Eventually, she looked up at him, clearly wanting to let go, but he held on to her hand.
“I promise you I never cry this much.” She swallowed. “In fact, I never cry.”
He stroked strands of her hair from her face. “Not allowed to, are you?” he murmured. She was pretty when she cried, her lips plumped even more, her nose tinged red only on the tip, and her dark eyes were like black pebbles wetted by the rain.
Her expression said it all. He was right. Little Mila Johnson had needed to toughen up pretty fast to survive her four rugby-obsessed brothers and fanatical religious family.
“You bring out the worst in me.”
“I bring out the best of you,” he reflected. She was sassy, sweet, sexy—not like the younger Mila, who’d been tucked deeply away in her shell, quiet and awkward. She’d showed him her vulnerability, a side of her that others weren’t allowed to see. He lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to her thumb. “You can tell me anything, Mila. It won’t go any further.”
She blinked at his words and shook her head. “I didn’t come to Paris to find a shrink.”
That might not be entirely true, but she needed to download. “Good thing I’m not one then.”
chapter 16
Mila gazed at James’s features, which had softened in the dark light of the restaurant. His gaze searched her own, without haste, prompting her to trust him. He still held her hand tenderly. She trusted him. She’d trusted him with her body. But to trust someone with what had been going on her head for years would be different. But James would understand, he knew how she’d grown up.
It was a fresh experience to be with someone who didn’t immediately hone in on her connection to the famous Johnson and Johnson brothers, who didn’t plunge into a conversation about the latest rugby match within a minute of meeting her. If she hadn’t brought up her living situation, it might never have crossed his mind to talk rugby with her.
He leaned back and placed his arm on the backrest of her chair, not letting go of her hand. She’d felt so rotten standing alone in that line earlier, with intense emotions she couldn’t pinpoint ballooning in her chest, threatening to push to her throat and constricting her breathing. The sensation had meant only one thing—tears. But she’d learned long ago to close that tap, as her mother called it, on the first drop.
The soft touch of his hand on her elbow had tugged her back from the abyss of her thoughts just in time, and when he’d taken her hand in his she couldn’t pull away. Being in his arms was what she’d needed, even if her conscience hissed that it was wrong, that she was pushing the boundaries of their deal. And yet his hand was still covering hers, and his heart was thumping strongly under her palm.
Why did she sense that her mind and body were never going to be in sync again? After the morning her body was light, almost flying, until she had to pause and stand in a queue with her damning thoughts creeping up on her. That little voice hammering at her that every thought, every sensation was incongruous with what she’d been taught growing up.
He squeezed her hand and lowered it to rest on his thigh. “Tell me.”
“Is it wrong that I couldn’t care less?” she blurted out. “I honestly don’t care if they make the team, whether one of them scores or if the Springboks win or lose. My whole life seems to be one long haul between rugby fields, awful poached chicken breasts, and sport vision exercises.”
She took a deep breath. “Sweaty shirts and shorts and socks and mouth guards. The permanent locker room stench.” She pulled away from him and forced him to let go of her hand. “The constant focus on their stupid injuries. Of course they’re going to get injured! Look at what they’re doing with a bunch of other idiots on the field!” She gulped. “Sorry. They’re not all idiots.” She shook her head. “But you would know about this, all of it.”
The pressure had huffed out of her, and she fell back against her chair, took her glasses off and rubbed her eyes.
“Yeah, I get it.” He held a paper napkin out to her. She took it with a soft “thank you” and wiped her nose.
“It’s like I’m chained to a treadmill I can’t switch off—it doesn’t take me anywhere, but I must run along like some support vehicle. Ready to wipe up the blood afterward. And each freaking season it’s back to the start.” She exhaled, her breath escaping in short quivering huffs. “With all four of them in the game, there is almost no off-season… it’s become one long continuous drag.”
She shook her head with a groan. “The worst is that I feel so disloyal. I should be supportive, but it’s all fake, every minute of it.”
When she met his gaze, her body trembled. “My whole life is one long pretense, and I haven’t got the energy to keep it up anymore. Every man I meet only wants to talk rugby. Every girlfriend I make thinks I’m the shortcut to one of my brothers.” God help her, it was awful to admit it to him, but it was the truth. “Everybody except Stacey, who was around before any of it. I can’t seem to meet anybody out of that circle.”
And then there was the church and her parents with their expectations.
She dropped back against the chair, exhausted. He didn’t say anything but his hand came to rest on her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she murmured as she closed her eyes. “My parents don’t understand. They are so immensely proud of my brothers I can’t even start to tell them how I feel.”
He squeezed her shoulder, running his hand down her arm, and hugged her to his chest. “This is your life, Mila. You can be supportive while you’re living it for yourself.”
He hadn’t judged her brothers or her parents. He hadn’t judged her. He’d said nothing but those few simple words and relief washed over her. Maybe it was okay to feel the way she’d been feeling.
When he let go he reached for their coffees. “Do you want to ruin this perfect espresso with sugar?”
“Yes, please.” She needed a bit of a rush which didn’t include James’s body next to hers, or his hands and fingers, which reminded her of that morning.
He spooned some sugar into her black espresso and stirred it. “Here you go. Butter bomb?” he asked as he shifted the plate with pastries closer to her.
“If I have to.” She licked her lips, her mouth watering just looking at the picture-perfect pastries. Her mind could list a hundred reasons why she shouldn’t, health-conscious as she’d been forced to be. But this… she wasn’t going to resist.
He smiled at her. “You have to. You’re in Paris.”
Caving in, she took a bite with a soft moan. “They’re sinful.”
A soft smile tugged at his lips as he gazed at her, but he said nothing as he ate his own. When he tossed his coffee back and put the cup down, he looked at her, serious now. “What do you want for your life, Mila?”
She blinked. As if anybody had ever cared. “I want to see the world, and not only from its rugby stadiums.”
“There’s much more to it, I agree.”
“I want to find my niche in art. I’ve been floundering lately. I need some visual… inspiration, to find my way back to what I love doing.”
“And this is why you are in Paris?”
“The primary reason.”
He hitched his eyebrows. “I see.” A smile sparkled in his eyes. “You want to elaborate on the secondary… and tertiary reasons?”
Heat shot to her cheeks. How did he know? Stacey’s freaking to-do list. “Already accomplished.”
He leaned into her, the warmth of his body enveloping hers, making her clench her legs together, overly aware of their thighs that had been rubbing against each other for the past half hour. His lips were at her ear, grazing softly from the top to the soft bud of her earlobe. “I’m glad I could be of service.”
The sensation of his intimate whisper shot to her core, making her innards pool. “Don’t go there,” she murmured. She wanted to sink and hide under the table. Did
he think that she’d used him? Had she? The thought was too much, overridden by that very familiar tingling inside her lower belly. There was a buzz in her body that demanded attention—his attention—as a memory or two of that morning flitted in her mind’s eye. There was only one way to switch this feeling off. By giving in to it.
Oh no no no. She shifted in her chair, breaking the connection between their thighs.
He laughed and leaned back, his hands cupped behind his head. Totally relaxed, his gaze rested on her—soft, but containing something she couldn’t place.
Had she told him too much? She’d never been so straightforward with anyone and the trust she’d put in him chilled her hands and rippled down her back in sudden unease. It was disturbing that he already knew her body and its needs. But now… “You now know my dark soul,” she whispered. “My pretense.”
Clamping down on her wandering mind she knew she should apologize, should make him understand that she’d be okay when she went back home. This break was doing her a world of good. She only needed to refuel so that she could carry on with the facade once back home.
“Your soul is hardly dark, Mila.” He chuckled. “It’s the purest I’ve ever seen.”
She bit down on the surge of emotion that rushed through her at his words. This was going to be much harder than anticipated. “Stop toying with me, James Sinclair.”
Unabashedly his gaze dropped to her breasts, pausing there a second, before his eyes slowly grazed higher, to the wide collar of her T-shirt and the column of her neck. The heat of his perusal warmed her skin and its residual tingle burned down to the apex of her thighs. He was caressing her with his eyes alone and with undisguised desire; her nipples pebbled as a deep-seated longing settled in her core.
“That’s going to be a tough one,” he murmured.
The most annoying heat she’d ever experienced built up in her cheeks and she groaned inwardly.
He sighed and stood, his chair scraping on the floor. “Wait here a minute,” he said and walked to the bar. She studied him at leisure, trying to ignore her racing pulse. His T-shirt was not exactly tight-fitting, but there was no mistaking the muscles that bulged underneath the fabric, stretching over his biceps. He narrowed at his waist, but not much as his legs were solid pillars of strength. Despite not having an ounce of fat on him he was a hunk and she suppressed the wave of fresh desire as she recalled how agile he’d been in and around the bed.
There was a flash of euros in his hand, and she flinched. He was actually paying the bill behind her back. She could be a lot of things right now, but she wasn’t a charity case or a girl that could be bought with dinner.
When he returned to the table she had her bag on her lap. “How much do I owe you?”
“It’s on me.”
“Ugh, please.”
“I see you are feeling all sugared up. Please choose not to pick a fight with me.” He held his hand out to her. “Let me show you my favorite parts of Paris?”
“I—” She broke off. He’d taken the wind out of her sails—it was her choice.
A wickedly innocent smile played on his lips. And he wanted to show her his favorite parts of Paris.
She’d love to see Paris through his eyes.
“These museums are on your to-do list. Or they should be,” he said as she made a conscious effort to ignore his hand, dropping her wallet back into her bag. “They’re less intense than the Louvre and you can do both in one day. I promise you short queues.”
She rose to her feet, her diluted resolve evaporating. She hooked her bag over her shoulder and scooted out of the corner. “What about your admin?”
“Torture I can put off for another day.”
She closed her eyes a moment, praying that spending time with this man wasn’t a massive mistake. He made her laugh too easily. He was easy to talk with, and that was maybe a bigger danger. “You promise this isn’t going to go any further?” She opened her eyes and gave him an unwavering stare.
“I’ve already made that promise for today,” he murmured. “Earlier.” He didn’t break their locked gazes.
He wasn’t going to be there tonight. He hadn’t spoken the words but she heard them anyway.
She didn’t really want to be alone in Paris. She wanted to enjoy this with someone who understood art. From the collection on his wall and the books on the shelf in the apartment’s corridor, he seemed to have a love for art, and it was hard to resist.
“Okay.” She took his hand with a broken smile. “Only because I love every piece of art you have hanging on your lounge wall. And of course your art book collection.”
His eyebrows raised a stitch, then he narrowed his eyes. “Remember that watercolor you are working on is mine.”
She smiled. “Thank you for the subtle reminder.”
They walked out of the restaurant and he hailed a taxi. “First, I’m going to get you some flowers.”
A taxi stopped and he opened the door for her. She clambered in, sliding over the leather seat to make space for him next to her. He gave brisk instructions to the taxi driver and the car pulled away into the traffic.
“Then we’ll do lunch at this nice little place I know not far from here,” James continued. “And then—”
“You don’t need to smooch up to a girl you’ve already slept with.” The words spilt forth from her unchecked tongue. She had no idea what he was talking about. She didn’t need flowers or fancy lunches. The deed had been done.
“I’m not trying to ease you into my bed, Mila.”
No need, she was there already.
He frowned at her, hand fisting where it rested on the seat between them. “And I hope you never fall into bed with a guy after just having dinner with him.”
Nope. Dinner was totally superfluous with her. She’d been the ultimate cheap date. The idea made Mila cringe and she turned to look out of the taxi’s window to hide her face.
“Just enjoy the day, okay? And yes, I’m going to force some flowers on you. So be polite, as I know you can be, and accept them gracefully.”
“Okay,” she murmured, feeling flustered, but there was a naughty sparkle in his eyes, which she couldn’t place.
After a couple of minutes, the taxi pulled up and they got out.
“This way,” he said, leading the way to a tree-lined gravel pathway. When the building came into view between the trunks and leaves, she drew in a sharp breath. She’d seen it so many times in art books she would have recognized it from a mile away.
“L’Orangerie!” She broke out in a laugh and grabbed his hand. “Your flowers?”
He grinned, almost childlike in his joy. “You like Monet?”
Her pulse raced in excitement, and she quickened her steps, and he kept up, not letting go of her hand, although she was trying to tug free. “I love Monet!”
He smiled at her, and inside her, everything melted. Overnight James had crawled into her heart, and now he was staking his claim.
There was hardly a queue, as he’d predicted. They were later than the opening time and the first rush of visitors had already been admitted. Soon they were walking into the great oval room and she held her breath, awed by the beauty of the water lily landscape that encircled them.
“Can we stay?” she murmured, trying hard not to beg.
“As long as you want. This is one of my favorites too.”
She wanted to hug him so much. Kiss him even more.
Instead, they walked the ovals slowly, commenting and pointing things out to each other. Eventually, they sat down on the seat in the middle and she pulled out a watercolor palette and pad.
“I was wondering what you were lugging along in that bag of yours.” James smiled at her. “Feeling inspired?”
She nodded. “I’m all jittery inside.” She hadn’t been so inspired about painting anything in months. But being surroun
ded by this magnificent Monet had her fingers trembling with excitement.
“Good. As long as you have a steady hand,” he chuckled. “But that we know you have.”
With a tug of her lips into a whisper of a smile, she muttered. “Don’t go there, James Sinclair.”
He just laughed as he dug his phone from his pocket. “I’ll have to check the markets, so take your time.”
chapter 17
James unlocked his phone, glad it was on silent because a barrage of messages popped up as he looked at the screen. He scanned through them, only to realize with irritation that most of them were from Marlène.
Missed call. Times five.
Pick up your phone. Times three.
I’m coming home earlier. One godforsaken message.
He swallowed, suppressing the hard fuck that wanted to burst from him. Home. She had some nerve. Marlène had added no more details, and he bet she wouldn’t have shared them with him if she’d known them. It was likely that she hadn’t had her exact arrival date at that stage. She had a tight schedule, but sometimes things panned out differently and she lost or gained a day. Shit happens.
And the shit was going to fly while Mila was staying in his apartment. He shot up, pacing around in the oval, gathering his thoughts. Marlène and Mila. The one was going to destroy the other.
When he came full circle he sat down next to Mila again. She’d been busy painting a cropped detail of the massive mural onto the watercolor paper, her movements easy and flowing. Nothing broke her concentration and he had to clear his throat to get her attention.
“I’m stepping outside to make some calls.”
Her hand paused and she glanced at him, then searched his face. “Everything good at work?”
“Yes. All good. Just some calls I have to make.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll be back, so don’t go anywhere.”
She smiled. “No problem.”
She bent over her work again, and he curled his fingers into his palm, keeping in check the need to stroke her hair and gather the cascading tendrils behind her ear. She was beautiful sitting there, transfixed with her work, oblivious to the rest of the passing world. She radiated inner peace, and seeing her there he knew he’d never tasted inner peace and at the current rate, he never would.
The Paris Apartment (Love Nests Book 1) Page 10