The Love in Duet Collection, page 50
Okay, a lot.
But that feeling doesn’t stop me.
No, it drives me on.
I trace my finger along his naked frame, wondering how everything looks when he’s right side up.
When he’s stripping for me.
When he’s stalking over to the bed, aroused and hard, his eyes blazing with desire.
When he’s pinning me, climbing over me, giving me what I imagined I’d have that night in Copenhagen.
And now, I truly am imagining him groaning.
Because I’m doing the same.
11
ELISE
Sometimes, I miss New York City. The relentless pace fueled me. I learned how to jostle my way onto a subway, how to position myself on the platform to catch the right car at the right time. I could hail a cab and have it sliding to the curb, door opened for me, in five seconds flat. Hell, I could hail a taxi in the rain and barely get splashed on by the sky.
Sometimes, I miss the forty-yard-dash pace of the city where I was raised. The rat-a-tat-tat, go-go-go rhythm of the fastest place in the world, where we did everything in double time, especially lunch.
In Manhattan, we order, eat, and sign a deal before dessert arrives.
Not so in Paris with Dominic. He orders dessert, and we have yet to touch on the reason for this meeting as we close in on the two-hour mark for a meal.
It’s a typical lunch in the City of Lights, where the world slows to a meandering pace at most eateries, including at this restaurant a block off the famed rue de Rivoli. White linen tablecloths hang crisply from tables, and antique gilded mirrors line the walls. Dominic chose it when I invited him out to lunch to discuss a business proposal. Since I’m in need of his services, I agreed to his haute cuisine. He’s one of the most talented industry analysts I’ve ever worked with, and the highest paid too. I still lament letting him go last year when I had to tighten the belt.
“Would you like dessert?” the waiter asks.
I shake my head. “No, thank you. Just a coffee.”
After the waiter leaves, Dominic leans back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head. “Okay, I am ready to talk shop.”
I smile. “So glad to hear.”
When we arrived, he said, “Let’s eat, let’s catch up, and let’s discuss business only over dessert. I’m dying to know how you are.”
“Tell me all about your proposal.” He runs a hand over his mostly smooth skull. His bald patch has broadened in the last year, and his goatee has grown as well—his hairline is heading in opposite directions.
“I’m quite excited about this one. I think it’ll be a great chance to make deeper inroads into a new sector, and I’m keen on the possibility of working with you again.”
“You’re lucky I wanted to listen. After you let me go unceremoniously,” he says, huffing dramatically, as if it’s a joke, but I wonder if there’s a kernel of truth to it.
I smile softly, placing my hands together as if in prayer. “I know. Have you forgiven me?”
“We shall see.” He winks, and I know he’s hurt, but it seems he’s not going to nurse it forever.
“Look, you know the reason I had to let you go is I lost some accounts to the Thompson Group. I felt terrible about it at the time, but it was the only thing I could do. The good news is I hope to rectify that now with a great new opportunity.”
He stretches an arm across the table and pats my hand. “Yes, I know it was hard for you. I read your blog.”
I jerk my hand away. I don’t use my real name on my blog. I never have. “What?”
“Your perfume blog.” His tone is matter-of-fact. “I figured out A Scentsual Woman was you when you axed me. I put two and two together from the things you’d said in meetings about perfume, and then I googled blogs and pored over some, and it sounded like you. All that stuff about that man. It fit you to a T.”
My skin crawls, a creepy sensation as if someone’s been watching me.
Someone has.
I suppose that’s my fault for wearing my heart on my online sleeve, even though it was an anonymous sleeve and I don’t have anything to be ashamed of. Since I learned the truth about Eduardo, I’ve scoured my blog and removed any story that chronicled my romance with him, though he was never named either.
But the fact that Dominic hunted around for me, maybe even hoped to find dirt on me, makes me uneasy. It sends a drumbeat of worry in my brain.
Cancel. I should abort this plan before it gets any worse.
But he’s talented. He’s saved me so many times over the years . . .
I ignore the flush of heat on my cheeks, the stain of embarrassment, and soldier on. “Be that as it may, I’m getting ready to pitch some new business, and I need a great analyst. I would love for you to come back on a project-by-project basis. I can pay you well.”
“Go on.”
I tell Dominic about a resort I’m prepping to pitch, giving him basic details without revealing the potential client’s name.
When his crème brûlée arrives, along with my coffee, Dominic dives into his sweet treat with gusto, humming as he eats. “This is magnificent. This is stupendous. This is incredible.”
I sip my coffee as he murmurs odes to his dessert.
“Are you sure you don’t want some?” He shoves another forkful into his mouth.
“No, but I’m glad you like it.”
We hold off on the business talk for another moment while he devours the remainder of his dessert. He plows through it, then sets down his fork. “I appreciate the offer, Elise. But I’m going to decline. I took a job with the Thompson Group. But thank you for lunch. I’ve always wanted to come to this place.”
As the punchline to the joke that’s on me, he drops his napkin theatrically on the table and leaves.
I’m fuming. Curse words in French and English and even the touch of Spanish I learned in college blister my tongue as I swear silently and fish out my business Amex to pay for his meal, resentment raging in every pore.
I fasten on a fake smile when the maître d’ says goodbye, then I march down the avenue, pissed at how Dominic set me up, pissed at myself for sensing he was going to pull this crap, but still giving him the chance.
I growl in anger. This needs to end. I need all my mistakes behind me.
Screw Dominic. Screw him and his free lunch. I don’t need him. I’ll be my own damn analyst. I’ll show him, and John Thompson too.
I walk, and I walk, and I walk, my heels clicking like bullets, until I hear the familiar sound of water trickling musically, and I inhale the comforting smell of damp stone.
I’ve done it again. I’ve wandered to the Fontaine des Mers at the Place de la Concorde. I square my shoulders and breathe deeply.
This was where I was scheduled to meet Eduardo the last time I never saw him. I waited an hour, calling and texting. Annoyance at him being late turned into worry over his safety, and that soon morphed into anguish the likes of which I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.
The police called. His motorcycle had crashed. He was pronounced dead on arrival at a hospital an hour away. Devastation had flowed through every cell in my body, and I’d heaved with pain and tears for days and days.
That’s where my story with him should’ve ended. The simple but terrible grief of losing a spouse. A widow at the ripe old age of thirty-two. A whirlwind six-month marriage that ended far too soon.
But I didn’t even have the chance to grieve properly.
At his funeral, I met another bereaved woman. Her name was Diana, and she was also a grieving widow. His other widow. He’d been married to her at the same time as me, and Diana didn’t know, either, that he’d left behind two wives. Two fools.
I raise my gaze to the water, watching it patter from the small bowl to the big one in a ceaseless rhythm.
I watch and wait for the clobbering.
For the pain to slam into me, like a cruel wave.
It doesn’t come.
In its place, I feel something new. Resolve.
I don’t have to play the fool. Not with men like Dominic, or men like Eduardo. I won’t let someone have the upper hand again.
I grab my sunglasses and shield my eyes as I walk away from the fountain, stronger, so much stronger than I was that day more than two years ago.
And I’m going to be smarter too from now on.
I return to work, power through my projects during the rest of the afternoon, and head home. A shower washes away the remnants of the day, as I scrub off the lingering frustration from lunch.
I slip on my red skirt, then peruse my bureau with all the little bottles of scents, trailing my fingers along the cool black wood. I stop at an empty crystal bottle that catches the fading light from the early evening sun, reflecting it like a prism. It’s Marchesa Parfum d’Extase, and it was a gift from my blog readers to me. I wore it on my wedding day, and I cherished it.
I love it for what it represents. I hate it for what it represents. It haunts me now, even though I’ve poured it out and bleached the bottle.
Breathing deeply, I turn away, choosing none of the scents. Choosing a new path.
A fresh start to embark on this tryst for what it is—a neat, organized affair with a delicious man. There’s nothing messy about Christian. Nothing risky. He’s built for sin, yet safe for my heart.
As I head downstairs, I repeat my new watchword. Resolve.
I hereby resolve to play it smart and to make sure I don’t ever get too close again.
12
ELISE
When I arrive at the tea salon on the left bank, with its extravagant gold script on the windows, I think of my grandmother. The last time my brother and his family visited, my grandmother caught the train from Provence, stayed the weekend at the Ritz, and spent her days taking my brother and his children to all the sweet shops in Paris, from my friend Veronica’s candy store to this salon, known for its fine selection of teas, hot chocolate, and madeleines. I can picture her clearly—her soft gray hair, her crow’s feet, and her regal but loving smile as she lifted her fine white teacup while my nieces nibbled on madeleines.
The image makes me both smile and laugh, because it reminds me of how elegant this establishment is in all its fin de siècle glory, from the marble-topped counter display to the gilded mirrors. This is Paris of yesteryear, and it’s so discordant with the thoroughly modern man I find holding court at a corner table, a crisp white cloth laid over the surface. He’s so casual and cool, in a sky-blue button-down shirt, a hint of stubble on his chin, and that sweep of blond hair across his head.
He’s dripping with sex appeal, and he’s the complete opposite of this belle epoque time warp.
I make my way to my Friday-night man.
He rises and drops kisses to each of my cheeks. These kisses linger—they whisper of what happens after midnight.
“Pleasure to see you, little mermaid,” he says as we separate, and I sit next to him in a curved corner booth for two.
I arch a brow. “Little mermaid. Is that my nickname?”
“I didn’t inform you of that yet? It’s been your nickname since the day you checked out my cock on the dock.”
A laugh bursts from my throat. “Are you the cat in the hat?”
“Meow.”
“And why on earth would that be my nickname? Are women of the sea known for being oglers of naked fishermen?”
He reaches a hand toward me, brushing a strand of hair over my ear. I’m beginning to wonder if I have so many loose strands or if this is his signature excuse to touch me. I hope it’s the latter. “Mermaids are sexy, and I met you on the water. Ergo, you’re my little mermaid.”
“It’s not a Disney kink you have?”
“More like a you kink, I’m beginning to realize.” He loops an arm over my shoulder and angles in to kiss me. He brushes his lips against my neck, but I change it up on him, turning so he meets my lips.
He groans against my mouth. Closing my eyes, I let myself slide into the feeling and enjoy the dizzying sensation of his lips brushing over mine. I savor it for what it is—a feeling, not a new way of life that cocoons me.
When he pulls back, his eyes have turned to fiery sapphires. The ice in them is gone. “So much for tea salons being un-sexy.”
“And to think I was going to tell you a story of the last time I went to one,” I say.
“Do tell. I like your stories.”
This is a safe one for sharing, a smart one. “The last time I was here was with my grandmother and my nieces. This was a few years ago, before she passed. We brought her here, and she dressed in tweed like Coco Chanel, the height of French elegance. You did well in choosing a location that seems completely platonic.”
“Interesting,” he says, as if he’s musing on the tale. “This place reminds you of your grandmother?”
“A little bit, yes. I suppose this un-date strategy is working.”
“Is it?”
“Don’t you think?”
His eyes appraise me, as if he’s cataloging me. “Were you thinking of your grandmother when you walked in looking fit as fuck in this red skirt?” His gaze lingers on my legs, as if he’s taking snapshots of where the bare skin of my thigh meets the hem of my skirt. His eyes stray down to my heels, then back up to the soft gray sleeveless top that reveals enough décolletage to hopefully drive him batty.
“No.”
“Were you thinking of her once you saw me?”
My voice wobbles as I answer, “I wasn’t.”
His fingers drift from my arm down to my skirt. “Are you sure?”
I gulp and nod. “I’m sure.”
“What were you thinking when you saw me here, waiting for you?” His eyes hold mine, his stare leveling me.
My pulse quickens. “How you looked.”
“How did I look? Elegant? Stuffy? Unromantic?”
I swallow thickly, past the dryness in my throat. “No. The opposite.”
A confident grin seems to tug at the corners of his lips, as his hand travels south. “You wore the red skirt,” he says as he fingers the hem.
“I did. Do you think it’s so short it should be illegal?”
“So illegal I want to be convicted.”
“I suppose you could try being very, very bad,” I whisper, leaning closer, buzzed on how our flirtation has climbed the heat meter tonight.
We’re on the cusp of slipping into the realm of permanent arousal when the waiter arrives—perhaps oblivious to the eye-fucking we’re giving each other—and asks crisply if he can get us some tea.
“Is Earl Grey suitably unromantic?” Christian asks me, laughter sparkling in his eyes.
“Yes, as well as the lime tea. Grandmother’s favorite,” I add.
He turns to the waiter. “Clearly, we need Earl Grey and lime tea, and that ought to save me from wanting to do inappropriate things here.”
The waiter smiles with his mouth closed. “Very well, sir.”
As he leaves, I nearly double over in laughter. “You scared him off.”
“I have that effect,” he says, then squeezes my bare thigh. It’s more playful than sexual, and it’s a little bit friendly too. He glances at my neck and runs a fingertip over the apple charm. “From your brother?”
“Last time he was here. We’d both laughed when he found it, since no true New Yorker calls that city the Big Apple.”
“What’s your favorite place in all of New York?”
“Central Park. Conservatory Garden.”
“Flowers? Of course. I noticed you were quite taken with some we passed by the other day.”
I smile, impressed he remembers. “The Conservatory Garden isn’t just any flower garden. There are no cyclists or runners allowed there, so it’s peaceful. I went there all the time as a little girl. It was my favorite spot in all of Manhattan.”
“Do you have a necklace for the gardens?”
I shake my head. He presses a kiss to the hollow of my throat where the metal apple rests. “Maybe someday you’ll find that to replace the taxicab.”
I shudder and murmur maybe.
He raises his face and squeezes my hand, shifting gears. “How was your day?”
And that’s not sexual at all. He asks curiously, his eyes locked with mine, never straying.
“It was . . . a day. How was yours?” I say, eager to segue away from mine. “Did you translate for the Danish king or something?”
He laughs. “A group of stockbrokers. It was great, and a wonderful reminder that, though I miss the highs of business, I like the freedom of my lifestyle more.”
“In what way?”
“I can’t seem to stay away from business for long, but I like doing it on my own terms. Translating for them gave me a fun peek into what they’re working on but also allowed me to not get caught up in it.”
“Did you feel caught up in it before?”
He nods. “I did. It’s addictive. The rush and thrill of profits, of bigger and bigger returns on investment.”
“Is that why you retired so young?”
He nods. “Partly, I think. I’d earned enough and wanted to live life on my own terms, but I also didn’t want to be consumed by the constant pressure of the deal, and the next one, and the next one.”
That word resonates with me. Consumed. “I think we’re both trying to find more balance in our lives.”
He arches a brow in curiosity. “Are you as well?”
“Yes, but not so much in business. I don’t mind if business consumes me for a bit.”
“Did it consume you today?”
The waiter arrives with a full tea service, a steaming pot, fine china, and teacups. We thank him after he pours.
Christian raises his teacup. “To red skirts I want to peel off.”
I grin. “To blue button-downs I want to unbutton.”
His eyes brim with mischief as he drinks. When he sets down his cup, he returns to the topic. “What consumed you at work?”
