"Sure. See you later," she said, wanting to believe he'd be back, but still a tad uncertain.
He straightened his clothing and then left, closing the door behind him.
For a couple of seconds, Trish stayed where she was and stared at the closed door. Assuming he comes back, if that's the appetizer, then what's the main course? The friend he'd mentioned? Carl? Carlos? Something like that. She couldn't remember the name exactly.
She bent down and picked up her purse, but as her fingers closed around her discarded panties, she froze. The friend's name wasn't important, but what about his name?
She knew for sure she hadn't introduced herself, and she couldn't remember him doing so either. In fact, incredible and unbelievable as it might seem to the rest of the world, she'd taken her sexual inexperience one step further by allowing herself to be fucked by a total stranger. She didn't know his name, his phone number, his address, or anything else about him. He hadn't mentioned his company's name or the name of the company in Toronto. All she knew about him was that he owned an expensive black car and had a chauffeur called Georges. Then again, she didn't know that for sure. For all she knew, the car and driver both belonged to the company he worked for rather than him personally. They could also have been rented from one of those agencies that specialized in meeting executives at airports.
Feeling like a prize fool, Trish carried her things into the bedroom and stripped off the rest of her clothes. On the negative side, she'd been had by a very charming and handsome opportunist and she wanted to kick herself for being so gullible. She wasn't some wide-eyed teenager, for heaven's sake. She was a woman who'd just turned thirty-she ought to have known better than to fall for all that high-powered testosterone and TLC. On the other hand, the man had saved her the cost and the hassle of finding transportation from the airport into the city, he'd had the good manners to use a condom, and he'd taught her more about the pleasures of sex in the past few hours than she would have learned by herself in a lifetime.
"Hey, it wasn't all bad," she murmured, allowing herself a self-satisfied smile as she emptied her suitcase on the bed and looked for the bag containing her toilet articles. "In fact, some parts of it were beyond great…even if I don't know Sir Galahad's real name."
She was tired from the overnight trip, but still too excited to think about sleeping. She hung a dress, a jacket and a couple of skirts in the closet to prevent them being crumpled to the point of needing a trip to the drycleaners, then she picked up her toilet bag and headed for the bathroom.
The shower water was hot the way she liked it and had one of those massaging attachments designed to iron out the kinks. She turned the massage dial up to the max, lathered her body with shower gel and after ten minutes under the hot spray and less than one under the cold, she felt almost as good as new.
Wrapping herself in a bath towel, she returned to the bedroom, opened the window and peeked out. It was a beautiful late spring day. The sun was shining, the trees at the entrance to the apartment building were coming into bloom, and she estimated the temperature to be somewhere in the high sixties, even though it was still early in the day.
She thought briefly about making coffee before going out to explore her new surroundings, but remembered having coffee at a sidewalk café and watching the world go by was one of the "must-do" things on a trip to Paris.
Hurrying back to the bathroom, she quickly finished her toilette, dried her hair and put on a little makeup. Once she was finished, she turned off the light and returned to the bedroom. After slipping into clean underwear and surveying the clothes she'd brought with her, she decided on a pair of black jeans with a splash of bling on the front pockets and down one leg, and a brand new white hoodie she'd bought especially for the trip.
Socks and her favorite white sneakers completed the outfit and then she checked herself in the mirror. The black and white color combo went perfectly with her dark, shoulder-length hair, and while she realized she would never be mistaken for a French woman, no way did she intend to advertise the fact she was a tourist by wearing a baseball cap and short shorts or denim cut-offs, or whatever the me-generation currently considered in-gear. In any event, turning thirty was a milestone in her life-she was supposed to dress and act like an adult.
A bubble of laughter escaped her lips. Yeah, right! Getting laid by a nameless stranger on the basis of a couple of hours' acquaintance on an overnight flight wouldn't qualify as adult behavior, no matter how hard she tried to rationalize what had happened.
She thought back to the events of the past night as she ran her hands down over her belly and continued to stare at herself in the full-length mirror. Her lips appeared to be a little bee-stung, her half-closed eyes had that dreamy, satisfied look usually attributed to the heroines in romance novels, and she felt a little sore in all the right places.
By anyone's standards, it had been a really insane thing for her to do-he could have been a rapist, a pervert or a serial sex offender. She should have pushed him off, asked the flight attendant for a seat change, and reported him to the airport police when they landed. But she hadn't, partly because she'd been having too good a time and partly because she'd done more to encourage than deter his advances. She could have told him to back off, but she hadn't and she didn't intend to spend one single second on regrets.
Okay, so what if chances were better than good she'd never see him again? She'd live. She'd manage to have a good time on the memories alone because, even if nothing else happened between now and the time came for her to return home, except maybe the odd suggestive leer or intense look, it would still be a trip to remember and treasure.
Recalling Jenny's warning about pickpockets, instead of using her regular purse, Trish slid her passport, a credit card, a few euros, a lipstick and a couple of tissues into a smaller one that she could wear bandolier-style next to her skin under a loose sweater or jacket. She took off her hoodie and slipped the long strap over her head, arranging the purse so it rested snugly against her skin and just above her waistline.
After putting the hoodie back on and conducting a short search for the apartment key, she found it on the table in the entrance hall where she assumed Sir G must have dropped it before they'd jumped one another like a pair of randy rabbits. Picking up the key, she made for the door.
Rabbits! She smiled at the parallel. Actually, she'd been lucky. The man's only crime, if it even qualified as one, had been that of being an opportunist.
And so what if he had? She'd taken advantage of the opportunity as well, and anyway her chances of seeing him again were less than slim. But this was Paris, it was springtime, and Frenchmen had the reputation of being great lovers, and that meant it was all good as far as Trish was concerned. It was a simple case of him being a match to her tank of gas, or however it worked in the case of instant attraction. And there had been a ton of combustible chemistry between the two of them from the word go, which she doubted either of them could have extinguished…supposing either of them had wanted to try. Anyway, she was quite sure stopping the progress of nature had been the last thing on either of their minds.
On her way out, Trish remembered to lock the door behind her, and as she started down the first flight of narrow stairs, she heard the sounds of someone coming up. Expecting to meet one of her new, albeit temporary neighbors, she hesitated at the first landing, then stared in surprise when she realized who was it was.
"What happened to your meeting?"
He paused his upward journey and smiled-the same million-dollar smile that had captured Trish's attention in the first place-the smile that turned her knees to water and made her lick her lips in anticipation. "I couldn't get you out of my thoughts. And, since it's too beautiful a day to spend inside with a bunch of dry, fussy old businessmen, I gave them my report and told them I'd catch them later, as you North American say."
She noticed he'd exchanged his business suit for black jeans and a black polo-an outfit that made him look even more delicious than
before. "I see."
"I thought I'd come back a little earlier than I originally planned. I hope you don't mind."
"No. It's just…umm…I…" Trish felt hot, embarrassed for not trusting him, and a whole lot of other things she prayed did not show on her face.
"You were on your way somewhere?"
"Nowhere in particular. I just thought I'd have a coffee and explore the neighborhood."
He hurried up the last few steps and, placing his hands on her shoulders, kissed her first on one cheek and then the other, and finally very gently on the lips. "I promised I would come back."
"So you did. But people are always making promises."
"And you thought I'd made one I did not intend to keep?"
"To be honest, the thought did cross my mind. After all, you don't know my name, and I don't know yours. You didn't give me your phone number or say where you worked either. You just brought me here and then umm…er…"
"Made love to you and vanished?"
"Exactly. Not a lot for a girl to build her hopes on. I think you'll agree with me on that."
"Really?" He looked a tad confused. "I didn't introduce myself?"
"No." She smiled. "But that's okay neither did I."
He took a step back and held out his hand. "In that case, my sincere apologies for the omission. Guy Rochambault of R amp;H Holdings at your service. And you are?"
She accepted the handshake. "Trish Stacey, tourist and former business studies student."
Taking both her hands in his, he pulled her in close. "I can't believe you were planning to run out on me."
"I wasn't planning anything of the kind. I thought I'd been had, so I was going out to drown my sorrows in a cup of coffee."
A frown wrinkled his otherwise perfect brow. "What do you mean by had?"
"You know…fooled, tricked. The innocent victim of a hit and run."
He slipped his arms around her and began to caress her butt. "You make me sound like a…what do the English call a man who does something like that?"
Trish shrugged. "No idea."
"I think perhaps it begins with a c."
"As in cad?"
"That's it. You thought I was one of those?"
"No. I just thought you were a flirt and left it at that."
"And now what do you think?"
She smiled and gave him a brief kiss on the lips. "I think I need that cup of coffee before I say anything I might regret."
He pulled her in hard against the juncture of his thighs, and she felt his arousal pressing against her belly. "Wouldn't you rather go back upstairs and make love?"
"Anyone ever tell you you're insatiable?"
"But insatiable is good, no?"
She pulled free of his embrace and hurried down the next flight of stairs. "I don't know," she called over her shoulder. "I've never tried it."
Guy caught up her with in the lobby. "Coffee and then we go back upstairs?"
"No. First coffee and then a walk, otherwise I'll have no appetite for lunch. And you did promise me lunch. Right?"
"So I did. Where would you like to go?"
"Le Café de la Paix. According to my guide book, they have great food."
"Not the best in all of Paris," Guy argued as they left the building and started along the sidewalk. "But for a restaurant that's a big favorite with the tourists, I understand they rarely disappoint. However, it's quite some distance from here, so we'll need to take the car."
Trish glanced up and down both sides of the boulevard, but the limousine was nowhere in sight. "I don't see Georges. What did you do with him? "
"Georges and the limo belong to the company. And, since this is not company business, I prefer to drive myself. That's my car's over there." He pointed to a low-slung black sports car parked on the opposite side of the street.
A remark once made by a friend about a man's car being an extension of his libido slipped through Trish's mind, but she merely smiled and kept the thought to herself. If she'd tried to imagine the kind of car Guy drove, then that would have been it in every last shiny detail.
* * * *
After a delicious cup of café au lait at the first sidewalk café they came to, they continued on until they reached the Boulevard St. Michel. Taking Trish's hand and ignoring the fact the traffic lights were against them, Guy closed his ears to her protests and steered her safely through the speeding traffic to the other side.
"You could've gotten us killed," she said, as they turned into a narrow side street. "I can't believe the drivers let us through. They were all going so fast, it's a miracle they were able to avoid hitting us. You have a death wish or something?"
"No." He frowned, looking vaguely confused. "That's the way I always cross a street."
"If you do that in Toronto, you'll risk getting a ticket for jay-walking."
He laughed and squeezed her hand. "So I discovered. I told the officer I was a tourist, and he said he'd let me off this once, but next time I should wait for the 'walk' sign."
"And did you?"
"No. The next time I did it, I just made sure there were no cops around."
It was Trish's turn to laugh. "You're incorrigible as well as insatiable."
"And you find that to be a bad thing?"
"No." Trish turned her head to look at him and the moment she saw the mischief dancing in his dark eyes a surge of raw need rushed through her body, and she wanted him all over again. Even more than she'd wanted him the last time. "It's just…"
He stopped walking, slipped his forefinger beneath her chin and lifted her face up toward his own, leaving the pedestrians to squeeze past the best way they could. "It's just what?"
"You. Paris. Me. I'm really a very unadventurous person. Until I met you, I never took chances or tried new things. That's why my last boyfriend dumped me. He said I needed to loosen up and get with the program."
"Perhaps with him you didn't want to loosen up. Do you think that might be possible?"
"Maybe. I'm not sure." In Trish's view, sex was something that should happen naturally and be enjoyable for both parties. Unfortunately, sex with Stuart had been something to be endured rather than enjoyed. He'd always wanted to try out weird stuff he'd read about in a sex manual like it was a science project. And she'd refused because, knowing Stuart, he'd have blamed her if the project failed. Anyway, the thought of allowing Stuart to tie her up and tickle her with a feather had sounded about as romantic as a bowl of cold, lumpy porridge, so she'd lied by telling him she had a headache and needed to go home.
"Do you still care about this old boyfriend?"
"No. Why?"
"Not even a tiny little bit?"
"No."
"In that case, with your permission, I will teach you to fly. Metaphorically speaking, of course."
If the lessons were to be anything like the one he'd given her earlier that day, she could hardly wait. "You think you can?"
He drew himself up straight. "You doubt my abilities in that regard?"
"No. It's me I'm worried about. Like I said, I'm not the adventurous type. Anyway, I think we should move. We're holding up traffic," she said, as a woman glared at her as she pushed past.
At the end of the next block, Trish noticed several Greek restaurants lining one side of the street. Most of them had signs outside advertising the day's menu plus the owner or an employee standing in the doorway, trying to lure customers inside.
"My God! I love Greek food it's my absolute favorite," she said, looking up at Guy. "Do you know if any of these places are good? Or are they just tourist traps?"
"This part of the Left Bank is full of restaurants that cater to tourists, but I live only a short distance from here and there is one a little farther on where I go quite often. The food there is excellent."
"Can we forget Le Café and go there instead?"
"But of course."
Like most Greek restaurants, the one Guy took her to was orchestrated pandemonium with the constant crash of pots, pans and p
lates, and waiters shouting at the tops of their voices, making conversation virtually impossible.
When they'd finished eating and had drunk the bottle of retsina Guy had ordered, he settled the check and they left the restaurant. Trish wanted to see the River Seine, so they walked down le Boulevard Mich, as Guy said it was known locally, a couple of blocks to where the Ile de la Cité and the river separated the city into the Left Bank and the Right Bank.
"So, where do you live?" Trish asked, leaning on the low protective wall and gazing first down at the water and then in awe at the sheer Gothic splendor of Notre Dame Cathedral.
He gestured to the right. "My apartment is down there, at the end of the quai. No more than a short walk away. Would you like to see it?"
"What about your car?"
"It's quite safe where it is. It won't run away."
"You sure someone won't try to steal it?"
"If they do, it's insured. I'll get another one."
"Just like that?"
"Exactly like that." He turned her around to face him. "I don't want to think about cars or anything else. I just want to think about you. Je te veux, cherie."
"Yes, I know."
"And?"
"I want you, too. Very much." As far as Trish was concerned, the sexy look in Guy's eyes and the husky quality of his voice was all the turn-on she needed. She knew she was putty in his hands, totally at his mercy, but instead of letting the knowledge bother her the way it probably should-and definitely would have with any other man-she was relishing every second. For the first time in her life, she was finally letting go and throwing caution out the window. She'd come to Paris for romance and adventure, and she'd found it. She was head over heels in love, or maybe it was simply lust, with a handsome stranger, and the fact their relationship couldn't last was neither here nor there. Time enough for her to get back to being serious and responsible once her vacation was over.
Paris Heat Page 3