Raising her mug to her lips, her eyes scrolled over the empty platform, her imagination playing tricks on her in the bright sunlight. She could almost see him dipping down to pick up another block, his muscles bracing against the weight. She couldn’t quite decide which version of him she preferred: Pascal the sexy builder with bulging biceps or Monsieur de Sauvarin, the composite gentleman with unquestionable taste in both clothes and ties. She’d have to make a point of spending as much time in his company as possible to find out. It would be a hardship, a huge self-sacrifice even but she was game if he was.
It was obvious he fancied her, she mused, securing the scarf tighter around her waist. He fancied her just like she fancied him. But he was honourable enough not to do anything about it at present. She blushed at the thought of him carrying her into bed, her fingers skimming over the very thin silk of her cream dressing gown bought because she liked it and not for any warmth giving properties. If she’d wanted warmth she’d have bought velour but, for all her mother’s faults, she’d taught her well. There were some things more important than warmth as she smoothed the silky fabric across her thighs and velour, for all its commendable properties, just didn’t do it for her.
Resting her empty mug back on the table she made her way into the lounge. She’d been press-ganged into accepting his invite for this evening but then again she owed him for keeping her away from Rupert. However that didn’t mean she couldn’t arm herself with some information about this elusive man with more sex appeal than was good for her. She couldn’t very well find out about his suit unless she could think of a way of checking out the label. But she knew his name and hadn’t her mother thought she’d recognised his tie?
Half an hour later and she was outside waiting for her mother to collect her. It hadn’t taken her more than five minutes to find out that the tie was indeed from Magdalen College, but as knowledge went, it didn’t help her. College ties were two a penny if you knew which sites to buy them from. She’d also searched his name with as much success. While Pascal de Sauvarin wasn’t as common as Jean Martin (the French equivalent of John Smith) it was too common for her to pin him down. She’d found three in Paris alone, but none of them sounded right.
There was a hotshot lawyer married with three kids with offices in the Pigalle. An accountant with a balding pate and moustache and finally an up and coming architect making a name for himself with his bold designs and flair for the unusual. But there were no builders or developers, her mind swinging back to that comment about “My men.” She’d finally given up. She could spend the rest of the day worrying what type of man she’d agreed to spend the evening with, or she could concentrate on trying to find something decent to wear.
The truth of it was, apart from the silver dress, she had nothing suitable in her wardrobe for any kind of impromptu date. There were jeans and leggings galore and an assortment of the long floaty tops she favoured with an array of chunky cardigans but that was it, so today she’d agreed to meet her mother for a little last minute shopping followed by lunch at some in-vogue posh restaurant.
They spent the morning going from one dress shop to another where her mother seemed to be on a mission to spend as much money as possible.
“What about this, darling?” She asked, holding up a bright red mini skirt and matching crop top.
“Really! I wouldn’t be seen dead in it.”
“Not for you Sarah, for me,” she added, holding the skirt up to her slim frame.
“Are you trying to give Father a heart attack?” She queried.
“Mmm you’re probably right.” She returned it to the rail, “although if I was ten years younger…” Plucking a long black skirt off its hanger she passed it across with a smile. “Now this is your size, and your colour.” She added with a shake of her head. “Why all you girls wear black is beyond me.”
“Because it goes with everything.” Sarah held up the skirt, liking its full long layers on sight. “How much is…?”
“Oh, don’t worry about that, your father will be more than happy to treat you.” She waved a hand towards the lingerie department. “Choose something lacy to go with it. I’m sure Pascal will be appreciative.”
“Mother!”
“So tell me how you met?”
They were sitting in a little restaurant on the Rue de Rivoli with glasses of crisp chardonnay in front of them.
“Oh, he works opposite, so we sort of bumped into each other.”
“You didn’t tell me what he does? Some kind of banking like Rupert?”
“No, nothing like that. He’s in construction.”
“Oh, like an engineer.”
“Yes, something like that.” She took a large sip of wine while the waiter presented her mother with a plain green salad before setting a large bowl of mussels and French fries in front of her.
She smiled across the table as her mother picked up a lettuce leaf with a frown. “Go on, help yourself.”
“I don’t know where you get your metabolism from,” she grumbled, stealing a chip and the smallest mussel. “It’s not fair.”
“And remember I’m out for dinner too.” She dipped a chunk of bread into the bowl, her smile breaking into a grin.
Her mother groaned. “So is this thing with Pascal serious? Should I start planning your wedding?”
“It’s a little early for that, mother.”
“Poor Rupert, he’ll be devastated. He’s loved you for so long.”
“Mother, how can you say that! He’s only after my money.”
“That’s a little harsh, Sarah. He’s got quite enough of his own.”
“I thought you said his wife took him to the cleaners?”
“Well she did get a few million off him, but men like that bounce back. Your father and I thought he’d be ideal…”
“Mother, I don’t love him. I don’t even like him.”
“I can see why now, darling.” She sat back and smiled at the couple of chips Sarah had balanced on the edge of her plate. “If I were you, I’d have chosen Pascal too; all that raw energy and brains to match.” She picked up the chip and chewed the end her eyes on Sarah’s face. “Your father liked him, said he had a sound business mind which, coming from your father as you know, means a lot.”
“Well don’t get your hopes up too far. I still have no intention of getting married anytime soon.”
“But, darling?”
“But nothing, Mother. I’ve never been worried about the money.”
“Sarah, how can you say that?”
“Very easily. As long as I have enough to live on…” She stood up and pressed a hand on mother’s shoulder before pressing a kiss against her perfumed cheek. “Thank you for lunch and for the clothes, but if I don’t go now I’ll be late.”
* * *
“Wow, this is fabulous.” Her eyes roamed around the cave-like interior of The Club de Jazz.
“Yes, it is,” his voice low in his throat as he watched her slip her arms out of her jacket. He’d thought her beautiful yesterday in her cutesy little sheath dress with high collar and long sleeves, but this evening she looked amazing.
He’d said not to dress up, and she hadn’t but the tight black ribbed t-shirt embraced her flesh like a second skin, a skin he was having difficulty in not stretching out to touch. She’d teamed it with a long, black, handkerchief-hemmed skirt and low-heeled patent shoes with the most adorable ankle straps imaginable, even as his mind wondered if she was a stockings or tights kind of girl.
Clenching his jaw so his back teeth ground together he took her jacket before pulling out her chair, his mind trying and failing to move away from the loop it had got itself into; a loop where his hand reached under the table and went on an intrepid exploration all of its own. Only by clenching his fists, in addition to his teeth, did he gain any semblance of control over both his mind and his body.
Her gaze wandered back to his, and he wondered for the umpteenth time what it was about her that got him right in the solar plexus?
She took his breath away each time he saw her and, if it carried on, he’d have to think of some method of alternative supply like an oxygen cylinder, his lips pulling into a rueful smile.
It wasn’t that she was beautiful in the accepted sense. Her sapphire blue eyes were wide and expressive but her lips a little too wide for any accepted images of beauty, but oh so plump and kissable as he watched her little white teeth grab onto her lower lip. She was a little too short, barely up to his shoulders but her figure was all and more with well-rounded breasts and hips made for stroking. His mind went back to that morning in the apartment where he’d found her unconscious on the floor. Even with the retied belt he couldn’t help but notice the thin silk accentuating rather than hiding every plane and curve.
“Pascal?” Her voice queried softly, a frown appearing.
“Sorry, ma chérie, I was miles away.” He grinned, hoping against hope she wasn’t a mind reader or she’d be slapping his face and storming off. “What would you like to drink? Wine, lager?”
“Oh, wine, please as we’re both not driving. Any colour.”
“Mon Dieu, sacrilège!”
“Excuse me?” Her eyes wide.
“Non. Inexcusable. To a Frenchman the colour of wine is most important. We’ll start with a couple of glasses of kir royale.” His hands placing the wine menu back in the little plastic folder as he threw her a look from under raised eyebrows. “I take it you like champagne?”
“Who doesn’t?”
“Très bon, and after I’ll feed you.”
“I can’t wait.” Her voice dry.
“You’re teasing me,” he replied with a smile before turning to the waiter with his order.
“Me, tease a Frenchman? More than my life’s worth, Pascal.” Her eyes twinkling across at him.
Resting his chin in his hands he continued to study her, his eyes roaming across her face as if he was trying to imprint it to memory. “So tell me about you, about Lady Sarah Cosgrave.”
“There’s nothing to tell. You know most of it already.” She shifted back in her seat.
“Not the important things. So why the Sorbonne? Why Paris? Surely it’s a long way from home and family?”
“Perhaps it’s because it is such a long way…” She caught his eye but only briefly. “I like my own company and when I won the scholarship...”
“Oh, talented as well.”
“Talented as well as what?” Her eyes narrowed, but he let her fill in her own gaps, which she did on a blush. He liked it when she blushed.
“Let’s play a game, Sarah.” He paused, his gaze searching hers with a frown. “I take it I can call you Sarah or do I have to use the L…”
“Just Sarah is fine.”
“Well, Just Sarah, as I was saying, what about a getting to know you game?” He watched the wary expression back in her eyes and he wondered who’d hurt her, his gut clenching at the thought. She’d been hurt and he was pretty sure it was a man that had done the hurting. She’d tell him in her own time, he just hoped it was sooner rather than later.
“Okay,” she replied, taking refuge in the tall champagne flute in front of her.
“I get to ask a question and then you get to ask one. No tricks. I’ll even be a gentleman and let you go first. Be gentle with me.”
Their eyes locked. “Which university did you attend?”
“Ah, intelligent, beautiful and talented. I must keep my wits about me.” He smiled, resting back in his chair as he started to enjoy himself. “It’s universities actually.” He added and watched her eyes grow wide. “Like you, I won a scholarship - to Magdalen, but before that I studied at Rennes, which is-”
“In Brittany.” She offered him a smile. “We used to spend our holidays in La Baule. What did you…?”
“Non non,” he waved a finger at her. “It’s my turn, ma chérie. What instrument do you carry around in that enormous case of yours?”
“The saxophone.”
“Mmm that figures.” He stroked his chin, his eyes widening. “It’s heavy enough.”
“And what did you read?” She repeated, her voice filled with laughter.
“Ah yes. I’m an architect.” He noticed the way her head gave a little nod of affirmation. So she’d been searching him up. Good. Two could play at that game. He’d spent half the night reading up on her, although there was little to be found apart from some nonsense from a few years ago and that photo of her sitting alone in a Parisian café. He wanted to know more. He wanted to know everything.
“So what about your family, Sarah? I’ve met your parents but are there more?”
“That’s more than one question.” Her mouth twitching as she played with the stem of her glass. “No, there’s only me and my parents. There are horses of course, which are sort of family too but I had quite a solitary upbringing and my parents… Well, you can tell the type of people they are: loving but distant is how I’d best describe them. There’s a godfather, Uncle George, but I don’t see him much. He went into the church.” She took a long sip from her drink, leaving a faint shimmer of lipstick against the rim before lifting her eyes to his.
“If wasn’t for Hopper and Mrs Hopper I’d have turned into a right tearaway.”
“Hopper and,” he raised an eyebrow before continuing. “What is this hopper?”
“Not what, whom.” She lifted the corners of her mouth into a smile. “Hopper is our butler, and he’s married to Beverley, the best cook in the world,” she expanded. “I know it probably sounds all very upper-class to the uninitiated but without Hopper and his wife, I’d still be roaming the estate climbing trees and scrumping for apples.” She smiled, catching his eye. “I was a tom boy.”
“I can imagine!”
“And your family, Pascal? I was half expecting you to bring them along for an introduction?”
“Ah, it won’t be a long answer I’m afraid. I don’t have any.”
“That’s very remiss of you. So you’re a foundling?”
“A founding?” His voice holding a question.
“A foundling, it’s another term for an orphan. You know, someone with no parents.” Her eyes meeting his with a beguiling softness to melt the most determined of hearts. But his didn’t need melting. It lay in a puddle at the bottom of his chest just waiting for a look, a smile to jump start it back to life.
“Non Sarah, you misunderstand. They’re both dead now. Even my uncles and aunts; all dead, so I have no family.”
“What, no cousins, nephews?”
“Non.”
“Well that’s unusual, as well as very sad.” She patted his hand. “If you ever feel in the need of some, I’ll happily lend you mine.”
“Merci, but I’m not in need of family. Or at least I wasn’t,” his voice trailing away to nothing as he plucked the menu from its stand. “So what do you fancy?”
You, that’s what I fancy,
You with all those delicious French trimmings thrown in for free like your sexy accent and come to bed eyes; like your taut muscles that no plain white shirt and tan chinos could ever have a hope in hell of camouflaging.
Yep, she’d decided to have him for both main course and dessert as soon as she’d spotted him on her landing, and she wouldn’t even be in need of a spoon! As soon as she’d opened the door all her inhibitions and hang-ups flew out the window, along with her pride, and any worries of him being an heiress hunter. Life, that yesterday had been boring with a capital B, was now full of the most amazing possibilities, all of which included him.
She picked up the menu he was holding, his fingers brushing against hers with a sensual familiarity that had her heart hammering under her ribs. Dampening her response with a sigh she scanned the list of foods like a good girl when all she wanted to do was grab his hands, both of them, pull him out of the club and back to her apartment. Instead she ended up agreeing to a shared platter of spicy Buffalo wings and a side order of French fries.
Ordering out of the way she nestled back against her chair a
nd toyed with a second glass of kir royale that had miraculously appeared in front of her. The music started up and assaulted what was left of her senses with a rendition of one of her favourite pieces by Debussy “The girl with the flaxen hair.”
The club had gone from buzzing one second to absolute silence the next as all eyes pinned themselves to the solitary man on the little stage in the corner with only his saxophone for company. The audience silence was broken by loud clapping and cheering as he slipped into “Careless Whisper.” She finally dragged her gaze away at the sight of their food only to find him staring at her again. She almost lifted her hand to check on her hair, which she’d left trailing over one shoulder in a loose plait but she resisted the temptation. Instead, she picked out a wing before pushing the plate in his direction.
“So, can you play as good as that?” he asked, choosing a couple of chips and dipping them in the accompanying mayonnaise. “Because if you can, I’m telling you now I’m giving up work and becoming your manager.”
She laughed. “I wish. Not about the manager bit, about the being as good as…”
“I got that, Sarah. I don’t think I’m brave enough to manage you, or indeed any woman.”
“I wouldn’t have put you down as a coward?”
“Not a coward, just sensible. I’d only come off worse.” His soulful gaze met hers.
“You’ll have me reaching for a violin in a minute.” Her eyes creasing at the corners.
“French men are very emotional Sarah. It’s best not to tease us, especially with a chin covered in barbeque sauce,” he added, wiping her skin with his finger before raising it to her lips for her to lick, his eyes never leaving her face.
“Oh, thank you, I should have chosen something easier to eat.” She picked up a serviette and scrubbed at her face, careful to avoid her mouth where the lingering pressure from his fingers left an invisible trail of sensations. “All gone now?”
The Englishwoman Trilogy: Box set of: Englishwoman in Paris, Englishwoman in Scotland, Englishwoman in Manhattan Page 4