d gone out three times and kept it cool and friendly. The latest date had been just last week. They saw a movie and went for drinks afterward. She had a good time.

  Jeanne shivered as a gust of cold air whirled through the dining room, and the first customers walked into the bistro. She wiped away her croissant crumbs and went behind the bar. It was time to give her full attention to business. Deciding whether Didier’s sudden passion was sincere or a sham to get her to partner with him wasn’t a task for today. If it was the latter, he deserved credit for the convincing show. But if he was for real, who knew . . . Maybe she could form a romantic interest in him . . . one day.

  She was twenty-seven and longed for a relationship that wasn’t impossible, doomed, or complicated. Unlike Mat, Didier was single. Unlike Mat, Didier wasn’t above her on the social ladder. His background was similar to hers. He was in the same profession.

  But above all, he was here. Available and willing.

  While Mat was neither.

  ***

  Chapter 5

  February

  What will I tell her?

  Mat had been asking himself that question over and over for the past hour as he paced up and down the hotel lobby, waiting for Jeanne. She had no clue he was here in Copenhagen, stalking her in front of the hotel’s reception hall. In fact, hardly anyone knew he was here. When Rob had mentioned a week ago he and Lena were traveling to Copenhagen for the baptism of Pepe’s baby, he’d asked if Jeanne was going, too. Rob confirmed, narrowing his eyes at him, as if unsure why it was any of Mat’s business.

  But Mat was beyond caring. He’d stayed away from Jeanne for nearly three months now, ever since their kiss at Amanda’s party. He’d been hoping that time would cure him. As it turned out, time had other plans. His yearning for her had only grown stronger with every passing day until it reached a tipping point. He could no longer bear it. He had to see her.

  When Rob told him about the Copenhagen trip Mat had been racking his brain for a reason to turn up at La Bohème.

  And it just so happened that he had an almost plausible motive to go to the Danish capital himself. He’d been in touch with the Greens in Humlebaek, a small town near Copenhagen twinned with Baleville. They’d discussed some common concerns and exchanged ideas. Before ending their latest phone talk, they’d exchanged nonspecific invitations. From there, telling Cécile he was invited to an important meeting in Humlebaek over the weekend wasn’t a complete lie—just an extension of the truth.

  Mat glanced at his watch. Nine o’clock. The party would probably go on until midnight, but he hoped Jeanne would pop out at some point to go to the ladies’ room. Right on cue, she stepped into the lobby and hurried toward the elevators. She looked amazing in her 50s-style pastel blue dress. Her hair was done up and her mouth painted cherry red. But her face was contorted in pain.

  Mat hovered by the elevators for about five minutes, struggling not to bite his nails. Then, on a mad impulse, he jumped into one and rode up to the eleventh floor.

  Thank heaven for Scandinavian helpfulness.

  The friendly receptionist had given him Jeanne’s room number just because he’d asked politely. Something like that would never happen in France, or any other place he could think of.

  The elevator came to a halt. Without taking a moment to question the wisdom of what he was about to do, Mat strode over to Jeanne’s door and knocked.

  “Yes? Who’s there?” she said from behind the door.

  “It’s Mat . . . Will you let me in?”

  There was a brief pause, before he heard her shuffle toward the door. When she opened it, she looked unusually pale.

  “Are you OK?” he asked, touching her arm.

  “I’m fine . . . Just a nasty stomach ache. Must be the oysters.” She looked him in the eyes. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m in Denmark for work. Rob told me you were in Copenhagen.” He spread his arms helplessly. “I had to see you.”

  She sighed, turned around, and wobbled to the bed, leaving him stranded in the doorway.

  “Come in, if you want,” she said as she dropped on her tummy on top of the neatly tucked bed cover. “But I won’t be great company tonight.”

  Mat stepped into the dimly lit room and pulled the door shut behind him. “Shall I get some medicine? I can ask the reception where the nearest pharmacy is—”

  “I downed a Coca-Cola from the vending machine. It usually helps. I just need to lie down and wait.”

  He sat on the bed by her feet and watched her. He couldn’t help himself. Her dress wasn’t as revealing as the one she had worn at Rob and Lena’s party. This one was more girly—cinched at the waist, flared knee-length skirt, and puffy sleeves. The silky fabric draped her curves in a loose, gentle embrace.

  Jeanne squirmed, groaned faintly and shifted her position, raising her arms to put them under her head. She looked miserable.

  Poor darling, he thought and turned away, ashamed. Because part of him was wondering how much longer he could stand being so close to her, looking at her—and not touching her.

  Say something, distract her from her discomfort.

  “Would you like me to sing you a song?” he offered.

  She lifted her head to give him an amused look. “Depends which song.”

  “How about “Frère Jacques”?

  “Seriously?”

  “That’s the only one whose lyrics I can remember. Kind of.”

  “Sing away,” she said with a sigh.

  He began to sing softly. Jeanne closed her eyes, her expression a little more peaceful. Then his hand went to her stockinged foot and stroked it as if acting of its own volition.

  She didn’t move.

  Emboldened by her nonresistance, he stroked the sole and then the elegant arch of her foot, before moving to the other one. Having spent some time on it, his hand slowly climbed to her ankles, and then to her calves. He caressed them lightly, his fingertips gliding over the sheer fabric of her stockings, learning the shape and the feel of her legs. When he reached the back of her knees, just under the hem of her skirt, he finished the song. For a few excruciatingly long moments, he didn’t dare move, half expecting her to pull away and ask him to leave.

  She did neither, and he tentatively progressed another half inch up her leg. His hand slid under her skirt and pushed it up a little. He continued stroking the back of her thighs, revealing inch after delicious inch, until the hem of her dress barely covered her bottom.

  He paused there, just above the lacy edge of her stockings, and took in the full length of her toned legs. Jeanne’s legs were a work of art. He had no other word to describe the awe-inspiring sight of her high-arched feet, delicate ankles, athletic calves, and slender thighs. Every curve, every dip in her flesh was breathtakingly beautiful.

  Sweet Jesus.

  He crawled on the bed, sat on his heels next to her, and rolled her stockings off, taking his time, reveling in every second of that incredibly intimate act. He surveyed her legs again and resumed his ministrations, working his way up from her bare feet. This time, he used both his hands, applying more pressure, involving not only his fingertips but also his palms. He stroked her, making sure to cover every inch while his palms memorized the contours of her flesh.

  Sliding down the curve of her calves, he bent down to nibble the tender skin behind her knees and kiss the back of her thighs. She was firm yet soft and painfully, almost unbearably, right. Her skin was like the finest, warmest velvet under his lips. And her scent . . . Oh God, that incomparable, heart-stopping scent.

  She didn’t move, didn’t show any visible reaction to his caresses. But her breathing grew heavy and ragged. It told him everything he needed to know.

  By the time he made his way back to the hem
line of her dress that he’d hitched up to where her thighs joined her buttocks, he could no longer think straight. With a low growl, he pushed the fabric up to her waist.

  And barely stopped himself from roaring his appreciation.

  He pulled back a little, and placed his palms on her glorious bottom. She had a tiny butterfly tattoo just above the waistband of her lacy boyshorts. He yearned to catch that waistband between his teeth and pull her panties off. He ached to—

  She shifted a little and moaned. But it wasn’t a moan of pleasure. It was a plaintive, strained sound of pain.

  He blinked a few times and gave her a comforting stroke. “Tummy still unhappy, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  And all at once, reason returned. His face flamed with guilt. She was unwell, suffering—and he was taking advantage of the situation. He should just talk to her and entertain her until she felt better.

  With a superhuman effort, he removed his hands from her, untucked the bed cover on one side and threw it over her.

  OK. Now talk. Say something neutral. Something to distract her, and to dissipate the images in his head.

  He moved to sit on the edge of the bed so he could see her face. “During my master’s study, I spent more time trying to establish the shape of your legs behind your loose bistro pants than writing my course papers.”

  Neutral, my foot.

  Jeanne didn’t say anything.

  “I made sketches,” he continued. “I filled several notebooks with versions of your legs.”

  She circled her index near her ear in a cuckoo sign.

  “In memory serves me right,” he said. “Two or three of those sketches are pretty close to the original. Even if my drawing skills are rudimentary.”

  “No they aren’t,” she said.

  “You haven’t seen any of my—”

  “I have.”

  He gave her a quizzical look.

  “Pepe and I went to Rob’s one night, to watch the World Cup. You were out of town. I went into your room for something… I think we needed an extra chair.”

  “And you saw my sketchbooks?”

  Jeanne shook her head. “No. Even if I had, I wouldn’t have opened them. But I saw this feminine nude by your bed. It was drawn on a large canvas, with something like a pencil but thicker and blacker.”