First Tango in Paris, page 3
Feeling a little down, Brigitte rummaged around in her purse and located a medicine bottle.
She waved to the waiter, ordered some mineral water, popped an aspirin, then rinsed it down. “Thanks.” She smiled at him as he pocketed his tip.
That awkward incident in the library the other day had given her a headache that kept cropping up at the strangest times. The brunette she’d quarreled with there had been so demanding, and she’d stared at Brigitte in such a condescending way. The woman’s judgmental air reminded her of the self-important women in New Orleans she’d encountered occasionally. They couldn’t satisfy their husbands in bed, but they clearly considered her and Rosa—and women like them—inferior because they could. Didn’t make a bit of sense.
The stranger in the library was beautiful yet glacial, with none of the warmth that had always oozed from Rosa. Obviously the woman was much more concerned about her book and her important project than the feelings of others. Rosa had always been nothing but sympathetic and caring. Brigitte sighed. God, she missed her.
She rubbed tears from her eyes, then pulled a cigarette from her package of Kent Lights. As she was reaching for a match, a tall, well-built woman appeared, her hair cut short in a chic style. The stranger whisked an expensive gold lighter from an inside pocket in her tailored men’s suit jacket and fired up the tip of Brigitte’s long filtered cigarette.
“May I join you?” the woman asked, her Germanic accent noticeable.
Brigitte considered her briefly. The woman’s air of authority was impressive. “If you want to.”
The stranger settled into a white plastic-and-metal chair near her. “Waiter. Whiskey, neat,” she called, then turned to Brigitte. “May I buy you another of whatever you’re drinking?”
She nodded, deciding to see what this person had to offer in addition to a drink.
“Been in Paris long?” the woman asked.
“A few months.”
“Beautiful weather, eh?”
Not a very original opening line, Brigitte thought, but the woman might help her get to know Paris in a whole new way. And she might be able to distract her from brooding so much. It obviously wasn’t doing anyone any good. Nothing could bring Rosa back.
“Ah. The weather’s glorious. Much cooler than June in New Orleans. And not nearly as humid.” That was just one of the many things she wouldn’t miss about Louisiana.
“So you’re an American. A beautiful American, I might add.”
That was better. Unoriginal still, probably fake as hell, but she could use a little reassurance right now. All these weeks of mourning had surely taken their toll on her appearance. “Thank you. And you are?”
“Mies, from Amsterdam, here to film a documentary about the jazz scene.” Mies’s eyes glinted like she’d just discovered a valuable ring lying on the sidewalk.
There, she thought. Those gleaming eyes said a lot more about Mies than her words did. “Ah, jazz. What an exciting subject for your film. Speaking of, I’d love to hear some of the groups in town. A lot of the big names play here, don’t they? I’m Brigitte, by the way.”
Mies’s eyebrows shot up in mock surprise. “Brigitte Bardot?”
Brigitte took a drag on her cigarette and exhaled a long stream of smoke just past Mies’s head. “Very flattering, but don’t be silly. Her eyes are brown. Mine are blue. And I certainly wasn’t born in Paris.”
“Ah. Yes. I see that, now that you mention it. But those have to be the only differences. Are you an actress or a model?”
No way was she spilling the beans about her background. Mies might be cruising her but probably wouldn’t be interested in paying for whatever happened between them. And something would, fast, the way things were already going. She’d slept by herself long enough now. A little recreational sex might give her a whole new outlook on life. “Neither an actress nor a model. Let’s just say…I’ve had a career in high finance.”
She could usually spot a con a mile away, but Mies looked relatively sincere. As Mies picked up the heavy crystal glass in capable-looking hands, she wondered if Mies would be able to take care of her, like Rosa had. She had always needed someone steady in her life, like her grandmother and Rosa.
“Why do you want to hear some jazz here in Paris?” Mies asked. “You said you’re from New Orleans, didn’t you? Don’t you get your fill of it there?” She took a long drink of her whiskey.
“I’ve had my fill of everything in New Orleans.” The thought of being with a woman made Brigitte’s pussy twitch for the first time in a long while. Strange how she could begin to be interested in sex all of a sudden when she couldn’t have cared less about it as a working girl. “I’m hoping Paris will be more my style.”
Mies set her glass on the table and stared at her. “I’d like to do my best to make sure it is.”
Brigitte recognized the look—knew it all too well—and this time it touched something carnal deep inside her. When Mies moved her hard-backed chair even closer, she didn’t pull away.
Instead, she said, “Maybe you can show me what your best is. I’m getting a little bored being here by myself. Where are you staying?”
Mies took another big swig of her drink. “The George V. You?”
“The same.” She sipped her mineral water.
“You don’t say? Nice.” Mies looked at her watch. “Listen. I’m already late for an appointment, but how about meeting for dinner in the hotel restaurant? Say, seven o’clock?”
Why not? Last week, the woman in the library had set off a few fireworks in her after a long, dry spell. However, the library Nazi was probably as passionless as a stalk of celery. Mies seemed like she might be able to ignite the flammable tinder that had accumulated in her.
“Sounds interesting. Maybe we could go hear some jazz sometime soon too.”
“Jazz, eh? I’d like that.” Mies smiled with what appeared to be either triumph or anticipation. “We could enjoy ourselves exploring Paris together.”
And each other. Brigitte didn’t say the words aloud, but Mies’s expression said the same thing.
After Mies hurried away, Brigitte looked at her own watch. She had time to take a bath and a nap before indulging in her first real taste of Paris. Rosa would approve.
*
Dinner had been a success, Mies charming and attentive. She’d even made Brigitte laugh several times, which was a real relief after all the mourning she’d done. Afterward, Mies had slipped Brigitte a key to her room and arranged to meet her there later.
Now she rested on Mies’s bed and stretched, wide-awake, trying not to think about Rosa. She eased her hand under the robe she wore and stroked her warm stomach. Was she finally stirring to life again? But how could she even think about enjoying herself with Rosa gone? Her throat tightened, and she couldn’t stop the tears from welling up.
A key rattled in the door, and she glanced at the clock radio on the Louis XVI nightstand. Ten, on the dot. Mies was certainly punctual.
“Brigitte, where are you?” Mies sounded as excited as Brigitte began to feel again.
“In here, Mies.” How wonderful to hear a woman’s voice instead of a man’s. And how thrilling to rendezvous with someone simply because she wanted to, instead of because she was paid to. Rosa would definitely approve. She squeezed her eyes shut so she wouldn’t start crying again and willed herself to forget what had happened to Rosa. Life was certainly full of surprises.
“I’m waiting for you.” She arranged herself in her most seductive pose. If only she’d brought her red silk robe from her own room instead of undressing and pulling on this plush white terry-cloth one the hotel supplied. She was slipping. “Are you coming?” At least she’d dabbed some Givenchy III between her breasts as an opening attraction.
Mies sauntered into the bedroom, and a large smile spread across her broad face as she set a bottle on the nightstand, kicked off her low-heeled shoes, and unbuttoned her white shirt. After unzipping her trousers, she carefully laid them across the back of a chair, all the while gazing at Brigitte through half-closed eyes.
“Now this is what I call room service.” Mies lowered herself beside Brigitte and kissed her. “Ah. I can’t think of a better late-night snack than you.” She slid her hand up and down Brigitte’s leg, her large palm relentlessly inching Brigitte’s robe more fully open with every stroke.
A river of sensation coursed up Brigitte’s legs, from her calves past her knees and into the flesh of her thighs. “Mmm-hmm.” She purred her pleasure.
Mies grasped the tie of Brigitte’s robe, wrapping it around her strong, elegant fingers. “And what have we here?” She growled, slowly loosening the sash.
“Something I think you’ll like.” Brigitte’s stomach quivered, and her pussy began to throb as Mies brushed it and her breasts with the coarse terry cloth.
Mies’s soft kisses made the pulsation rush through Brigitte’s arms, up her neck, and finally to her mouth. Her lips seemed to swell, filled with the familiar electricity that flooded her body. “Ohhh.”
“You’re gorgeous,” Mies whispered and tasted one of her breasts as if it were as delicious as the chocolate mousse Brigitte had enjoyed earlier at the café.
She liked the way Mies licked one stiffening nipple, then the other, and circled each one gently, gradually pressing more forcibly until she moved and kissed her way down Brigitte’s body. As Mies massaged her thighs and buttocks, the flashes inside Brigitte became almost painful.
Mies returned to her lips, and Brigitte opened them to the thrusting tongue that claimed her so powerfully, so surely. “Ah. That feels so good,” she managed to say when Mies began to inch her way down Brigitte’s body once more. Silver, sparkling moments such as these teased her, promised to let her escape into a world of pure sensation. If only she could whiz past that final barrier and sizzle into the atmosphere.
Maybe this time.
Mies’s forceful fingers slid over her clitoris, triggering the liquid that cascaded from her and created a tremor between her legs. “Oh yes.” She gasped as Mies manipulated her tingling folds. “Your lips—down there.”
Smelling of expensive cologne, Mies slid down her body and buried her face in Brigitte’s thatch.
“Yes. That’s it.”
Mies’s head bobbed up and down as she licked and sucked, tonguing Brigitte’s clitoris, biting it lightly, thrusting into her.
Mies was obviously experienced, and Brigitte tried to let herself go, strained to allow herself to burst open inside.
“I’m almost there. More. More.”
But the more she willed her body to relax, the more she mentally drifted away. Mies didn’t give a rat’s ass about her. She was probably fantasizing that she was fucking Brigitte Bardot.
Finally she sighed and pushed Mies’s head away. “It’s no use, tough gal.” At least she’d be honest, not fake an orgasm like she always had done with her clients. “That pussy has a mind of her own. I appreciate the effort though. Maybe later.” She grabbed the folds of the robe on each side of her and began to cover herself.
“Maybe later indeed.” Mies sat up and licked her lips. “You just need a little time. I’ll wait.” She got up and pulled on a man’s dark robe. “How about we crack open this bottle of Beaujolais? I’m thirsty, and I bet you are too.”
Brigitte tasted the wine, trying to recapture her earlier mood of anticipation. But it immediately soured in her stomach. She pulled the hotel robe around her, let out a deep breath, and carried her clothes into the bathroom, where she slowly dressed.
Back in Mies’s living room, Brigitte looked out the windows at the lights of Paris. They seemed dimmer now than they had when she’d gazed at them earlier tonight.
She stood there alone a minute, staring at the city, while Mies, at the minibar, poured them each another glass of wine, her back to Brigitte. She sighed. Being in Paris hadn’t magically allowed her to let Mies take her completely. She felt more alone and unloved now than she had before she’d met Mies.
Mies turned around and held out her full glass with a grin. Brigitte straightened her back and tried to smile, but she couldn’t. “No, thanks. I’m going to call it a night.”
She hadn’t come to Europe to be the same person she’d been in New Orleans. Hooking up with Mies had been a bad idea. Lesson learned.
Chapter Four
“Do you think anyone would sign up for a tour of Paris featuring some of the famous women who’ve lived here, Jeanne?” Eva Laroche sat on the edge of a cushiony green chair in her aunt’s travel agency, Taste Paris, and gulped some of the coffee she’d just made. “Ouch. Burned my tongue.”
Jeanne gazed at her with farsighted blue eyes and shook her head. “Slow down, child. All in good time.” Jeanne inhaled deeply, until the steam from her white china cup slowly dissipated. “Ah. Nothing like the smell of a rich brew. Thanks for this.” She finally took a sip. “Some people will definitely be interested in the tour. This is the seventies. We’re liberated.”
“Are you sure?” Eva blew on her coffee before she tried it again. “You can take care of yourself. And I’m trying. But what about women like Mother?” Her mother would be content to live in the Middle Ages, when most men regarded women as either property or as a means to gaining it.
“I know.” Jeanne appeared rueful. “She ignores your father’s weaknesses because he looks after her.”
“Weaknesses?” Eva jumped up so fast she almost spilled her coffee all over her blouse. “Is that what you call screwing prostitutes? Spending all Mother’s inheritance on fancy cars and clothes to impress his women? Refusing to bail me out of jail? She should have left him years ago.”
As Eva paced, Jeanne nestled more comfortably into her chair and concentrated on her morning coffee. “Calm down. Yves isn’t all bad.”
“Yeah. You could have fooled me.” Eva’s blood was as hot as the coffee she tried to keep from sloshing over the rim of her cup. “He’s set the liberation of women back a hundred years, and if he had his way, he’d eradicate it altogether.”
“Have you heard about that new American television series called All in the Family?” Jeanne asked.
“You know I don’t like television, especially American shows. The few I’ve seen are too full of Americans and their endless shallow obsession with things and appearance. Where on earth did you hear of such a program?” Jeanne was always surprising her.
“I watched it in New York last year, while I was there on a business trip. But that’s not important.” Jeanne settled in as if she intended to spend the morning chatting instead of working. “The wife in the comedy series—Edith’s her name—reminds me of your mother. She acts unintelligent, and everyone treats her as if she is, but she’s obviously much smarter than anyone gives her credit for.”
“Smart? How?” Eva walked over to the front door and peered out at the morning traffic before turning her attention back to her aunt. “Mother’s pretty and charming and a great shopper, but I’ve never considered her particularly intelligent.”
“Your mother doesn’t think of herself as smart either. But she has a good heart and an open mind, like Edith.” Jeanne smiled wryly, as if recalling a particularly poignant episode on the show. “The show deals with current issues such as women’s lib and homosexuality, and Edith always innocently shows the rest of the family, especially her husband, how unenlightened they are.”
“If you say so, but I’ve never seen anything particularly worthwhile in either Americans or their so-called culture.” Eva finished her coffee and set her cup down on a small table.
Jeanne tapped her own forehead. “Remember what I’ve always told you, dear. Keep an open mind, even about Americans. Everyone has something to teach us.”
Eva took a deep breath and walked over to the plate-glass window. “Yes. Thanks for reminding me. And I need to stop acting like a kid and letting Father bother me so much.”
“You have to be patient. Change takes time. Your mother’s not as mistreated as you think she is. She chose to marry Yves, and she continues to stay with him for reasons of her own.” Jeanne took another sip, as if sorry she’d almost finished her morning coffee. “Worry about your own problems, such as this tour you’ve suggested. Sure, it’ll attract only a small, select group of tourists. They’ll have to be interested in the subject and stay here in Paris for more than just a few days.”
Eva looked out the window at a bicyclist rushing by, several baguettes stretched across his basket. “You’re right. Most tourists, especially the Americans, fly through here without seeing much more than the Louvre, Versailles, and Notre-Dame.”
Jeanne finally emptied her cup and carried it and Eva’s to a small screened-off area in the corner of the large room, where she rinsed them.
This simple act always made Eva feel cared for. That was one reason she lived with Jeanne right now, instead of with her parents. She walked over to her desk, ready to begin her workday.
Jeanne returned, her expression thoughtful. “No, this will be a gourmet tour, for connoisseurs. You should meet some intriguing foreigners for a change.” She glanced at Eva with concern. “You must already be getting tired of bored teenagers and their overworked teachers.”
Eva nodded, warmed as much by Jeanne’s kind expression as by her coffee. “I would welcome a group of adults. And I could practice reading a varied group and persuading them to see things my way.” Having to defend a case before a jury in a few years, after she passed her bar exam and became a full-fledged lawyer, made her more nervous than she wanted to admit. Well, she’d just have to get over it.
Jeanne straightened her large-lensed Lafont eyeglasses and rearranged a display of brochures praising the wonders of the South of France. “You’ve done well so far encouraging tourists to see things as you do. No one would ever suspect how difficult it’s always been for you to speak before a large group. But you may have another problem.”
