Beneath the Parisian Skies

by Alli Sinclair

  * * *

  Viktoriya waited in the hallway outside her tiny apartment, wondering if she’d done the right thing. Before she could think twice, Viktoriya had offered Yana to go back to the apartment so she could eat, bathe and get a fresh set of clothes. It had felt like a good idea at the time but then reminders of Dina crept in.

  Viktoriya shook her head. This was ridiculous. She’d taken Dina in as a young charge and she had no intention of doing the same with Yana. Her heart wouldn’t cope.

  Knocking gently on the door, Viktoriya asked, ‘May I enter?’

  Light footsteps padded across the bare floorboards. A muffled voice leaked between the crack of the door. ‘I feel foolish.’

  ‘I am sure you look lovely but I won’t know that unless you let me in,’ Viktoriya said softly.

  A second later the door opened and there stood Yana, her hair straight and untangled, her skin clean and porcelain, and the clothes on her small frame large but freshly pressed. Although Viktoriya’s wardrobe consisted mostly of rehearsal attire, she’d managed to find a blouse, skirt and cardigan to offer the child. Yana had barely spoken after their initial conversation, but judging by her manners and excellent language skills, Viktoriya suspected Yana’s family had fallen from grace and been left destitute. How Yana ended up on the streets of Paris was anybody’s guess and by the way the girl guarded every word she uttered, Viktoriya doubted she would ever know the full story.

  Yana fiddled with the hem of her blouse and looked down at her bare feet.

  ‘I’ll see if one of the other dancers has some shoes that fit.’ Viktoriya crossed her arms, a wave of affection rushing through her. ‘You look so beautiful.’

  ‘Beauty does not count for a thing, not unless you plan to use it to your advantage.’ Yana narrowed her eyes. ‘Is that what you do?’

  Taken back by Yana’s sudden change in demeanour, Viktoriya held her chin high and said, ‘I have worked hard to become the dancer I am.’

  Yana’s bottom lip trembled.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Viktoriya.

  ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said what I did.’ Tears streamed down her young face. ‘It’s just…just…’

  All Viktoriya wanted to do was wrap her arms around Yana. She wanted to tell her that everything would be all right. That she wasn’t alone. That…How on earth could Viktoriya make these promises? With the state of the world, no one knew what the future held.

  ‘Listen, Yana, I imagine it’s hard to believe that a complete stranger cares what happens to you, but I do.’

  ‘You don’t know me.’ She sniffed.

  ‘I know enough to recognise you need someone to look out for you.’ With that statement Viktoriya realised she’d jumped back onto that same road she’d travelled down once before. And it scared her immensely.

  Yana looked up with glassy eyes, her petite features creased into a scowl once more. ‘Why?’

  A sharp stabbing pain hit Viktoriya’s chest. ‘Because I once helped another girl just like you to turn her life around.’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘She’s in a good place, she’s doing well.’ The lie rolled from Viktoriya’s tongue but she could never tell this young girl the truth. Hell, even Alexei didn’t know.

  ‘I’m not a charity project,’ said Yana.

  ‘Of course you aren’t.’ Viktoriya gestured for Yana to sit on the wooden chair. ‘I’m helping because everyone needs a break every now and then. Besides,’ she glanced out the window at the rolling grey clouds, ‘I’m sure you would prefer to sleep out of the rain tonight.’

  A knock at the door announced Alexei’s arrival. Her heart skipped a beat. Damn. She should have told him she’d meet him downstairs.

  ‘I’ll be there in a minute!’ she called, willing her mind to work. Yana had only just started talking and the last thing she needed was to meet someone new and clam up again. Viktoriya rushed for the door, opened it and squeezed through the small gap. She stood in the hallway, guarding the door as Alexei narrowed his eyes and tilted his head.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said.

  ‘I heard voices.’

  Her shoulders slumped. She couldn’t keep up the lies. ‘I’m helping someone and she’s fearful of new people.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A young Russian girl who has no one.’

  Alexei raised his eyebrows. ‘You’ve barely got a cent to your name, how can you help her?’

  ‘I have some food, a bed, clothes. It’s not permanent, just enough to get her off the street for a night.’ Although Viktoriya already knew that if Yana wanted to stay longer, she’d agree without hesitation.

  CHAPTER

  9

  Lily sat on the sofa with Yves, his warm body enticingly close. This was only their second meeting at his apartment and yet, disconcertingly, she was getting very used to his company.

  Leaning across her, Yves grabbed the bottle of red, giving her the perfect chance to stealthily inhale his musky cologne.

  ‘Sorry, it is bad manners to lean over you like this,’ he said.

  ‘No problems.’ No problems at all…She wished his presence didn’t send tingles to every region of her body but it happened nonetheless. She certainly didn’t have to act on it and appreciating Yves did not diminish the love she still felt for Aiden. Right? Right? She just wished her heart hadn’t been pierced by another pang of guilt.

  Damn.

  Yves settled onto the sofa, poured wine into two glasses and handed one to her.

  ‘What is this?’ she asked.

  ‘Syrah.’

  She took a sip and let the liquid register with her palette. It had a fruity, tangy flavour, very much like shiraz but subtler.

  ‘You do not like it?’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘What you have in your glass now is liquid silk,’ he said.

  ‘It’s lovely but…not what I’m used to, that’s all.’ She took another sip to prove she didn’t hate it, which she didn’t. ‘I know they’re from the same grape, but the syrah tastes leaner and lighter than the rich shiraz I get at home.’

  ‘Are you telling me your Australian wine is better than the French?’ His tone was light although his expression looked slightly serious.

  ‘Are we going to have a debate?’ She held the glass high and studied the contents. ‘I hope you know you’re on the losing team.’

  ‘I am sorry to inform you it is the other way around.’ He took another sip and did a poor job of hiding the amusement in his eyes. ‘Your wine is too brash, too bold.’

  ‘Ah, but Australian shiraz has many layers of flavours that unfold and linger long after you’ve finished drinking.’

  ‘That is called a hangover.’

  She laughed, almost spilling her drink. ‘Australian shiraz has personality.’

  ‘And our vintners focus on making the wine unique to the winery where it is grown. Your shiraz is more generic because the vintner concentrates only on the richness, not the individuality.’

  ‘You know what? You’re debating with the wrong person. I like any wine.’

  ‘Even retsina?’

  ‘The Greek wine that tastes like turpentine and apricots? I draw a line at that.’

  ‘Good because otherwise I would have to kick you out of my apartment.’

  She nestled against the down-filled sofa cushions. ‘You certainly know how to make a place feel like home.’

  His eyes lit up. ‘You like it?’

  ‘How can I not?’ Although it was a tad strange being surrounded by so much ballet paraphernalia, especially in a man’s apartment. ‘So…let’s boot the elephant out of the room. How do we do this muse…inspirationist business? Do I sit here and do nothing? Sing songs? Tap dance? Read War and Peace in Mandarin?’

  ‘You read Mandarin?’

  She shook her head and laughed. ‘Nope.’

  Yves frowned. ‘I’ve never had a live inspirationist before. Normally it’s e
asy for me to compose but this time it feels different and I have no idea why.’

  ‘Probably because there’s more pressure this time. In the past you’ve written for the love of it, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And now you’re writing under contract and the man who should be your biggest fan is asking you to stop doing what you love. I imagine you’re feeling an immense amount of guilt.’

  ‘An interesting choice of word—guilt.’ He breathed heavily through his nostrils. ‘You are right, guilt is what surrounds this project and that could be why I’m not satisfied with what I’ve written.’

  ‘Then you need to shake that off and finish the bloody thing instead of just talking about it.’ She angled her wine glass in the direction of the sheet music and pencil sitting on the coffee table. ‘Go on, get on with it.’

  Yves picked up the paper and pencil and rested them on his knee. ‘I promise, tomorrow I will make contact with Natalie and you two will meet in a more harmonious way.’

  ‘I’m holding you to it.’ She winked and finished the last of her drink.

  ‘Do you mind if I start?’

  ‘Go ahead.’ She got up and scanned his book shelf. Tome upon tome in English, Russian and French cluttered the shelves—all of them related to ballet or music. She chose a thick biography of the Ballets Russes and plonked back on the couch.

  ‘Some light reading?’ he asked.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘I didn’t think you were very interested. After all, you said you didn’t dance anymore.’

  ‘Maybe you talking about them intrigued me a little. Now shh…you have work to do.’ She put on her glasses and turned to the first chapter. Lily scanned the words, trying to give the impression she was actually reading. It was so much easier to feign a slight interest in ballet than have Yves ask more about her old career. If she didn’t show how much ballet scared her, he may question her less. Or so she hoped.

  Lily let the words float before her but before long, she found herself reading them:

  Impresario of the Ballets Russes, Sergei Diaghilev, was chiefly responsible for its success. Born into wealthy family of vodka distillers, he enjoyed an upper-class lifestyle that enabled him to form relationships with future benefactors and patrons.

  His dreams to become a composer were dashed when Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov, a renowned composer, told Diaghilev he had no talent. Moving on to a new project, Diaghilev formed a group of like-minded men known as The Nevsky Pickwickians and, frustrated by the conservatism of the Russian art world, travelled to Paris in 1906 with an exhibition of Russian art. Parisians expressed a love for all things Russian, so in 1907 Diaghilev organised a season of Russian music at the Paris Opéra. In 1909, Diaghilev presented a ballet made up of resident performers of the Imperial Ballet in Petrograd—now known as Saint Petersburg. On vacation from the Imperial Ballet these dancers performed ballets that were choreographed by Michel Fokine. Le Pavillon d’Armide, Polovtsian Dances from Prince Igor, Les Sylphides, and Cléopâtre were popular amongst the French and thus begun an era we now know as the Ballets Russes.

  ‘Is the book interesting?’

  ‘What?’ Her head jerked up to find Yves had put his pencil and paper down. ‘You’re supposed to be writing.’

  ‘I don’t know why, but I can’t.’

  ‘Maybe I’ve lost my superpowers as an inspirationist.’

  Yves scratched his head. ‘Perhaps we should meet in the park. After all, this is where my first inspiration hit.’

  ‘Is the Marco Polo park significant in Viktoriya’s history?’

  ‘I do not know.’ He sipped his wine. ‘Tomorrow, after we go to Natalie’s apartment, we go to the park.’

  ‘Sure.’ It’s not like she had other things to do. Well, of course she did but until now she hadn’t managed to make it any closer to the avenue where Aiden had died. Aiden…

  ‘Have you ever felt the presence of ghosts?’ he asked.

  Hang on, how did he…

  ‘No, I haven’t.’ She got up and moved over to the emerald dress hanging from Yves’s door jamb.

  ‘Would you think I am crazy if I say I feel Viktoriya’s presence when the dress is nearby?’

  ‘I don’t know you well enough to call you crazy.’ She focussed on the Chanel dress, refusing to face Yves because she feared memories of her own ghosts would create a flood of tears.

  ‘Try it.’

  ‘Try what?’ she asked.

  ‘Touch the dress and tell me if you feel anything.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Are you scared?’

  ‘No.’ Her heart smashed against her ribcage in a frantic rhythm.

  He stood and moved next to her. She liked the way he towered above, his height and bulk comforting in a protective way, although she really didn’t need anyone to look out for her. She was a grown woman, after all.

  Yves’s presence threw her off kilter, so she reached out and touched the fabric, using it as an excuse to move away from him. The material felt rougher than it looked, the black beads and satin cool beneath her fingers. Closing her eyes, she waited for the feeling Yves talked about but after a minute or so, she opened her eyes and said, ‘I got nothing.’

  ‘Really?’ Surprise lined his voice as he stepped closer.

  Too shy to turn around, Lily’s breathing grew shallow, her feet unable to move. For the first time in almost two years a handsome male was in her personal space and even though she wanted to deny the attraction, her sweaty palms told her she couldn’t shut it down. Closing her eyes, she wiped her hands on her jeans. Think of Aiden. Don’t lose his memory. Don’t…

  Yves’s strong chest pressed against her back and she leaned backward, letting her body relax as he placed his hands on her shoulders and gave them a gentle squeeze. Her breathing slowed to match his. She inhaled his subtle cologne, her every nerve on edge. Yves ran a finger along her neck, leaving a trail of fiery tingles, and the sexual desire she’d quashed for so long returned with fury. Spinning around, she grabbed the back of his neck, pulling him towards her. Hot lips met. Tongues explored new territory. Hands discovered a new body.

  Without hesitation, Lily shed her T-shirt then grabbed Yves by the shirt collar, pulling him against her. They fell onto the sofa’s cushions, hands and clothes in all directions, their lips locked.

  She needed to feel again.

  For her skin to feel a man’s touch.

  To fall under the waves of ecstasy and return to the surface, gasping for air.

  She needed to forget.

  ‘Is this a good idea?’ Yves’s gravelly voice sent shivers up her spine.

  ‘I don’t know.’ She arched her lower back, desperate to feel his naked body against hers. ‘And right now, I don’t care.’

  Yves’s hot breath cascaded across her skin. He reached for the zip on her jeans and as he deftly pulled it down, Lily let out a moan.

  So this is what it’s like to live.

  * * *

  Bright light streamed through the bedroom windows as Lily rubbed her eyes and tried to focus. She couldn’t remember making it from the sofa to the bed but she certainly remembered the sensation of tingles racing across her skin from Yves’s touch.

  Lily concentrated on his arm lying casually across her breasts. Her body stiffened.

  What had she done?

  She snuck a glance at Yves. He slept like a man who’d had a nice old session of sexual gymnastics the night before.

  Sex.

  With Yves.

  Oh shit.

  Mind-blowing fantastic sex.

  With Yves.

  Holy hell.

  Determined not to wake him up, Lily gently moved his arm aside then slid out from underneath the sheets carefully so the bed wouldn’t creak. He let out a small sigh and rolled over to face the wall. Lily tucked the sheets around him before gathering her strewn clothes from the living room and tip-toeing to the bathroom
where she donned her underwear then threw on her jeans and T-shirt. Running water in the basin, she washed her face and checked her reflection in the mirror. Her tresses were knotted, her cheeks flushed and the rims around her eyes bright red. What the hell were you thinking?

  She hung her head and placed her hands on either side of the basin. Sex with Yves was…magnificent but it had been only that—sex.

  Who was she kidding? It wasn’t just sex. There had been passion and a deep connection and…Lily shook her head. Yves was not Aiden.

  Aiden…

  Wiping away a stray tear with the back of her hand, she sniffed, took a deep breath and quietly opened the bathroom door. Yves was still out cold so she grabbed her handbag and shoes from the living room and tip-toed towards the door. Her fingers wrapped around the knob and she twisted it to the left—

  ‘Leaving so soon?’

  Crap. She spun around, her heart beating rapidly the moment she saw his beautiful blue eyes staring at her through the open bedroom door.

  ‘Mademoiselle Lily, I had hoped to cook you a hearty breakfast. It is the most important meal of the day, oui?’ He rested on his elbows and the sheet fell to just below his navel. That wonderful, taut…Stop it!

  ‘I’ve got to go.’ Why was her mouth so dry?

  ‘Where?’ He sat up and wrapped the sheet around his torso.

  ‘It’s a secret.’ Really? News to her.

  Yves narrowed his eyes ever so slightly. ‘Will you tell me about your secret rendezvous?’

  The way rendezvous rolled off his tongue made a sexy word even sexier. Damn Frenchman.

  ‘I just need to go, okay?’

  ‘No, it is not okay.’ He stood and walked towards her with the sheet wrapped around his waist. The thin linen didn’t hide his hips and the wonderfully masculine dent that led all the way to…What the hell? One night of sex and she changes into a horny teenager? ‘Something is not right with you. Is it because of last night?’