She congratulated herself on barely giving Declan Thomas a thought, other than to check he’d received his airline ticket and hotel information.
Two days before the trip, Declan’s medical report arrived at ATM. Elizabeth was relieved to see all the negative boxes ticked. It was definitely in ATM’s interest to spend money on him. They—she—would turn him into a mega-star.
Chapter Four
Despite being jet-lagged, Elizabeth went straight to the Paris conference, where she gave a brief talk on the impact of social media on the music business. She ordered room service and went to bed early, without unpacking. The next day, refreshed, she was free to enjoy a couple of days of leisure. She looked forward to Declan’s arrival.
Elizabeth threw her small suitcase on the bed of the Westin Hotel and unzipped it. As an experienced traveller, she knew that four days in Paris wouldn’t require much in the way of clothing. A plain charcoal dress she’d worn for the conference could be dressed up with jewellery. With Effie’s assistance and following her suggestions, she’d packed a pair of simple slacks that hugged her body in a flattering way, a light silk top, a cashmere cardigan, a rain jacket and some sexy underwear, an inordinate extravagance that Effie had made her buy. Thanks to Effie, she now owned a black French lace push-up bra with five pairs of matching panties that had a nerve to be considered clothing since there was so little material to them. She’d balked at the price in the store, but Effie had insisted.
“You never know,” Effie had said, winking.
“I do know,” replied Elizabeth. “This is a business trip with a little sidebar of shopping, not a fuckfest.”
Effie laughed. “You don’t know when you’ll get what you need, or what form it’ll take.”
What did she need? Elizabeth wasn’t sure. As she pulled out her items of clothing and laid them on the hotel bed, she noticed a small package wrapped in tissue. She didn’t remember putting it in her case. What was it? She peeled off the tissue. Oh my God. It was a pink plastic vibrator with a smiley face on the tip. Effie again. She’d obviously sneaked it in when Elizabeth wasn’t looking. Effie had obviously thought that if an encounter with a sweaty stranger didn’t materialize, Elizabeth could get sweaty with herself.
Sighing, Elizabeth tossed the vibrator onto the bed. She opened the shutters of her room, revealing a view over the rooftops of Paris. There, in the distance, was the iconic Eiffel Tower. This was a city built for romance and seduction.
Her thoughts turned to Declan. He should have checked into the hotel by now. She hoped his flight hadn’t been delayed. She thought of his eyes, the wild blue of cornflowers framed with dark lashes. The way they seemed to twinkle, almost mocking her. She thought of his mouth and the way it twisted into a wry grin. She thought of his body, the slim hips accentuated by the lean wideness of young, strong shoulders. She thought of his ears . . .
She shook herself from her reverie. Stop it. This wasn’t right. He was her client, an up-and-coming talent in a field of mediocrity. She was going to make his career. It was, and would be, a strictly professional relationship.
There was a knock on the door. Elizabeth had ordered tea from room service. “Attendez,” she called out, diving into her purse for a tip. She opened the door, expecting to see a liveried waiter with a silver tray. Instead, it was Declan, leaning with casual insouciance on the door frame. Elizabeth’s heart leaped at the sight of him. His damp and tousled hair indicated he’d just taken a shower. A little droplet of water remained nestled in the clavicle of his collarbone.
“How was your flight?” she asked.
“Smooth. It’s great to know the world is being kept safe from terrorism by us putting tiny bottles of shampoo in plastic bags.”
Elizabeth laughed. “I know. It’s a pain. Is your room okay?”
“More than okay.” He looked around. “Although yours is better.” A slow grin spread across his face. “Just wondering what we’re doing for dinner. Unless you already have plans?”
It took a second for his question to register. He’d used the word “we.” What a beautiful pronoun. It sounded like oui, French for “yes.”
“No, I don’t have plans. There’s a little place you might like on the river.”
Declan looked at her with a lazy smile. Elizabeth felt she should say something else.
“Do you want to come in for a minute?”
With a casual movement bordering on swagger, Declan released himself from the door jamb. His sweeping gaze took in everything at once. The rooftop view, the rich brocade cover on the king-size bed, the expensive lace lingerie strewn across it and, beside the lingerie, the pink plastic vibrator. Elizabeth rushed to cover the sex toy. Her face turned fifty shades of red.
Seeing her embarrassment, Declan teased, “Nothing wrong with enjoying your own company.”
“No, I . . . don’t.”
He moved towards her. “You don’t? Ever?”
“Well, no, of course not. It’s just that I . . . well.”
Declan took another step closer. Elizabeth caught a hint of soap smell. The drop of water nestling in Declan’s clavicle was mesmerizing. She felt a strong urge to lick it off with the tip of her tongue. He’d just asked her something extremely personal. There was no squirming out of it. She might as well take the situation in hand.
She picked up the vibrator. “My friend Effie put this in, as a joke.”
He grinned. “You don’t seem to find it funny.”
“Actually, no. It’s rather embarrassing.”
He stood in front of her and gently lifted a stray strand of hair from her shoulder. She wanted to scream, “No, don’t do that! Don’t touch me. I can’t take it!” Instead, she inhaled sharply.
Leaning in towards her, his eyes absorbing her creamy skin, her luminous green eyes, her full mouth, Declan said, “I prefer ‘intimate’ to ‘embarrassing.’ ‘Intimate’ is a beautiful word.”
Suddenly weak, Elizabeth closed her eyes. She thought she felt the faintest whisper of Declan’s breath touch her cheek.
A loud rap at the door jolted her back to reality. Declan seemed bemused.
“Must be the tea I ordered.”
Declan shot her a mischievously flirtatious look. In two quick strides he opened the door to a waiter holding a tray of tea. Declan turned towards Elizabeth. “This place we’re going for dinner?”
“Yes?
“Is it intimate?”
She managed to nod. Declan’s eyes swept over Elizabeth like a searchlight.
“Meet you in the lobby. Say eight?”
She nodded again. Her mouth felt dry. Her heart was fluttering. Her physical reaction to Declan’s presence was alarming. Thank God he was gone.
Elizabeth signed the bill for her tea and gave the waiter a couple of euros for a tip. When the door closed, she tossed the vibrator in the air like a baton. She was having dinner with Declan Thomas. She scolded herself for her girlish excitement. She knew she was being ridiculous.
* * *
Soixante-Huit, a boat restaurant on the Seine, was indeed intimate. It was moored below the illuminated Notre Dame Cathedral, and rocked gently in the wake of passing tourist barges. The early spring air was unseasonably warm, so they were able to dine outside on deck. Couples strolled along the quayside, hand in hand, some pushing a stroller or with a small dog on a leash. The full moon reflected brightly off the river. Edith Piaf’s voice floated over the sound system: “Non, je ne regrette rien.” Her voice encapsulated Paris. The little songstress had no regrets. Did she, Elizabeth, have regrets? When Declan asked, she was able to truthfully say no.
“You never wanted children?”
“I suppose I did at one point, but that point has long since passed. What about you?”
Declan’s eyes darkened to the murky blue of the river. “Not going to happen.”
Elizabeth was surpri
sed by the vehemence of his tone. “Really? Why not?”
“Don’t get me wrong. I like kids. I just don’t want to own one.”
“You might change your mind later on.”
“I won’t. Children make you vulnerable. I don’t like being vulnerable. Besides, the world is overpopulated as it is.”
The topic of children seemed to have touched a nerve. Elizabeth decided to drop it and change the subject. Without going into details, Elizabeth told Declan briefly about her relationship with Sampson, how it had ended badly after six years. Having revealed something of her personal life, she felt it was okay to broach the subject of Natasha.
Declan’s mood lightened. “Just a girl. One of the hazards of the business. Show them the slightest bit of attention and they want to marry you.”
“So nothing serious, then, for you?”
“I’m too young to get serious. I’m just enjoying my life and being here.”
Elizabeth knew Declan hadn’t told her the whole truth about Natasha but she didn’t want to pry further. She turned the conversation to Declan’s background. She learned that he, too, was an only child. His father was a diplomat, so, as a child, Declan had travelled a great deal. Strangely, he didn’t remember anything before the age of six. She didn’t push him. He went on to say that his mother had been a professor of English literature in Dublin, a position that had afforded Declan a free university education. He had studied the romantic poets—Byron, Shelley, Keats. At the age of sixteen, he had taught himself to play guitar, then, later, he had decided he would combine his love of words with music. His mother, Joan, had encouraged him and paid for singing lessons to train his emerging voice.
“Where are your parents now?”
“Mom transferred to Toronto and finally got tenure.”
“What about your father?”
A brief shadow crossed Declan’s face. “Alzheimer’s.”
“I’m sorry,” said Elizabeth. “That’s a brutal disease. How old is he?”
“Sixty-five. He’s quite a bit older than she is. Almost twenty years.”
“That’s a big difference.”
Declan shrugged and stared hard at her. “Age is just a number, don’t you think?”
“It depends on the people, I suppose.”
“Well, that’s what my mother says, anyway: it’s just a number. They’ve had a good life together.”
“How is she coping?”
“She’s got plenty of help, but it’s hard on her.”
“You, too, I expect.”
“He’ll have to go into a home soon.”
“Such a shame.”
“A brilliant mind slowly returning to that of a child.” Declan sighed heavily. “What about your parents?”
Elizabeth explained that her mother had died in a bicycle accident, hit by a streetcar when Elizabeth was four years old. She told him about Jack, her jazz-loving father, who had raised her on his own, how he had encouraged her to believe she could do anything. She told him about Jack’s death and about the cottage in Kinlochbervie where she went to weep and recover.
Declan was a good listener. “The cottage sounds beautiful. Perhaps I’ll see it someday.”
“I occasionally let friends use it. I don’t get there as often as I’d like.”
Elizabeth signalled the waiter for the check. “Excusez-moi. L’addition, s’il vous plaît.”
“Where did you learn to speak French?” asked Declan.
“I don’t really speak it, although I’d like to. I wish I’d paid more attention in high school. I can get by, but nothing very complicated.”
The waiter placed their check on the table. Declan scooped it up.
“I’ll get this.”
“No, really, it’s okay. It’s busin—”
Before she could complete the sentence, Declan leaned across the table. He placed one long finger across her lips in a gesture of silence. “We haven’t discussed business once. It’s all been personal. You wouldn’t want to defraud the government by claiming me as an expense tonight, would you?”
Dumbfounded, Elizabeth shook her head. Her lips still tingled where he’d touched her.
The late night air had turned chilly, so they decided to take a taxi. The taxi driver smelled strongly of body odour. He was grumpy and spoke no English, or pretended not to. Elizabeth had to tell him three times where they were going.
By the time they arrived back at the hotel, Elizabeth had made up her mind. Declan flirted with her, yes, but she was sure he did that with every woman. As for her own reactions, she was merely flattered by the attentions of a much younger man. Of course he would sleep with her if she encouraged it—after all, he was of an age driven by raging hormones. It would be folly to allow it to go any further. She had a job to do.
She stopped Declan in the lobby. “Goodnight, Declan. It’s been a wonderful evening. I’m going to my room, and you go to yours. We have a busy day tomorrow.”
“The evening was more than I expected, or deserved. ”
Elizabeth was slightly taken aback. She’d expected some sort of protest. Instead, Declan kissed her chastely on the cheek and disappeared into an elevator.
Elizabeth’s room was surely one of the most beautiful in all of Paris. Three double-shutter doors opened onto a narrow balcony. Every hour, on the hour, the Eiffel Tower lit up with millions of sparkles. Elizabeth took a small bottle of wine from the bar fridge and sat down to watch the glittering show. Could Declan see it as well? No, his room was on the opposite side of the hotel. Perhaps another night she would invite him to watch the light show, although that might be an invitation to something else, something she was not prepared for.
Elizabeth looked at her massive bed. She could get lost in it, all by herself. Effie’s gift, the pink vibrator, was on her nightstand. Oh God, when the maid put chocolates on her pillow, she must’ve seen it. Never mind. It was France. She was sure the cleaning staff had seen worse. Elizabeth did a double take. Had the smiley face on the end of the vibrator just winked at her? She put down her glass. No more wine for her.
After five minutes, the Eiffel Tower ceased its magical show and resumed a plain orange illumination. Across the way, Elizabeth could see into the living room of a magnificent apartment filled with antiques and art. Why, she wondered, didn’t they draw the curtains? She watched, fascinated and slightly guilty, as an older man with a large belly, wearing boxer shorts, padded across the room. He disappeared, then reappeared carrying a glass of milk. His wife—she presumed it was his wife—wearing a long flannel nightdress, joined him. The two of them sat on a couch for a while reading, then the woman got up and left the room. Elizabeth saw a light go on in the bedroom. After a while, the light went off. The old man continued reading, then turned off all the lights and went to bed. Elizabeth imagined that the couple she’d been spying on had been married for fifty years. They had children and grandchildren to keep them together, but no longer felt desire.
Elizabeth looked at the full moon shining over the rooftops of Paris. She looked at the delicate splendour of the Eiffel Tower defining the city. She thought back to her evening and the moment when Declan had leaned across the table to touch her lips. The touch still lingered. She definitely felt desire. At this very instant it was coursing through her veins like blood. Declan was alone in his room. What was he thinking? Was he thinking about her, or was he already asleep? She imagined him kissing her, that gorgeous face, that lean yet muscled body. In her mind he threw her roughly onto the bed. He was above her, biting her lips, biting her neck. He stared deeply into her eyes, his own burning with a fiery passion. He was a man possessed by her beauty and determined to possess her, all of her. He tore off her blouse and bra. He sucked her nipples until they hardened into aching points. He held her hands above her head. She was helpless. He could do with her what he liked. He could say what he liked. He used
dirty words to describe her. He used filthy words to describe what he was going to do to her. His tongue eased its way down to the centre of her pleasure zone.
Elizabeth lowered herself onto the bed and reached for the pink vibrator. Damn you, Effie. She twisted it on. Fuck. The batteries were dead.
Chapter Five
Paris woke to a splurge of spring sunshine. Elizabeth stretched and yawned in bed, temporarily unsure where she was. Oh yes, now she remembered. She and Declan were staying in the same hotel. He would have come to her room last night if she’d encouraged him, but she’d controlled herself—or, rather, she’d controlled the situation. She couldn’t deny that she fantasized about Declan, but the great thing about fantasies was they did no harm. Unlike reality, they caused no repercussions, no awkward moments. In a fantasy, she was in complete control. It was Effie who had clued her in to their power. Effie said, “In a fantasy you can have sex with a dolphin, or Big Bird, or Barack Obama, and no one will be any the wiser.” Typical Effie. Only she would think about sex with Big Bird.
Elizabeth smiled to herself. As long as she could keep Declan Thomas safely locked inside her head, she could do with him as she liked. No one had to know, least of all him. Satisfied she had the situation firmly in hand, she called his room. No answer.
She dressed quickly and applied a minimum of makeup. She pulled her auburn hair into a braid that hung down her back. She wondered if she could pass as French. French women seemed to exude a casual elegance whether they were wearing jeans or haute couture. Sillage, a French word she had looked up, meant the fragrance of a woman’s perfume in the air as she walks by. No equivalent word existed in English. French women exuded elegance like sillage. Elizabeth grabbed her French phrase book and threw it in her bag. She intended to practise a couple of new sayings today.
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