The Paris Apartment (Love Nests Book 1)
Page 1
Table of Contents
chapter 1
chapter 2
chapter 3
chapter 4
chapter 5
chapter 6
chapter 7
chapter 8
chapter 9
chapter 10
chapter 11
chapter 12
chapter 13
chapter 14
chapter 15
chapter 16
chapter 17
chapter 18
chapter 19
chapter 20
chapter 21
chapter 22
chapter 23
chapter 24
chapter 25
chapter 26
chapter 27
chapter 28
chapter 29
chapter 30
chapter 31
chapter 32
chapter 33
chapter 34
chapter 35
chapter 36
chapter 37
chapter 38
chapter 39
chapter 40
chapter 41
chapter 42
chapter 43
chapter 44
epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
A Note to the Readers
Also by Sophia Karlson
An excerpt from Perfect Mistake
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
The Paris Apartment © by Sophia Karlson
All rights reserved. No part of this book many be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Cover Art by Regina Wamba - www.maeidesign.com
Editing and proof reading: Leanne Rabesa
Proof reading: Isolde Dittrich
October 2018 Edition
Print ISBN:
Ebook ISBN:
Published in the United States of America
To my husband, as always
And
To the Book Club Babes — Allison, Natsuko, and Martha
chapter 1
What happens in Paris stays in Paris. Mila’s best friend’s voice rang in her head as she tossed her backpack into the corner of the apartment’s foyer. Stacey might have lured her to Paris with this golden rule, but what happened in Paris did stay in Paris, especially if there was no one to share anything with.
For now, she had to indulge solo in all things French. Stacey would arrive the following week, having finished her two re-writes. Trust her BFF from grade school to mess around so much that she had to re-sit papers for two of her final year classes, which she’d already repeated twice. Stacey’s dad appeared to be happy to foot the bill, but at some point, Stacey would have to grow up.
Mila paused. In some ways, Stacey was much more grown-up than she was… or at least more worldly. Stacey had lost her mom in a tragic car accident, but it was more than that. Stacey had some fabulous male friends in Paris, or so she had insinuated, and they would have fun together. She pushed the thought aside, ignoring the tingle of anticipation in her body—a tingle that was heavily spiced with nerves. She had no misconception of what Stacey’s idea of fun was. She had no objection to Stacey enjoying herself on all levels, but on a moral level, she and Stacey were from different planets.
Never mind her best friend’s well-meant if naughty intentions—she was lucky to be in Paris.
The windows beckoned her. As she reached them she struggled with the latch until it swooshed open. Hot air oozed into the room, and she pulled a deep breath of the Paris summer heat into her lungs. The traffic, which had been a dim hum, buzzed louder.
But the view…
A narrow terrace led the eye to the rooftops across the street, where windows in the opposite apartments blinked. Clusters of chimneys poked into the air, and roof tiles, stained black and grey on the rusty brown clay, baked in the sun. The Eiffel Tower stretched into the deep blue that crowned it all, a blue which slipped into a lighter icy hue and then hazy yellow as it melted into the sun.
Mila reached out with her hand as if she could touch the picture it made. Her fingertips itched, feeling empty without a paintbrush in them. She burst out laughing, giddy with joy. She would make the most of her time in Paris, whatever that meant. Right now, the world was her oyster and she would be happy to discover anything and everything Paris had to offer. She had, after all, managed to escape from home and that had been hard to contrive.
A scuffle of feet behind her reminded her of Madame Leborgne’s presence.
“Thank you for opening up. I—” She broke off. Madame Leborgne’s English had been limited from the moment she rang the bell to be let into the apartment. It would not have improved with the lift ride or the opening of the apartment door… and neither did her non-existent French.
The elderly housekeeper nodded, didn’t smile but jingled the keys and settled them in Mila’s palm. She made a gesture with her hands, which Mila translated as “welcome and enjoy your stay” and then walked out of the apartment, closing the door behind her.
“Merci,” Mila whispered, as an afterthought.
With a grin, she turned back to the interior of the apartment and for the first time, the slight echo in the room hit her. She took in the vast space. One wall had windows and a set of French doors leading to the terrace, while the opposite wall was covered, almost completely, with large pieces of modern art. She walked the length of the wall, studying the works one by one. The apartment might have been a modern art gallery. The only furniture in the lounge was a lone wingback chair, a side table, and a modern rug, which was still pockmarked where other furniture had stood.
Weird. Stacey’s brother James owned the apartment and seemed to be in the midst of a move or something. He was hardly ever here, apparently, and it suited Mila just fine. She hadn’t seen James in more than twelve years. An ache whispered up from her subconscious, reminding her that twelve years was a long time to miss someone. He might have been ten years older than them, but James had been an anchor in Stacey’s life, and Mila had been happy to barnacle onto that ride. James had none of the brotherly superiority that came with such an age gap, but had looked out for them, chauffeured them around, joked and teased in such a good-hearted way that his absence had reverberated long after he’d left to work overseas.
He’d understood her. Maybe because he’d understood Stacey. And when he hadn’t understood, he had made it his business to figure it out.
James had been nothing like Mila’s pack of brothers, and that had made all the difference. In his eyes, neither she nor Stacey were mistakes. To him, they’d been pure perfection. Her lips twitched as she recalled how he used to call them The Princesses in his deep voice as if he’d be their servant forever.
But time changed people… as much as she ached to see him again, she wasn’t ready to find out if the James of her childhood was gone. She liked him floating around, drifting like a soap bubble in and out of her happier childhood memories, from when she and Stacey had still been allowed to be friends.
Mila shrugged off the whimsical thought and turned to find her things. She picked up
her backpack and strolled back through the lounge, past the empty space where a dining table should be. There followed an open-plan kitchen and a guest bathroom. A corridor led to three doors, of which two were locked. The last door took her to the master bedroom. A king-size bed looked lost in the open space, basking in the light from a slanted skylight. She dropped her backpack, took a lunge and plunked down on the bed. It was pure luxury, the duvet huffing with her weight, the pillows caving in under her head in a slow, dreamy puff.
Thank you, James. In your bed, at last.
She giggled. James might have left home, but he’d been everything a girl in the throes of puberty from hell could possibly fall in love with. Hunky, tall, dark, broody. A provincial rugby player until an injury curbed his career. He’d shaken it all off as a matter of fact and had gone off to make money another way. Hedge funds or something totally dull and overly complex.
Who cared? Paris called. She’d leave him a thank you note for allowing her to slum for two weeks in his luxury apartment. And would fervently hope that he would even remember who she was.
chapter 2
James opened the apartment door with a sigh. He was bloody exhausted. But that was nothing new. The past year’s constant travel had been crazy, but it came with the job of managing the hedge fund branches in Paris, Singapore, and New York for the bank he worked for. Then there was the bond issue he’d been working on with an international consortium, which would finally be signed off in the next few days. He needed the break and was in dire need of catching up on some sleep.
For the most part, he was thankful for his busy schedule; it helped to take his mind off things. He wheeled his suitcase and laptop bag in, closed the door and tossed his keys onto the table in the small foyer. They clanged menacingly and he closed his eyes at the echo. Marlène had made good on her promise. She’d emptied the apartment of her things. As he walked into the lounge it was nearly empty. He smirked with disgust. She’d left him a lone wingback armchair and side table, lost in the vast space of the lounge. He scanned his artwork in the last of the summer light and let out a short, haggard breath. They were all still there.
He’d been so busy with work that he’d stopped stewing over what had happened with his ex. His gaze fell to the side table where an uncorked bottle of red wine stood with a lonely wineglass.
Marlène.
She’d better not be here. It took a split second for him to remember that Marlène never drank red wine because it stained her teeth. He picked up the bottle and read its label. Neither did Marlène drink an odd four euros’ worth of plonk. She preferred champagne. He stifled a yawn as an unexpected sense of relief drained to his feet.
Was he supposed to have visitors? Nothing had been noted in his calendar.
He put the bottle down and an open watercolor pad drew his gaze. Some pencils and a watercolor palette lay on the seat of the wingback. Picking up the pad, he studied the rough drawing and immediately recognized it as the view from the rooftop terrace. The drawing was gorgeous, almost wild in the haste in which the artist had drawn the lines of the apartment building across from his, the roofs, the chimneys, and the Eiffel Tower. Splashes of color had been added in places, bringing the pencil drawing to life.
His heart tugged as slow desire rose in him. With a piece of art, it was usually love at first sight and he recognized this connection instantly. This rough drawing needed a frame and a safe spot on his wall.
A soft creaking noise came from the corridor and he looked up. Somewhere in the apartment, someone had stirred. The inner silence was almost unnatural now. He put the pad down and walked down the corridor to check the doors. The second bedroom was locked and he cursed under his breath; the guest room was locked too. She said she’d changed the locks. No need to try the old keys—he should have known Marlène would go down crazy. She hadn’t emptied the apartment; she’d locked all her belongings in the two extra rooms the last time she’d been here. As if he cared a toss about auctioning off her things or throwing them out of the windows.
The master bedroom’s door was ajar and as he pushed the door wider a soft scent drifted to his nose. It was flowery, but not overwhelming; it was the type of scent that lingered after a shower, slightly moist, promising. And womanly. His dick stirred as he tried to remember who had a copy of his apartment key. Madame Leborgne and Marlène.
There was no one else.
And yet there must be. Light from the skylight revealed a woman who was asleep on top of the covers, her dark hair gathered in a ponytail, spread over the white pillows.
The room was hot and the other windows were closed. Whoever his intruder was hadn’t known how to close the shutters to block out the midsummer’s late light nor had she realized he had air conditioning in the room.
He took in her body, her legs that were splayed against the heat, their length inviting his gaze to travel to her sex, neatly packaged in white cotton panties, so different from what he was used to. None of his sexual acquaintances waited for him in cotton panties. At a minimum, it was La Perla or Chantal Thomass.
He took a step closer, intrigued. His gaze traveled upwards to her navel that was a perfect little button in the plane of her stomach, surrounded by curves and dales for his fingers to trace. He looked higher to her breasts, which seemed almost flat as she lay on her back. Nothing in them screamed silicone implants and the notion heated his budding arousal. Her nipples were relaxed in deep sleep and he groaned. She’d be a blessed handful once she sat up straight.
Pure lust overtook him and he drew in a slow breath. This was what eight months of celibacy did to a man—his cock was jostling within his trousers as if he’d just turned thirteen. He would have laughed but the situation was hardly funny. The idea that this woman was waiting for him, almost innocent in her allure, was painful, as it amplified how lonely he’d been.
He brushed his fingers through his hair as he took a few steps closer. Her arms rested around her head, almost as if she’d given up against the heat. He searched her face. She was young, not a wrinkle in sight, and her brow was smooth. Her long lashes threw shadows under her eyes and her slightly parted lips were full of promise. There was something familiar about her, but he couldn’t place it.
He shrugged as he turned to switch the light on. This situation might turn out to be a lot of fun, and a much-needed interlude from his solitary confinement, but in providing him with entertainment for the night, Madame Leborgne had gone beyond the call of duty this time.
chapter 3
“Gahhh!” Mila cried out as she scrambled up straight, blinded by the sudden light. Her heart was in her throat, clawing to get out as it beat so ferociously she was sure to have a heart attack.
A man was in the room—was she about to live the most horrible episode of CSI she’d ever watched? She scooted back against the pillows, her body hitting the upholstered headboard. By instinct, she reached for her glasses on the bedside table but didn’t manage to put them on. Her fingers were trembling in unison with her innards, uncontrollably.
“Breathe, baby,” he said. “Didn’t mean to give you the fright of your life.”
“What the devil did you mean to do then?” she gasped, finally managing to shove the dark-rimmed glasses on.
The world blurred into focus. “Jeez, James!” she called out as she recognized his face and took in his tall frame at the foot of the bed. “What the f—” She stopped short of saying the offending word and collapsed back, pressing her palms against her sternum, willing her heart to calm down. The world had not imploded. It was just James.
She closed her eyes.
It was just James.
And from his facial expression, he had no clue who she was.
When she looked at him again he hadn’t moved. God Almighty and all his angels help her, but he was more handsome than the last time she’d seen him. A naughty smile played on his lips, never mind the dark stubble that c
overed his jaw and the sparkle in his sky blue eyes as he studied her leisurely. He had a certain solidness about him, an unwavering strength that made her knees weak. Not that it mattered. Shaken as she was she wouldn’t even be able to roll out of the bed, never mind climb out of it. She let her gaze travel down his body, jolting to a halt halfway.
He was hard. Unabashedly so. A slow burn settled on her cheeks and she wished the bright lights away.
As if he’d read her mind he dimmed the lights, then rested his hands on his hips as she lifted her eyes back to his. “You’re a step ahead of me here…?” he said, waiting for her to provide her name.
Maybe not quite… a whole step… Yet inside her, desire flared up to match the heat in his eyes. If she were honest with herself, that flame had been turned on since the moment she’d stepped into his bedroom, plunging into his world and being surrounded by his things. In a split second, he’d turned it up full blast with just being present. She shook her head, taking another deep breath. “Mila. Mila Johnson.”
“Who?” he asked, lifting his brows in question and leaning slightly forward. Mila Johnson meant nothing to him.
“Stacey’s Mila?” she ventured.
His face blanched when the information hit home.
“She’s invited me over for two weeks.”
“Bloody hell,” he murmured as he turned his body away from her gaze, which she desperately forced not to drop to groin level. He dragged his fingers through his hair with an ill–suppressed sigh. A second later he switched the light off completely.
She wanted to laugh, but adrenalin still rioted through her system, had made her forget that she was naked. She clutched a pillow to her chest but it was way too late to cover up her breasts… he’d had his fill of them already.
He seemed mortified at having shown his hand so blatantly, but here she was spread-eagled and panting. Her gangly legs were slow to close in a ladylike fashion and her face burst with heat. She fisted the linen, wanting to cover herself, but she was lying on top of the covers. The only way to hide all that skin was to get under the duvet and boil away. She’d look like such a prude.