by Serena Janes
Merde. This will take awhile to fix, but pas maintenant—not now. When I get back.
He sighed again. Simone was turning out to be more high maintenance than his ex-wife had ever been.
“I’ll be home on the twenty-fifth,” he called out loudly. “Maybe we can find something in July.”
Silence from the bathroom. They both knew everything would be booked up by then.
So here he was, on vacation from his regular job, and instead of leading a group of climbers through the mountains—which he loved to do—he was stuck on a boring-as-shit ramble along a river he’d walked a hundred times. All to help out his friend Oscar.
And now, sitting at a table with a dozen strangers in a Souillac dining room, he again felt, unreasonably, that something bad was going to happen.
C’est la maudite Américaine. That damned American woman.
He couldn’t stop looking at her. Right now she was playing with the food on her plate. He realized he didn’t feel like eating, either.
It wasn’t just that she was attractive. As soon as he saw her, he felt that he knew her. And that she was made for him. He didn’t know how he knew this. It didn’t make any sense.
Maybe it’s pheromones, or something.
But he hadn’t been within sniffing distance when he first saw her walk up to the bar. Then he remembered reading that male moths can pick up a female’s scent from miles away. Yes, there was something unconscious and animal in his response to her.
He was looking at her now. Her summery dress was printed with African motifs—little shields and spears, masks and jungle cats in black, ivory and browns. It suited her perfectly—her shiny brown hair, her dark brown eyes and creamy complexion. And it suited the type of woman he wanted at this moment.
And it was only at this moment that Luc realized he wanted a woman at all. He had Simone. He didn’t need anyone else.
When Jo glanced up at him from her plate of pulverized food, he realized he’d been staring not so much at her dress but at her tits.
Oh fuck—Get a grip, man. C’est pas cool, ça. Not cool.
He looked away and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Then he forced a smile and began to address the expectant faces seated around the table.
* * * *
“Ladies and gentlemen, please allow me to interrupt your talk for a few moments. We’ll have plenty of time for conversation later.”
Two middle-aged women at the table tittered, heads together. Luc smiled indulgently and continued.
“Over the next ten days, we’ll take most of our meals together, spend most of our days walking—more or less—together, and socialize together—as it suits us, of course.”
Hearing the humor and good will in his voice, most people laughed appreciatively.
“So let us begin the pleasant process of getting to know each other.
“Our group is a small one—thirteen, counting me. We have a couple from Australia, Carol and Peter.” He swung a hand to introduce the Stewarts, tanned and middle-aged. “And Duncan here is a Scot,” he continued as he placed a hand on the shoulder of the young man sitting next to him. “But the majority of us are English. That would be Sarah, from London, sitting at the other end of the table.” A young Indian woman blushed as all eyes turned her way. “Iris, from Bristol, is sitting to her left.” A sullen young woman scowled at her plate as heads swiveled toward her. “Marcie and Ron are also from London.” Another of the middle-aged couples raised hands in greeting. “And Glenda and Edward are from Manchester.”
“Ah, Birmingham, actually,” Edward corrected as his wife gave a small wave.
“Yes, pardon me. Birmingham. We also have Ellen and Thomas, from Oxford University.” The older couple nodded pleasantly to the group.
“And last but not least we have a newly-arrived American with us, Joanna, from Washington State.”
Jo smiled woodenly as everyone checked her out her once again.
A waiter hovered nearby, and spotting his signal Luc changed the subject to one nearer everyone’s heart. “Ah. Dinner is about to be served, I’m told. I wish you all a bon appétit.”
Over the first course, a plate of succulent charcuterie and salad, Luc conversed amicably and answered questions. Everyone learned that he was born and raised in the southwest of France, in nearby Cahors, where he still lived. He worked for the French federal government as an archeologist, but each summer he helped out a friend, who owned French Escapes, by guiding walking tours or mountain treks.
“I enjoy guiding,” he explained. “It gives me a break from my desk job and gets me out into the countryside I love so much. I am very proud of my département. Lot is one of the most unspoiled and beautiful areas of the country. I’m sure you’ll agree with me by the end of the tour.”
His eyes sparkled with enthusiasm as he looked around the table. Jo caught his glance and as she held it for a moment, her body began to tingle. She didn’t know if she was pleased or alarmed at this visceral response to a man she’d met only an hour ago, but now she was beginning to think that it was pretty silly to even consider catching the next day’s train back to Paris.
As she took in Luc’s story, she ate automatically, not tasting her food, washing it down with more wine when it stuck in her throat. For some reason her appetite had disappeared.
After the first course was cleared and fresh bottles of wine passed around, Luc told them how much he looked forward to the start of each tour.
“I’ve been guiding for five years now, and I’ve met people from all over the world—Japan, the U.S., Germany, Canada, Australia, Britain, New Zealand. I especially enjoy the first day of a tour. It’s exciting for me because I never know who I’ll meet this time.”
His glance met Jo’s again as he made this confession, and another pleasant rush of adrenaline made her smile. He smiled back, causing waves of excitement to surge through her body.
“But you haven’t told us how you feel by the last day,” pointed out the Australian named Peter. “You’re probably good and ready to shed the whole bloody lot of us by then. Am I right?”
Laugher and conversation swelled around Jo as she struggled to join in.
Luc spoke in a way that made each person at the table feel as if he or she were especially interesting, and Jo recognized this as the trait of a good leader. But she knew she was interesting to him in a way she shouldn’t be. He was wearing a wedding ring. She’d noticed it as he handed her that first glass of wine.
Seeing the ring had relieved her, at first. And now she used it as a rationale to go ahead with the tour, despite her mixed feelings. The fact that there was a Mrs. LaPlante somewhere meant that nothing was going to happen between Jo and Luc. Despite her body’s response to him, she would never allow herself a liaison with a married man. Even if she didn’t love James—which she did.
End of story.
The main course was crispy roasted duck confit with a morel mushroom sauce and thick slices of fried potatoes. Even though it smelled wonderful, Jo felt uncomfortably full. She allowed one of the Englishmen sitting nearby to refill her wine glass and poked at the food with her fork.
Every time she glanced in Luc’s direction, which, she thought, was far too often, he seemed to be looking at her. It was disconcerting, especially because he was growing increasingly attractive with every minute. And the better he looked, the more her thoughts ran away with her.
He really is a remarkably sexy man.
But she needed to eat—dammit—and as he talked she had to stop looking at him so she could relax enough to swallow. He included her several times in his broad comments about the highlights of their walk, but he didn’t speak to her directly. With words, at any rate. His eyes were speaking to her quite clearly, though. And what they said killed her appetite completely.
In response, she turned her body away from him and tried to talk to Iris, seated on her other side. This tactic worked for a while, but Iris was a miserable conversationalist. Jo gave up and instead conc
entrated on cutting her food into small bits so she could swallow it more easily. Although she couldn’t see Luc as she focused on her plate, she could still hear him quite clearly.
“One of the highlights of the tour will be the caverns at La Cave tomorrow,” he was explaining. “I hope none of you is claustrophobic,” he added.
His voice was a marvel, deep and melodic. His English was perfect and his accent thrilled Jo to the roots of her hair. When he laughed, she felt her temperature rise even more. She stopped trying to eat. The humming, or tingling, had begun again, somewhere deep inside her body. Her fingertips thrummed as she picked up her wineglass and looked down at her plate.
Maybe it’s just the wine that’s making me vibrate. It goes down too smoothly, and I know better than to drink on an empty stomach.
A devil was astir inside her. Luc was by far the best thing she’d laid eyes on. Ever. After some more wine she decided that looking and listening to him weren’t enough—she wanted to touch him.
All over. Smell him. Or maybe take a bite out of him. He really does look good enough to eat. Ring or no ring.
Oh God. Get a grip! Drink some more.
Before dinner, she’d guzzled her first glass of wine. Then she’d downed another before the first course arrived, a third or maybe fourth while she ate it. Now she was quite drunk. She didn’t usually drink this much, or this quickly, but tonight it seemed a good idea.
Relax, breathe. Drink some more, be nice. Be nice, be nice. Talk to someone. Be nice. Be good.
The people she’d met over the last two hours—what were their names? She quizzed herself, and failed.
“You’re empty, my darlin’,” slurred Peter as he reached across the table to refill her glass. A few drops sloshed onto the tablecloth—it appeared he was trying to look down the front of her dress as he poured. His wife, Carol, didn’t notice because she was busy talking to Luc, rather too loudly, Jo thought. It seemed the Australian contingent weren’t teetotalers.
Jo sighed as she realized she’d have to keep Peter at arm’s length. But then she knew how to handle a leering lout when she met one.
“Thank you.” She squeezed out a smile, then proceeded to ignore him.
Her plate almost full, she forced herself to pick at a few of the morels, knowing they were a delicacy. But the congealed duck fat on her fork make her feel queasy, and her throat closed at the thought of eating any more. Instead, she took another drink. She couldn’t stop her fingers from constantly fidgeting with her ring, and her stomach was beginning to hurt.
She suddenly remembered why she was here. Looking at her ring caused her to think about James, just as he’d intended. Guilt washed over her because she knew she was entirely to blame for ruining their Paris vacation.
But then her foggy brain reminded her it wasn’t all her fault.
He shouldn’t have surprised me like that. It wasn’t fair.
James had alarmed her when he presented her with a dazzling engagement ring. The ring was too large for her taste, of course. And undoubtedly far too expensive. She couldn’t accept it, not because of its value, but because of what it would mean.
Saying yes would effectively destroy her independence.
Remembering this, she began to feel sorry for herself. Why should she be expected to give up her self in order to become James’ wife? She knew it could be no other way—James had to control every detail of his world. That’s what made him so successful in business. If she married him, Joanna Clifford knew she’d become somebody else—Mrs. James Ryder.
And now, instead of regretting what she’d done to James, she began to think about herself. What she wanted. And, she slowly realized in her befuddled state, all she really wanted was to fuck the French archaeologist seated at the end of the table. A man she knew nothing about.
A married man.
She really wanted to fuck him.
Nothing like this had ever happened to her before. Not even remotely. She was horrified at herself. But at the same time…
After her plate was removed she gave up trying to avoid looking at Luc.
Go on—face your demon, her drunken logic insisted. Look at him!
She did what she was told.
He was more than well made. Just over six feet, she guessed, straight and strong. And whereas James was tall and slender, Luc was solid. Right now his shirtsleeves were rolled up far enough to show dark hair lightly covering the muscular forearms leaning on the table. His arms were thickly corded with smooth veins. Jo thought of the blood moving through those veins. Thought about how warm it would be. How red.
What would it taste like?
His hands were large and well formed, but not thick or clumsy. His hair was dark and wavy, much longer than James would ever wear. Maybe he wasn’t handsome in a traditional sense—maybe his nose was too long, his brow too wide—but these irregularities seemed to make him even more attractive.
He sensed she was staring and turned to her, the corners of his lips curling upwards in pleasure. That eyebrow lifted again. He had a most endearing smile, really charming. Perhaps it was his best feature. But it was the look in his eyes that had slain Jo. There was no misconstruing its message. That was why she’d fallen apart when she first recognized it.
He wants me. I know he does. He wants me the way I want him.
How do you live for thirty years, read a thousand books, talk to hundreds of people, study psychology, sociology, philosophy, history, and literature for decades and yet not know that one day you could walk into a room and be completely undone by the glance of a stranger? How could you not know that a single glance has the power to completely disassemble a person? Any person?
Whenever Jo had read or heard about such a thing happening, she hadn’t paid much attention. Lust at first sight. Sure, it happened in novels and in the movies, but that was fiction, make-believe. Now it was happening to her. Now she knew it was real. Even in her drunken state she was deeply shocked.
And not only is this real—my gut tells me it’s real—it’s happening to me, not to some made-up character placed into a made-up scenario.
She realized that fictionalized accounts of lust—or love—at first sight were probably not fiction at all. They were based on real life. On real people—responding to other real people. And now, for the first time in her life, she was one of these people.
This revelation, and the wine, made her bold. She could hear her heart pounding in her ears.
Oh God. Just look at him. He’s impossible. Amazing. I can’t believe a man I’ve just met can be so desirable. It’s astounding. I’m astounded.
Her guard down, she watched him—staring really hard—wondering how she was going to handle this jumble of new emotions. And she saw that he was watching her watch him. Her body began to feel numb and loose, almost rubbery. She slid into a fantasy.
What would it feel like to flow down out of my chair onto the floor, glide along under the table, and slowly weave my way, like a slippery fish moving through the tangle of people’s legs, to emerge at his feet? To surface between his knees? To slide up onto his lap and encircle him with my body? To place my mouth on his?
What would it feel like? And what would he do?
On one level, Jo knew her desire for a strange man, a married man, in a foreign country was ridiculous. And she felt deeply ashamed of her excitement, as if she were cheating on James. The man she’d just sent home, his rejected engagement ring carefully wrapped in his attaché case, to lick his wounds and wait for her to change her mind.
Then she thought this response was merely hormones, silly emotions, born out of a moment’s glance.
So lighten up! It’s nothing to feel guilty about. You’re not even Catholic—can’t you just have some fun with it?
But it was wrong to indulge such feelings, she countered. In a way she was cheating on James, even if there was no agreement between them, yet. She felt shame. Shame and the strongest desire she’d ever felt for a man. And more shameful still, she
didn’t want to ignore this desire. She wanted to feed it.
A desire to feed desire? Oh God—I must be drunk. I should go to bed.
Dessert was called Floating Island. It was rich and creamy and undeniably French, but she could manage no more than a few mouthfuls because of the anxious knot in her stomach. The humming she’d heard or felt earlier had turned into an uncomfortable buzzing in her head. She watched the others sitting around the table as they spooned in the fluffy white confection.
Can’t they read my face? Don’t they only have to look at me, hear me say only a word or two, to know what I’m feeling?
Oh yes—she was drunk, and instead of helping her relax, the alcohol caused her mind to race, and she could feel and hear the blood rushing through her veins.
I need to get out of here. I need to be alone.
She stood up, lurching slightly. “I’m afraid I have to go to bed. Good night, everyone.” She hoped she wasn’t slurring.
Jovial and a bit sloppy, everyone sang out at once, “Good night, bonne nuit, see you in the morning, sleep well.”
But all she heard were Luc’s words.
“I wish you a sound sleep, Joanna. You’ll need your rest for what I have in store for you tomorrow.”
She turned to look at him and saw that his wide grin was charged with intention.
Was she the only one who thought so?
Chapter Two
The travel alarm buzzed Joanna out of a dreamless void. Her first thoughts caused a prickling of excitement to roll over her body, followed by a chill.
Last night, by drinking too much, she managed to get through dinner with the sexiest man alive sitting not ten feet away from her. But she had no idea how to handle breakfast. As far as she knew, the French didn’t serve wine with the morning meal.
How on earth am I going to relax enough to enjoy my walk today? And what about tonight? And tomorrow?
Studying the blue stone in her ring, she wondered how James was doing, and again regretted her decision to leave him and join a tour. There was still time to change her mind. She could just stay behind in Souillac—or any other small town, for that matter—squirrel herself away in a hotel, take day trips and keep to herself while she sorted out what she wanted to do with the rest of her life.