He nodded. “Sometimes in life its best to go for what you want. There’ll always be good men about to help you if you get a little messy.” His eyes flickering back to her mouth.
“And are you a good man, Pascal?” she questioned, her hand trembling as she scrunched up the napkin before placing it on the side of her dish.
“That’s not for me to say. I’ll never do anything intentional to hurt you if that’s what you mean,” he said, fanning his hands out across the table. ”But I’m far from being a saint.”
“I’m not after a saint, but I’m not sure I’m after a relationship either.” She pushed her plate away before draining the remains of her glass.
“Let’s see where we end up, then” He stood up and beckoning to the waiter placed a few notes in the plastic dish that accompanied the bill. “Do you fancy a walk home along the Seine or a taxi? It’s only a short stroll.”
Of course it is. It’s a short stroll along one of the most romantic parts of Paris; a stroll for lovers.
She knew what was going to happen in her mind’s eye as clearly as if she was watching an action replay of her life on the big screen. But that didn’t stop her from picking up her jacket and allowing him to help her into the sleeves before his arm rested across her shoulders.
As soon as they’d left the club she’d imagined him pausing under one of those ornate candelabra lampposts that punctuated the side of the river before pulling her into his arms, his mouth seeking hers. She could almost taste the kiss on her lips as his mouth increased its pressure even as her mind worked out the exact words she should use to ask him up for a coffee.
All around there were lovers doing exactly that, they’d even had to side step a couple doing quite a lot more than just kissing. But his hand had remained where it was, resting on the curve of her shoulder, his fingers heavy as they moulded to her skin. They’d reached her apartment in no time and now the words hovering on her lips deserted her as all the uncertainties and questions invaded her head as to why he’d backed off. She’d been sure he’d wanted her but now… now she felt the distance between them growing with every beat of her heart.
She tried to pull away, to increase the distance, but he was having none of it. Instead of letting go he jerked her within the circle of his arms for the tightest of embraces. His forehead rested gently on hers, his eyes hovering again over her lips: watching, waiting, wanting. After an interminable length he reached up both hands and, cradling her face with supple fingers, managed to find some words.
“What am I going to do about you mignonne?”
“I don’t understand.” But he’d placed a finger against her lips to silence her. “Spend the day with me tomorrow, Sarah - we’ll go on a picnic?”
There was nothing she wanted more. Well, there was but it looked like he was going to be a gentleman, her gaze locking to his. She understood none of it, but she could live with that if only he’d kiss her.
He bent his head and her eyes fluttered closed, her lips parting in gentle expectation but she needn’t have bothered. Instead of lips meeting lips, all she got was a firm kiss against each cheek before the final insult; one to the tip of her nose.
“Off to bed with you before I change my mind,” he ended, opening the street door and pushing her through with the light touch of his hand.
Dragging her way up the stairs, a large part of her felt let down while the other part analysed just what he’d meant about changing his mind. The only thing she could come up with was that he was regretting offering to spend the day with her.
She’d psyched herself up for a very different end to her evening than a cup of cocoa and a cold bed but she couldn’t argue that he wasn’t gentlemanly, too gentlemanly. Where was the rough builder she’d imagined with hands like mitts crawling all over her? Where was the insatiable Frenchman who tumbled her into bed as soon as their lips met for the first time? Instead she’d ended up with a chivalrous architect, well she hadn’t even ended up with him; she’d ended up all by herself.
Even Rupert, for all him being old enough to be her father had tried it on a few times until she’d told him in no uncertain terms she’d set the dogs on him if he tried it again. She’d only avoided being dragged into his arms that last time by insisting she wanted to wear white with impunity, which of course set off another whole set of problems.
Silent words floated around her head like ‘hussy’, ‘tart’ and even ‘slapper’ but she didn’t care. Her fancying the pants off Pascal changed nothing. She still had no intention of getting married. But there was no reason why she couldn’t enjoy life a little. There was nothing more boring, or sadder, than a middle-aged virgin.
Reaching the sanctuary of her apartment, she headed for the balcony to lean against the railings and stare out at the inky black night still buzzing with the distant sounds from the city. Her mind wandered back again to their walk where words had proved unnecessary. It was all a puzzle and, at this time of night, much too much of a puzzle for her to even begin to unravel.
Turning, she paused at the faint sound coming from the next balcony, a discordant note to the sultry Parisian tones echoing in the stillness. She frowned at the wall that separated one apartment from the other as the scratching noise repeated itself, this time louder. Eyes adjusted to the darkness all she could make out was a balcony; an empty balcony, which only a couple of days ago had been festooned with flower boxes and plants. Her neighbours, a sour faced couple, had presumably moved out because of the building work opposite. Come to think of it, she hadn’t seen either of them around for a few days so if the apartment was empty, who or what was making all that noise?
She wouldn’t be able to sleep until she found out.
Chapter Four
11th May. I never used to be clumsy, but my life’s suddenly turned into a no go disaster zone - a no go disaster zone smelling of fish!
Merde!
She blinked in horror at the deep inky black bruise swelling on her shin. She knew she shouldn’t have rushed off the balcony like a lunatic. She should have taken her time and avoided tripping over the leg of the chair but it was too late for that now, far too late as she watched in fascination as the bruise continued to stretch out through her skin like an inflating balloon. Perhaps if she closed her eyes it would go away. But when she reopened them the bruise had expanded to duck egg proportions.
God, what a disaster, she grumbled, limping towards the kitchen. She’d had her night all planned, that is after he’d dumped her on the doorstep, bed and the last chapter of her book. It wasn’t the exciting end to the evening she’d hoped for but, as she’d been dumped… Was she being too hard on him? Did he dump her or just drop her off? And then she remembered the way he’d almost shoved her through the door like an unwanted parcel. No, she’d been dumped all right.
At least she now knew what it felt like, she thought, scrabbling around in the fridge-freezer for the bag of peas she knew she didn’t have. But she wouldn’t feel guilty about that. There were plenty of other things she could feel guilty about and… why didn’t she have any peas? Peas didn’t come high up on any of her list of priorities. Peas didn’t feature at all, she thought, slamming the door closed.
She’d been hoping for some frozen vegetables to supplement the lack of peas, or at the very least ice cream, but it was exactly as she remembered; totally empty apart from that fish left over from last week’s supper.
She’d invited Cara and Aaron around for sole bonne femme as a thank you for hiding her from the reporters and then helping her to move. However, the traditional French fare she’d arranged hadn’t gone as planned with Aaron describing in boring detail the difference between a vegetarian and a pescatarian. The final laugh was on him though as he’d ended up with a plate of green beans, being as distrustful of the cheese as he was of the fish. His loss was her gain she thought, lifting the solid fillet with a look of wry distaste stamped across her face. It was the fish or nothing!
Thankful at least for the rolled up b
andage left over from her ankle she stripped off her stockings and, slapping the ice cold flesh against her shin, strapped it to her leg. Half hobbling to the bedroom, she threw on a pair of leggings well aware she still had to investigate that sound. It would have been easy if her neighbours were in, but five minutes of fruitless doorbell ringing had not provided any easy end to this fiasco of an evening.
She wasn’t scared about what lay ahead, which was unusual being as heights weren’t her thing. But any fear of traversing from balcony to balcony had deserted her when her shin had connected with the uncompromising metal of the chair. It was funny if anything. Instead of the night of passion she’d planned, she was about to the straddle the outside of her apartment with half a dead fish lashed to her leg.
Seconds later found her standing on the self-same chair as she placed her foot on the balcony railing. She was having second thoughts now but with one heave she found herself clinging to the side of the concrete wall with an outstretched arm and leg, the only things preventing her from falling to the pavement below. It was too late to change her mind so with eyes glued ahead she took a final leap and found herself on her bottom in the middle of next door’s balcony.
She looked around the clearly deserted space with a sigh. Wherever the noise was coming from it was from inside. Peering through the glass into the bare lounge there was little to see in the blackness until she spotted dark eyes glinting yellow from the light of her torch.
Her stomach tightened at the thought of just what kind of ferocious beast lived inside. It could be anything, but with her luck it was probably some nasty banned breed with a bad case of sharp teeth disease.
She tried the latch only to find it ease under the weight of her hand. Being on the fourth floor and empty to boot they probably thought it was all right to leave it unlocked, she thought, hurrying in to discover the smallest skinniest runt of a cat she’d ever seen cowering in the corner. His eyes were huge, but that’s the only thing that was.
Without a second to lose, she scooped him under her arm before heading out the front door, pleased she’d remembered at the last minute to leave her own door on the latch just in case someone had to rescue her for the second time in a week. Her mind resolutely didn’t dwell on who her rescuer might be, or indeed under what circumstances he might need to barge into her apartment in the dark of night.
In truth, she was a coward at heart but a kind-hearted one. She’d known instinctively that the scratches were from some animal. She’d just hoped it was something larger than a rat and smaller than a horse. A cat she could manage, but a horse!
Arriving home, she placed the cat on the floor of the kitchen before offering him an impromptu supper of leftover croissants soaked in warm milk. Not the most nutritious of meals but the cat didn’t seem to mind as, within seconds, the bowl was licked clean.
“That’s enough for now, little one. It’s too late to sort out a litter tray,” she said, removing the bandage from her leg and placing the now defrosted fillet back in the fridge. Lifting him up with a gentle hand, she didn’t have to tell him twice to snuggle up on the end of her bed before stripping off the rest of her clothes and joining him for what little was left of the night.
“It’s only eight o’clock in the morning,” she said, staring into the face of a wide awake not to mention wickedly handsome, Pascal even as she clutched her dressing gown tighter around her waist.
“So it is, but I have croissants,” he wheedled, waving a fragrant bag in front of her nose.
“You’d better come in then.” She walked ahead, picking up the clothes that still littered the floor from last night. “I have to warn you though I have a guest staying,” she added over her shoulder with a smile.
“Really? What, one of your girlfriends…?”
“No actually, a boy.” Enjoying his confusion, she watched his eyes shifting around the room before finally landing on the sofa.
“Mon Dieu. What do you call that?”
“It’s a cat. Une chat!” she replied, her gaze following his to the grey bundle of fur. “What did you think it was?”
“The mangiest flea ridden cat it’s ever been my displeasure to meet.” His eyebrows rose. “So that’s why the place smells of…?”
She blushed right up to the roots of her hair. Despite the shower and clean bed linen his screwed up nose was a good enough reminder as any that her little piece of French heaven stank like Billingates Fish Market.
Stalking over to the couch she ran a hand across the silky fur on his back. “He just needs a bit of care and attention, don’t you boy,” the sound of the microwave interrupting her. “I’ll just go and…”
“He needs an awful lot more than care and attention,” his eyes riveted to the way the cat”s back leg was scratching his stomach. “A dose of flea powder, not to mention worming tablets for a start.”
“Don’t be mean.” She would have said more, but he interrupted her.
“Mmm nice.”
She turned sharply to catch him picking up a stray stocking.
“Here, give me that,” she snapped and, hand extended, pointed towards the kitchen. “I’m just going to get dressed…”
“Of course you are, take all the time in the world. I’ll feed Tiddles shall I?”
“Tiddles?” She paused, throwing him a quick frown.
“Well, you’re going to have to call him something, unless you’ve named him already?”
“Er no, we haven’t gotten around to that. Name, food, litter tray…” A smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “Perhaps we should put off our picnic until I’ve had a chance to go shopping.”
“No you don’t! I’ll sort out the necessary...” He interrupted. “What about Minou? He’s far from a kitten but as he’s starting a new life…”
“Minou it is.”
She found him propped up against the balcony, the table set with an impromptu breakfast including both tea and coffee.
“I wasn’t sure which you preferred.” He quirked an eyebrow at her skinny jeans and purple and green flowing top, his gaze trailing down to her old sneakers. “I take it there are no stockings under there.” He added with a frown.
“Behave yourself, and tea’s fine thank you.”
She sat down and he pulled out the chair opposite.
“You English, and your tea.”
“I could say the same about you French and your coffee.” Her glance flickered to the building opposite. “How much do you and your men drink anyway, you always seem to be having coffee breaks?”
“Ah, there’s hope for me yet.”
“What?”
“Well you’ve obviously noticed me, or is it one of my men?”
He was laughing at her, she just knew it and the most annoying thing was she’d walked straight into his trap. “I… I…” she stuttered.
“It’s all right, ma petite. I feel the same way.”
She had to change the subject, what with the way his eyes were hovering over her face again. She felt she was drowning. No, she felt like she was standing on the top of a precipice and his hand was just about to push her over. Glancing around she finally noticed Minou tucking into the remains of the fish, a bag of cat litter standing beside him.
“How did you manage to…?”
“Ah, us builders know everything.”
“Really?” Her eyes wide. “But there’s nowhere near enough to buy...”
“Buy? No, not buy; borrow. Madame Du Pont, the lady three doors along from you feeds her cats on her balcony every morning like clockwork. She was more than happy to supply a couple of tins and some spare cat litter,” he added, pointing to the improvised plastic tray in the corner.
“Oh, and I haven’t even met her.”
“Well of course you haven’t. The French are very private, but in an emergency the most helpful race around.” He threw a quick look at the cat. “Talking of which it’s not usual in France to feed cats fresh fish…?”
“It’s not usual in England either.”<
br />
She had two choices here, and she opted for the first. He could think what he liked about her being rich, but there was no way he was ever learning about the fish episode. She just wished Minou wouldn’t keep brushing up against her leg. Although mostly reabsorbed, the bruise was still tender and obviously still very fishy.
She picked up her croissant for something to do. Pressing it against her mouth she heaved a silent sigh at the smell of warm bread as she allowed her lips to mould themselves to the familiar shape before biting into the warm crumbly pastry. Her eyes closed against the force of his stare even as her mind tried to think up something else to say but it was a complete blank. She could always resort to talking about the weather but that would be such a shame. There were so many things she wanted to know but didn’t even have one word to start a conversation, any conversation.
Opening her eyes she was surprised at the expression on his face, quickly masked as he reached out for his own croissant. There was longing in that gaze, longing and something else. It was a look she hadn’t been on the receiving end of for a very long time; since a child really. It was a look that started a cacophony of shivers racing up and down her spine. It was a look she wanted to hoard to herself like a greedy man offered a drink in the desert. It was a look she never wanted to forget.
He adored her? He couldn’t, surely? But that’s what it looked like as she struggled to keep her lips from pulling apart into a ruddy great grin.
“So your men then,” she made a herculean effort to restart the conversation on a normal footing even though all she wanted to do was to hide away in a darkened room so she could mull over that look. Men didn’t look at women like that, they just didn’t.
Instead of escaping, instead of running away, she watched as his hand paused on the way to his mouth, his eyes now firmly fixed on the pile of crumbs on his plate. Now he’d been rumbled, she intended to watch him like a hawk so she could catch that look again. In fact, from this point forward, she was going to make it her life’s mission. She couldn’t quite stop a gentle smile from escaping her lips, her lungs fit to burst with happiness at the thought of being adored by someone; at the thought of being adored by him.
The Englishwoman Trilogy: Box set of: Englishwoman in Paris, Englishwoman in Scotland, Englishwoman in Manhattan Page 5