“Dinner?” he asks.
“Yeah, I’m feeling a little hungry.” I know he’s taking me downstairs to Le Cinq – famous for its delicious cuisine.
“Me too – but I think I’ll have a little snack first.” His green eyes glimmer with irony.
He lifts up my top, unhooks my bra, pushing it away from my breasts very slowly and deliberately, then begins to suck my nipples, one by one. Our dance has me already turned on, as it is, but this…? My eyelids are doing their fluttering thing which means I’m entering the zone…oh my…. He holds my body steady as he feeds on me like a vampire - pressing that strong, Taekwondo thigh tight between my legs. I’m on fire. The dance was a prelude…making me desirous for more. Lately, I keep wanting more…oh wow…his sucking feels incredible. His soft hair is tickling my skin, my nipples might as well be my vagina, itself. I feel so turned on. This is numbing my brain…turning me into a sex zombie…oh my God…oh wow… he’s feeding on me and it feels…out of this freakin’ world. The next thing I’m aware of, in my semi state of unconsciousness, is a rippling orgasm pushing its way through my hot, moist kernel crashing in a giant wave. I cling to him and moan out his name.
“Alexandre….oh Jesus….aaah.”
He stops suckling and just flickers his tongue against my nipple as I float down slowly from my pedestal amidst the clouds.
Déjà-vu all over again.
Chapter Twelve
The next morning, Alexandre decides that the best way for me to get a feel of Paris is for us to just amble about and avoid the teeming tourist spots. He tells me that Paris is a feeling, not just a city. Interesting.
He’s already dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt and I’m lounging in bed, propped up with a sinful amount of down pillows like a princess in a vast, sumptuous throne. We’re enjoying a huge spread of breakfast, devouring mouth-watering patisseries – breakfast in bed. Half of me doesn’t want to leave our suite, ever. I’ve had a long lie-in this morning and feel well rested.
This pregnancy is definitely making me tired. Luckily, I have only had a little morning sickness but the idea of rushing about the city, cramming in every sight is exhausting me just thinking about it.
“Don’t worry, chérie, the best of Paris isn’t very big. We don’t have to go anywhere in particular. And if you get tired, we’ll hail a cab.”
I take a long sip of freshly squeezed orange juice. “I’ll be fine; I’m not some fragile egg that will break.”
“I don’t want to take any chances. Daisy and her entourage have already set off – they’ll be chomping at the bit.”
“She called?” I still don’t use a cell phone so Alexandre is taking all my calls. I feel as if I have some extremely handsome PA.
“I told her you were mine today and that I didn’t want to share you.”
“Oh.”
“She insists, anyway, that we have our romantic break together, that you get plenty of shut-eye and she won’t hear of coming along and disturbing the peace with nine unruly children.”
“They were being so jaw-droppingly quiet yesterday, though. They were going about open–mouthed in total awe.”
“Not anymore – they’re rampaging through the streets of Paris. Last night, they took a boat trip on the Seine and today it’s the Eiffel Tower followed by the Louvre.”
I sink back again into the plumped-up pillows, secretly not wanting to go anywhere. “And what about us?”
“I’m tempted to keep you here as my hostage.”
“I might be all too willing and not very hostage-like.”
He pulls back the drapes and gazes out of the window. “It’s sunny out. A rare treat in Paris in winter. We can meander through the Rive Gauche along the river, or just pass by La Place de La Concorde and through Le Jardin des Tuileries. Then I thought we could have lunch with my mother.”
My stomach flips. I’d momentarily forgotten about his mother – the murderess. Maybe she’ll hate me, the way Sophie did at the beginning. I say nothing and smile. “How lovely.”
“Don’t be nervous, chérie, she won’t bite.”
“You can tell I’m nervous?”
“Yes, Pearl. I usually know what you’re feeling; you’re not very good at hiding your emotions.” His crooked smile edges across his face and his eyes crinkle with mirth.
“I amuse you, Monsieur Chevalier?”
“Yes, you do. You make me laugh. The first time I met you, you told me that you were into classic TV shows like I Love Lucy and Bewitched. I knew, right then, that you had a silly, self-depreciating sense of humor and that you were someone who didn’t take herself too seriously. I thought that was very brave of you to lay your cards on the table, like that, when it was obvious you liked me.”
“I was trying to play it cool. I felt like a total idiot afterwards, I can tell you. Thought I’d blown my chances.”
He comes and sits at the edge of the bed. He’s been up and dressed for hours. I’m still naked, wearing nothing but Chanel N° 5, bathing in the luxurious zillion-count sheets.
He strokes my face with the back of his fingers. “You’re not afraid to show your girlish side – that’s unusual. You’ll make a great mother, Pearl.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
“What? Because I act like a little girl, myself? Connect so well to my inner child?” I joke.
“Don’t laugh. People spend years of therapy trying to achieve that.”
I sigh. “Therapy…that’s something I’ve never even dared try. I really should have seen someone after my nightmares about the rape but…I guess I was too chicken. I use swimming to let it all out, instead.”
He pouts and blows his mouth the way the French do when they’re discussing politics or something important (food, sometimes), and says, “We’re all fucked up, one way or another. At least you and I are in this together. We make a good dysfunctional team.”
I giggle. “You’re right, we’ve met our match, the pair of us.” My eyes stray from his intense gaze to the classic paintings in the room and the elaborate décor and I say, almost in a trance, “You know, some people assume you have everything all neatly worked out as you get older. It’s true that you become a bit wiser, yet I’m still the same person inside as when I was seven years old. Certain things never change. You can put on make-up and heels. You can have a kick-ass job, but if you’re a sensitive soul you’re still a child inside, no matter how hard you try to hide it.”
I think back to our meeting in the coffee shop and add, “You saw my girlish side but you were meant to find me sophisticated and glamorous, Alexandre, and the height of…. je ne sais quoi. I was wearing a suit!”
“The suit didn’t fool me – which, by the way - I wanted to rip off the second I saw you and get my hands on that sexy ass underneath.” He puts his warm hand under the bed clothes and gives me a little pinch on my butt.
“You don’t think my ass is too big?”
“Why do women always ask that question?”
“Ah, caught you! Avoidance. You don’t want to answer. So you do think I have a big butt.”
He laughs. “There should be a Barbie doll with a wind up key that says,” (imitating a robotic, high-pitched squeak), “‘Do you think my butt looks big in these jeans?’ Your ass is perfect, Pearl. And you know it.”
I want to say, Laura doesn’t think so, but I stop myself. I don’t want thoughts of that witch to spoil my reverie in Paris.
“What else did you think of me when we met?” I ask, waving my fishing hook about.
“In English, when you’re describing something or someone really special you have that expression, ‘gem’. Like, when I bought my apartment, the real estate agent described it as a ‘real gem’. Well, in France we say a ‘rare pearl.’ So when I met you and you told me that your name was Pearl, it confirmed everything.”
“What did it confirm?”
“That I wanted you. I decided, then and there, that I must have you.” He winks at
me and runs his finger along my neck.
“You were subtle about it, though. Pretty slow.”
“Buying a woman a string of Art Deco pearls after you’ve only been on one date together is subtle?”
“No, you’re right – that was pretty intense but…well…you didn’t jump my bones straight away – you wouldn’t even come in for a night cap – a knight cap,” I say (pun on the word knight- his last name, Chevalier, ha ha ha).
“The ‘wham bam, thank you ma’am method isn’t my style, Pearl. I knew you needed time. Needed to be wooed gently. I had a sense that you were damaged and vulnerable on the inside but fancied yourself as some tough-nut New Yorker. I wasn’t mistaken.”
“I am a tough-nut New Yorker! You should see me doing deals – I can be mean.”
He presses his lips to my nose. “You can pretend to be mean but you don’t have a mean bone in your body.”
“I can be a bitch, trust me.”
He laughs. “You and Sophie have a lot in common, funnily enough.”
“Will Sophie be at lunch today?”
“If she is, she’ll only be there to see us. As I said, she doesn’t visit my mother so often.”
“I guess I’d better get out of bed. What should I wear?”
“Sneakers, as we’ll be walking. Jeans. You really don’t need to make an effort.”
“Are you sure? Your mother’s Parisian.”
“Actually, she’s not. She’s originally from the Alsace region in the east.”
“German stock.”
“Yes, well, many Germans like to think of that region as theirs, still. After all, that part of the world did once belong to them.”
“So that’s where you get your height from? And your penchant for be organized and making lists,” I tease.
His lips curve slightly. “Amongst other things.”
“What other things?”
“Ah, that would be telling. You’ll have the rest of your life to find out.”
“What? You have more secrets? I thought you’d told me everything!”
“It would be a bit dull if you knew everything about me, wouldn’t it?”
“Something tells me, Alexandre Chevalier, that life with you will never be dull.”
***
The sky is mostly blue and clear but the air crisp. I pull up the collar of my coat and link my arm tightly with Alexandre’s. I don’t say much as everywhere I turn there is some spectacular building saying ‘look at me, how proud and stunning I am’ and I amble along in a daze. Paris does not disappoint but it’s hard to put it into words – Alexandre is right, it’s a feeling. A feeling of majesty, grandeur and pride.
We come across the Grand Palais, a magnificent Belle Epoque landmark and museum with Greek-style columns and a glimmering, glass domed roof supported by heavy cast iron beneath. It looms ahead of us. The Petit Palais is nearby, arranged around a courtyard and garden – manicured and laid out symmetrically. I see that Paris is highly structured, nothing left to chance, nothing abandoned, at least, not here, where everything is neat and tended. The buildings face a beautiful arched bridge that crosses the Seine, the artery of Paris.
“That’s my bridge,” Alexandre tells me with a wink.
“Because it’s so beautiful?”
“No, because it’s named after me,” he jokes. “It’s called Alexandre III.”
We cross the road and saunter towards it. At either end of the bridge are high stone columns topped with gilded, winged horses overlooking the river as if they are guarding the bridge. The whole way along the sides of the bridge, itself, are cherubs and ornate Art Deco lamps with globes of hand blown glass. Everything is in such tip-top condition, it feels like going back in time a hundred years ago. No filth or soot coats the surrounding buildings or bridge, despite the traffic. No, everything gleams and twinkles as if invisible hands were polishing the stone edifices and as if the horse statues had been gilded with gold-leaf, just last week. Alexandre tells me that it was all restored a few years ago, that the gold is real. I marvel, wondering if this would all still be in one piece if it were New York City. The Parisians must have real respect for their treasures, although he tells me the outskirts of the city are a different story with graffiti everywhere and tower blocks.
We make our way to the middle of the bridge. Behind, in the distance, is the Eiffel Tower and ahead the Seine meanders its way under more elegant bridges. There are some moored boats and barges below. The river swirls in little eddies and I instinctively clutch my belly knowing that there is life inside me; blood and fluids ebbing and flowing through my body just like the river, giving life to this newcomer – our baby. I lean over the bridge and stare into the water below, wondering what our child will be like, and grateful that I have Alexandre back in my life - that I won’t be venturing into parenthood alone.
He notices my hand spread across my stomach and asks me, “Was everything okay with your last check-up?”
“It all looked great; the ultrasound shows a tiny beating heart. Just over two more weeks until the trimester is done and then I’ll feel completely safe.”
He lays his large hand on top of mine.“You’ll be fine – it’s meant to be.”
Paris is one big superlative. Everywhere are tree-lined avenues and stunning historic buildings. I can see that it would take years to do this city justice. We meander slowly back, past the Petit Palais towards the Place de la Concorde. What I had imagined to be a quaint square is massive, boasting a towering obelisk in the middle, flanked by two grandiose fountains and more historic buildings at one end.
A frisson of excitement runs up my spine. The awesome beauty and wonder of the architecture against the icy blue of the sky, and the way the square is ideally situated so that you see the most magnificent monuments of the city, including the Arc de Triomphe, the Champs Elysees, the Alexandre III Bridge, the Grand Palais, the Assemblée Nationale, the Tuilleries Gardens, and the Eiffel Tower, all at once, is a testament to how clever the design is. Looking at my little map, my eyes scan all around to find my bearings, even though I don’t need a map, having Alexandre by my side. I’m your archetypal American tourist with my sneakers and sensible clothes, clutching a map. Just to add to the look, I whip out my camera and take a few snaps. Alexandre stands there, amused and happy that his city is obviously giving me goose bumps and spreading such a huge grin across my face.
A skinny man in glasses rushes up beside us - we look like sitting ducks; the quintessential sightseers, at least I do. He shuffles up next to me and gushes forth in a heavy accent at breakneck speed without stopping for breath:
“It is in this place that was signed on sixth of February 1778 the Treaty of Friendships and Exchanges between King Louis Sixteenth and the thirteen States Independents of America. Benjamin Franklin counted among the signatories representing the United States… Today at the place even where the King Louis Sixteenth was guillotined, is an obelisk offered by the Egyptians. Where many people came to see falling down the heads formerly, come much there today to admire the view of the Champs-Elysées…”
We both laugh when he says, ‘Falling down of heads,’ and then Alexandre blurts out something in French. The poor man is mortified and scurries off to see if he can nab some other, more bona fide tourists.
“Poor thing wanted to be our guide for the day, I guess,” I say. “I forgot that it was you guys who invented the guillotine. Nice touch. So who got beheaded here in this square? I didn’t quite catch what that man said.”
Alexandre cocks a dark-winged eyebrow at me. “Everybody and his cousin, basically. Marie Antoinette, Louis XVI, Robespierre. They called it la ‘Place de la Révolution’ in those days. Just in one summer alone, I think it was in 1794, over a thousand people were beheaded here in this square, not to mention the bloodshed going on all over the rest of the country.”
“All because of what Marie Antoinette said, ‘Let them eat cake’ when the people complained there was no bread?”
“Supposed
ly, she never said that, but that’s right – the people were starving and fed up with the unfair tax system and lavish lives of the royalty and aristocracy. Everyone always imagines it was only the peasants that started the Revolution but it was several groups; the intellectuals, the bourgeoisie – even poorer members of the clergy.”
I fix my gaze at one of the beautiful stone fountains with mythical bronze figures encircling the basin. In the water below, in the bigger basin, are more characters; their torsos dark bronze, almost black; their mermen and mermaid bottom-halves a beautiful green verdigris, and the fish they hold gilded with gold leaf. Water gushes from the fishs’ mouths. Incredible.
Alexandre continues with his history lesson which is almost drowned out by the sound of gurgling water. “But before all that, things were just as gruesome. Nobility were sometimes entertained by watching convicted criminals being dismembered alive. La Place de la Révolution was payback time when the people punished the nobility for their crimes - not the other way around, as it had always been before.”
“My God, France has so much crazy history – enough to make you dizzy,” I say as I stare up at yet another sight - the Egyptian obelisk decorated with hieroglyphics - a giant red granite column pointing erect like a rocket to the sky. I smile to myself and think of Alexandre’s Weapon of Mass Destruction.
“What are you smirking about?” he asks.
“Nothing, just thinking about what you’ve been saying.”
He’s oblivious to my naughty musings and continues with his spiel. “Funnily enough, you lot contributed in some ways to the French Revolution. French troops who served as anti-British mercenaries in America during the American Revolution helped spread revolutionary ideals to the French people.”
I laugh. “So you blame us?”
“Didn’t you know? The French blame the Americans for everything. I blame you, Pearl.”
Shimmers of Pearl (The Pearl Trilogy, Part 3) Page 17