Intense 2

by Hebert, Cambria

  It was the first time I’d felt so homesick since arriving in Paris, but I didn’t want that homesickness to weigh over our lovely stroll. Forcing a smile, I sniffed the cool night air and walked on. I was rattled by so many emotions, or maybe it’d simply been a long day. No, a part of me longed to go back home, but at the same time I was excited by the future the institute offered me. I’d met so many new and exciting people since my arrival in Paris . . . at the institute; people from all over the world, from all walks of life . . . People from a life so far removed from the sheltered life I’d known.

  And of course there was Bobby. I didn’t know what to make of him. He’d been a drunken mess when I’d first found him, but I’d still brought him to my apartment. Despite having told him I would have helped any lost tourist, I certainly wouldn’t have brought any lost tourist home with me. And I wasn’t really sure what had pushed me to bring him home with me. I guess there’d simply been nothing threatening about him; just a poor little lost boy who needed to be sheltered for the night. But then there was this morning. He’d become the brash, almost arrogant Don Juan who chased anything with boobs and a pulse. He seemed obsessed with women. And how many women had he been with?

  I closed my eyes. Truth was, I didn’t really want to know.

  I glanced sidelong at him. Not only was he my student, but he was by far one of the more handsome young men in my class, if not the entire institute. A handsome young man that every other girl in school wanted to get their hands on.

  Yet, here he was with me. I swallowed a lump of . . . of what? Inexplicable emotion? Uncontrollable want?

  Indescribable fear?

  Being so close to him was pure temptation, and I knew it. I also knew it was a temptation I could not afford to fall victim to.

  Chapter 5

  Before heading to the lab the next morning, I redirected myself to the institute’s Administrator. He’d left a message on my desk in my office saying he wanted to meet with me, but had said nothing about the reason for the meeting.

  I knocked on his door. “It’s Miss Cooke.”

  “Oui. Entrez.”

  “Bonjour, Monsieur Franchine.”

  He nodded. “Have a seat. I won’t keep you too long, mademoiselle. I know you have a busy day ahead of you. First I’d like to commend you on the great work you’ve done in the lab. Quite impressive. I dare say, for one so young, you have an incredible grasp of what works and what doesn’t, and more importantly, why. You’ve concocted something that has impressed everyone at the institute.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

  “We know you’re a hard worker, but I’ll admit, we didn’t expect you to be so quick to produce something so worthy.”

  “Thank you again.”

  “I hear you’ve also taken over Monsieur Trepanier’s class until we can find a replacement.”

  “It’s an honor, really. I enjoy it.”

  “Good. I’m glad to hear that. For the time being I think you should concentrate on the lesson plan for this unexpected class you have to teach. As time goes on you’ll need to put more and more time into your lessons.”

  “I hadn’t really thought of that. I guess that’s true.”

  “So with that in mind, we feel you should set aside your work at the lab for now and concentrate on your class.”

  Stunned, I felt I’d been punched in the gut. “But, with all due respect, Monsieur Franchine, my work at the lab is important to me. There’s still so much I want to do . . . so many facets I want to explore. Just last night I had an idea for a new twist on . . .”

  He wasn’t even listening to me, but was shaking his head. “You’ve done enough already. The sauce you developed is being marketed to all the specialty stores in and around Paris and we’re already in the works to get it into a few key stores in Germany, Italy and Belgium. Not only will it raise funds for the institute, but it will be an incredible boost to our reputation.”

  “Not that the institute needs much of a boost. It’s already highly praised.”

  “Thank you. We do what we can. So, to get back to this semester. It might be a good idea to relax and have a good time with it. You seemed stressed last night at the meet and greet . . . a little stiff and awkward.”

  Really?

  “There’s nothing worse than a stressed out teacher. Take it easy and enjoy the sights.”

  “All right,” I said, though hesitantly.

  “And, on that note, I think you should also take this opportunity to get to know your students.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “I’d like to know how you feel about mentoring.”

  “Mentoring?”

  He nodded.

  Didn’t he just say I should take it easy and have fun? Mentoring seemed like an enormous responsibility.

  “As a young woman who has her act together as you do, I think you could bring a lot to individual students. You’re easily an inspiration. Young, intelligent, accomplished.”

  If he was trying to boost my ego, he certainly was doing a great job. Another compliment and my head wouldn’t pass through the door on my way out.

  “One student in particular stood out last night,” he went on. “A good head for cuisine, though quite unconventional, a hard worker with plenty of experience in the kitchen, but . . . well, maybe a little personal guidance wouldn’t hurt. A little culture here, a little dinner there, maybe even a tour of the city . . . not your usual Tour Eiffel or Louvre, but the other side of Paris so few people know about. We wouldn’t want a student to get homesick and long to leave Paris, would we?”

  I shook my head. “Of course not.”

  “Good. Your student should be here any minute now.” He grinned.

  Oh? Had he been so sure I’d accept? Or did I not even have a choice in the matter?

  “Not to add any pressure, but you are the first mentor in our new mentorship program.”

  Great.

  “Our hope is to churn out more students along the lines of Errol King.”

  Right. No pressure there.

  A knock sounded at the door and I bolted from my chair, my entire body stiff with anticipation.

  “Relax,” Monsieur Franchine whispered. “You’re not on trial. Entrez,” he called out.

  I turned and found myself face to face with Bobby Cummings’ beautiful blue eyes.

  “Hey, fancy meeting you here,” he said. “Sorry to burst in on your meeting. I just dropped in to meet my mentor, right Monsieur Franchine.”

  “Exactement.”

  After taking a moment to recover from the irony of it all, I held out my hand. “Monsieur Cummings. I believe we met in my basic science class yesterday. It will be a privilege to be your mentor.”

  His eyes popped wide open with surprise then narrowed with interest, even a bit of cunning. His gaze almost revealed the multitude of thoughts that ran through his mind, and a lot of those thoughts seemed to be of a sexual nature. “I’m looking forward to it. I think I need someone who knows the city well to show me around. Who knows what trouble I could get into if I happen to wander off to seedier parts of Paris.” He winked.

  “Well, you two seem to get along fine, so I’ll leave you to it.” He stood, his cue that we leave his office.

  Out in the hall, I turned to Bobby. “Was that just to impress Monsieur Franchine or do you really want to get to know Paris?”

  “You saw where I landed when I went out on my own. What do you think?”

  “Okay, but just to warn you; I’m your mentor, not your babysitter . . . and not your designated driver.”

  “Understood.” He grinned as we walked down the hall and out to head to the academic building. It was a boyish grin filled with mischievous innocence. “Looks like we’ll be going on that date after all.”

  I stopped on the steps outside and planted my hands on my hips. “No. This is not a date, not by any stretch of the imagination.”

  “Okay. I gotchagotcha. Not a date.”

  Darn it. T
here I was getting all rejection on him again. “I mean, this is serious. I’m your mentor. That’s a big responsibility.”

  “Sure. Then mentor away.”

  “First get to class. Mentoring will start Saturday.”

  “Why wait so long?”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, I do have work to do. In addition, I’d like to take a little time to research what Paris has to offer you.”

  “I’m disappointed.”

  “It’ll pass.”

  He looked intently at me.

  “What?” I said.

  “I wish you’d explain the blush on your cheeks.”

  Instinctively, I brought my hands to my cheeks. “The what?”

  “You’re blushing.”

  “I am not.”

  “You’re totally blushing. Look at you. You’re getting redder and redder.”

  “Then stop it and get to class.”

  Chapter 6

  The weekend seemed to take forever to come around. I went through the motions, teaching four classes everyday, checking on homework every night and planning the day’s lesson every morning.

  But at the back of my mind was Bobby . . . constantly. And seeing him in class every day added an extra degree of difficulty when it came to concentrating on cooking.

  So when Saturday morning finally came around and I met Bobby at the main entrance of his dorm, I was on edge. I didn’t want to blush again, not the embarrassing way I had when he’d mention going on a date with him, but as I headed to the entrance and saw Bobby in the distance, I felt the heat of that blush rise up to my cheeks again.

  I had to get that in check. Of course, I could fib and say I’d been out in the sun a little too long.

  But no. I couldn’t really do that.

  “Hey,” I said as I skipped up the steps.

  “Wow. Look at you.”

  Aside from that night at the meet and greet where I’d removed the white lab coat to reveal the demure midnight blue dress I’d worn, he’d only seen me in that dreaded white, straight cut coat. For our first tour of the city, I’d opted for stretchy skinny jeans that were snug without being overly skin tight, with a long hot pink shirt with a circular cut out at my back. Though the morning was cool, I’d still hopped into my comfy flip flops and I’d pulled my hair back into a relaxed ponytail.

  “Thank you. You like it?”

  “Love it.” He bit his lip and looked at me with a hungry gleam in his eye.

  “Great. Ready for the grand tour?”

  “Sure. Where do we start? The Eiffel Tower? The arc of triumphe? The champion Elysée.”

  I frowned. Was he toying with me or was he really that bad with French. “Actually,” I said, “I thought we’d start with something a little less well known.”

  “Great. All that clichéd shit looked like a bore anyhow. So where do you want to take me?”

  “Follow me.” We hailed a taxi and hurried into the first one that stopped. “Notre Dame,” I told the driver.

  “Notre Dame? Like the church.”

  “For starters.”

  But when we arrived in front of the great cathedral I led Bobby down the street away from it.

  “I thought we were going . . .”

  “Did you know that the Romans had a great influence on the architecture of Paris?” We arrived at the Crypt Archaeologique du Parvis de Notre Dame and entered the dark passages to Paris’ past. “This was once the center of Lutetia, an ancient Roman city.”

  He nodded as he looked around him then let out a long whistle as we explored further. “Okay, so I’m duly impressed.”

  It was cool, at times almost cold in the ancient passages, and Bobby gallantly offered me his jacket.

  “Thanks, but what about you?”

  “I’m fine. I’m hot blooded.” Grinning, he wrapped his arm around my shoulder and warmed me further.

  I was amazed at how quickly I felt comfortable around him. I relaxed, much more than I would have thought and I already looked forward to spending more time with him.

  After two hours exploring the past life of Paris, we made our way to the Roman baths at Cluny. Again he was impressed, and I was pleased.

  “I didn’t know you were such a history buff,” I said.

  “Yeah, I kind of like that stuff. You know, you seem to really have a handle on the city,” he said as we left. “You must be a quick learner if you’ve only been here six months.”

  I nodded. “While the Eiffel Tower and le Louvre are all good and well, I wanted to know more. I wanted to see the underbelly of the great city of light. I knew many Parisians didn’t bother coming this way much, almost like they took it for granted.” It was a shame because it was really all quite spectacular.

  “Hey, a little lunch would be good just about now,” he suddenly said while his hand rubbed his empty stomach.

  I directed him to la rue des Martyrs in the 9th arrondissement. “The bestest, freshest, tastiest food around.”

  “The market? I thought you’d bring me to some fancy bistro or something.”

  “This will be even better than that.” I picked up a fresh baguette, some rich, creamy cheese and small bottle of red wine. At a fresh produce vendor, I chose a red ripe tomato, a small head of baby lettuce and a bunch of juicy red grapes.

  “I like the way you think.” Bobby held out his arm for me to slide the bag of produce onto.

  Another cab ride and we arrived at le quai St. Bernard. The quai on the left bank was alive and festive with music and dancing. It was the perfect place to spend such a splendid Saturday afternoon.

  “You’re awfully quiet,” I said when we found a picnic table by the water. “Are you disappointed with your tour so far?”

  He turned to me with eyes so serene, I was taken aback. For the last half hour I’d thought I’d lost him. He’d retreated into a far and distant place within himself, hardly talking and seemingly barely interested in the things I pointed out along the way.

  Reaching across the table, he took my hand in his and brought my fingers to his lips. “I never thought I’d enjoy a day of shopping and picnicking as much as I’m enjoying this day. I’ve always had this image of what Paris was; always the same iconic landmarks. But this . . . I feel like I’m in the heart of Paris, and I’m sharing it with someone who truly loves the city.”

  “Good,” I said softly. I broke off a chunk of baguette and handed it to him then unwrapped the cheese and uncorked the wine.

  Lunch was a simple, but lovely affair and after we’d finished the baguette and cheese topped with lettuce and thinly sliced tomatoes, we munched on grapes and sipped our wine. The music was the backdrop to our afternoon. At times it was soft and melodious as dancers waltzed their way across the makeshift dance floor. At other times it became rhythmic and exotic, carrying the dancers across the floor with footwork so fast, it was difficult to make out what they were really doing.

  “Want to give it a try?” Bobby said.

  “Dancing?”

  “Sure.”

  Was he serious?

  He stood.

  I guess he was.

  Pulling me into his arms, he held my waist with one hand, and my hand with the other. The music started; a moderately paced salsa. I wasn’t that great a dancer, but Bobby led me around the dance floor with surprising ease.

  “You really can dance.”

  He twirled me around, then pulled me tightly against his chest. “I do all right.”

  By the time the music ended, I was hot and flustered. It was a hot and sexy dance, one that was akin to making love upright.

  “You’re light on your feet,” he said, still holding me close.

  “The music’s over. You can let go now.”

  “Do I have to?”

  I swallowed and whatever went down my throat seemed to go straight through my body all the way down to my panties. What was he doing to me?

  “We should probably continue with our tour.”

  He nodded, but still held me ag
ainst his chest. I never wanted to leave. I wanted to stay there, my breasts pressed up against him, my hand in his, his breath warming my face. Only when dancers dove into a feisty and energetic quick step did we finally leave the floor.

  Hand in hand we strolled along the waterfront in silence.

  “What’s next on your agenda?” Bobby finally said.

  “I thought we’d hit the museums.”

  “Le Louvre?”

  “Actually, I had a few other museums in mind, namely le Musée du Moyen Age, and, if we have time, le Musée du Quai Branly.”

  “Lead the way, my fair lady.”

  But as it turned out le Musée du Moyen Age turned out to be enough for that afternoon. We were both tired and hungry by the time we walked out.

  “How ‘bout dinner?” he offered. “It’s on me.”

  It was romantic. The kind of romance I’d read about in a book Soeur Marcelle had smuggled into the convent. The kind of romance I thought had long gone extinct. The kind of romance I’d never even imagined.

  Bobby had taken the reins, hailed a cab and called out the name of a restaurant I’d never heard of. “I know of only one place here in Paris, but I’m sure you’ll love it. A l’Amandine.”

  “Doesn’t Errol . . .”

  “Yes. Errol King owns it.” He set his hand on my knee. “And I hear the blanquette de veau is exquisite.”

  I’d heard the very same thing. My mouth watered at the very thought of eating Errol King’s cuisine. It was far beyond anything I could afford, and I was pretty sure Bobby couldn’t very well afford it either. Then again, he knew the owner.

  The moment we stepped inside, the scents, the tantalizing aromas and the modern but elegant décor pulled us in, lulled us, seduced us. After telling the maitre’d who he was, we were seated at a quiet table for two in a discreet recess of the restaurant. It was all so cozy and all the more romantic.