He strode out of the gallery and into the sunshine, which wanted to force itself into his sudden dark mood. He dialed Marlène’s number and listened as her phone rang and rang unanswered before it clicked over to voice mail. “Let me know when you’re arriving. I’d like to be at the apartment.”
As he killed the call, he rubbed his eyebrows with his thumb and forefinger, trying to get a grip on the anger and irritation that battled in him. Without a doubt, Marlène would respond with a message along the lines of “With a bottle of champagne on ice?”
He knew her too well. They might have broken up, but Marlène wasn’t a woman who’d let go easily, especially not with their relationship having been what it had been. He couldn’t blame her with the lifestyle they’d led; they’d been fantastic together in bed, even if that was all that it had ever been.
He sat down on a bench some meters away from the entrance of the gallery, so that Mila could easily see him should she decide to come outside. He scrolled through the rest of his email and messages. There was nothing significant, except the reminders of the meetings he had scheduled for the week. There was one at the club the next evening. His finger hovered over the details. Seven o’clock, followed by dinner and the rest of the evening at the club.
His stomach tightened. He’d successfully managed to avoid these quarterly management meetings for the past eight months, being either in New York or Singapore at the time. Had he unconsciously scheduled it like that? The devil only knew how he was going to get out of this one.
He sighed and leaned back as his phone started ringing. He glanced at the screen. Jean-Pierre Costeau. Thinking of the bloody devil.
“Jean-Pierre,” he answered, knowing he couldn’t avoid the other partners any longer.
“You answer your phone for a change,” the other man laughed. “You’ve become very good at this disappearing act.”
“Just busy at work. Traveling a lot.”
“I know, I know. But you are here now, right?”
He wasn’t going to get out of it. “Yes, for a week or so.”
“You’re coming to our management meeting tomorrow night?”
“I—” He broke off, looking at the trees that rustled as a slight breeze traveled through them. Who was he kidding? Help was not going to come from the heavens. Not for him, at any rate.
“James, we really need you there tomorrow night. The figures are looking good but we need your input, your ideas. That head of yours with the number-crunching. You know if it weren’t for you, the club would never have taken off as it has. You owe it to yourself, my friend. And to your financial investment.”
He swallowed. He’d only footed some cash to start the business, but now, going to the club, hanging out with his old cronies just didn’t appeal to him anymore. The money was ticking over and things were running smoothly. He should leave it at that.
“James?” Jean-Pierre’s voice drilled through to him. “You need to be there. Serge is out of town. If you’re not there we don’t have a quorum.”
“Yes, yes. I’ll be there,” he caved in, despite knowing that they didn’t really need him for anything but being a number to replace one of the other, more consistent, partners.
“Super.” An awkward pause followed. “You’re good?” Jean-Pierre asked.
“Yes.” He’d answered too quickly.
“Marlène let me know she’ll be in Paris soon.”
Fuck Marlène.
“I know.” I’m trying to avoid her.
“You two should talk things out, my friend. This thing with you and her… it’s unhealthy.”
He wanted to laugh. Had any of it ever been healthy? That wouldn’t have been his exact word choice. “We’re okay. We resolved our issues when we broke up.”
Again a quiet silence from the other side. Respectful of his answer, but blandly stating that yeah, whatever, we all know you’re still pretty much fucked up.
“Listen, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you tomorrow night.” He’d do anything to cut the conversation right now. It felt as if he’d weaned himself of the club over the past eight months, but Jean-Pierre was a smooth-talking lawyer, known for his skill in talking anybody into anything.
“Sure. See you tomorrow.”
He rang off, his fingers quivering as he shoved the phone back into his pocket. He cupped his face in his hands and breathed into them, rubbing his eyes with his fingers. When he’d contained himself he reentered L’Orangerie and found Mila still sitting where he’d left her.
She was engrossed in her work, lifting her gaze every half minute or so to look at the water lilies on the wall, then back to where her watercolor palette rested beside her. Occasionally she brushed her hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear, revealing her profile. Whenever she looked up, she’d lean towards the mural, narrowing her eyes.
She must have felt his gaze on her because after five minutes she looked around. He started walking, not wanting her to know that he’d been surreptitiously studying her.
“That’s looking good,” he said as he sat next to her. What she’d created in the time he’d been gone resembled in miniature Monet’s masterpiece, but it held a stamp of her own style.
“It’s rough.” She smiled as she held the pad at arm’s length. “I’ll add some details later with pastels, to create the same effect as Monet’s brush strokes.” She sighed, a deep breath of contentedness slipping from her as she lowered the pad to her lap. “Thank you for bringing me here.” She glanced at him, and for a second he thought she would lean in and kiss him, if only a peck on the cheek.
He checked his watch to tear his gaze away from hers. “It’s been two hours. You’ve had enough?”
“Can you ever have enough?” she asked, but packed her materials into her bag, leaving the pad open on the seat to dry.
He chuckled. “For some things, a lifetime won’t be enough.”
“Agreed,” she murmured, glancing around as if she’d never see the murals again.
“One last turn,” he said, sensing her regret at having to leave.
They strolled the gallery one last time and she checked her watercolor paper to see if the paint had dried. Satisfied, she folded the pad closed and carefully slid it into her bag.
“Where to now, Mr. Tour Guide?” she asked as they stepped outside.
“Are you hungry?” He searched her gaze. He was ravenous, despite the pile of pastries he’d consumed, something he never did. Some habits were hard to shake, and he found that even after years, he still followed the dietary rules laid down when he’d had a potential international career in rugby.
“I—” She blushed.
“You are?” He grinned with a wink. “All that activity this morning.”
Her blush turned deeper and he suppressed a laugh as he pulled his phone from his pocket. He’d love to surprise her with more than just an ordinary lunch if he could pull it off. It was a joy to observe her reaction to things, seeing everything fresh through her eyes as she experienced it for the first time.
He scrolled down his contact list for Etienne’s number. Etienne would curse and probably ignore his call mid-lunch service, but for Mila it was worth the scolding. The phone rang while she stood with arms folded, studying him guardedly. As Etienne answered he turned away, speaking in hushed tones over the phone.
Two minutes later he rang off with a satisfied smirk. He turned back to Mila and nudged with his head in the direction of the Seine. “This way. The place I have in mind is not far from here.”
They walked a while in silence, only the crunching of gravel answering their footsteps, and arrived at an intersection where they had to wait for a red light. On the other side, there were a few restaurants and already people were tightly packed on the sidewalk, sitting around the typical small circular French tables, with their bodies facing the never-ending traffic. He’d never und
erstood the French obsession with sitting in car fumes, cramped together outside, inhaling each other’s second-hand smoke. But then there were a lot of things he’d never understood about the French, even after living in Paris and being with Marlène.
As the light turned green he took Mila’s hand, guiding her across the street, not wanting to be separated from her in the crowd of tourists and lunch–goers who hastened along with them. He didn’t let go when they reached the other side, and in him a small victory dance made his heart pound faster as she squeezed his fingers and held on tight. It was a novel feeling to hold her hand in his with no other intention but connecting with her, subtly drawing her closer to his body when the sidewalk narrowed with tables and diners. The little rush he got from these small things was new to him.
“In here,” James said, leading her up to a restaurant’s entrance, which was so understated, the average tourist was likely to miss it.
The maître d’hôtel welcomed James and Mila and led them into the restaurant.
Mila’s grasp clenched his hand tightly.
“Relax,” he said, realizing too late that she might be intimidated by the businessmen and elegantly-dressed women who sat at the other tables, their conversations soft and low.
“I’m not dressed for this place, James,” she whispered to his back.
“Doesn’t matter, it’s just lunch,” he whispered over his shoulder.
They reached their table, which was tucked away in a private corner, with starched white tablecloths and crystal wine glasses that caught the light.
“You know the owner?”
“The chef-owner, actually. What gave it away?”
“It looks like the type of place that needs a reservation months in advance.”
He shrugged.
“I already know that I can’t afford to eat off this menu!” Mila mouthed to James as the waiter pulled out her chair. She hesitated.
James inclined his head, indicating that she should sit down. “It’s my favorite lunch stop in Paris so I had to bring you here. As my treat.”
She rolled her eyes. “Conniving. A sandwich would have been more than sufficient. Preferably a homemade one.” But she sat down, chewing her lip as the waiter, with a bit of flair, draped her napkin over her lap.
“The French live in horror of ze sangwich,” James mocked as he sat down. “And they always eat a proper lunch. You may broil me a tough chicken breast tonight to return the favor,” he added with a grin.
“Fine,” she murmured, fiddling with her napkin as the waiter poured them water, whilst describing the day’s lunch menu.
“It’s a shortened version of their tasting menu,” James said. “Three courses. You’ll love it.”
She sighed. “You’re too kind to me.”
“Impossible.”
When the waiter walked off she glared at him. “Where in your Paris exploits did you meet a chef-owner of a Michelin-starred restaurant?”
Sassy Miss Johnson hadn’t missed the plaque outside the door then.
“Don’t these types of people work all hours and have no social life whatsoever?” she asked, staring at him.
He shifted in his seat. Where did these questions come from? It was as if she was in on all his secrets, digging deep with a sharp shovel. “I met him at a club. About a year after I moved here.”
“A club?” She scrunched her nose up. “I’m not the clubbing type,” she said casually. “The music’s too loud, suffocating cigarette fumes, bad lighting, drunk students’ bodies crashing into each other on the dance floor, slippery vomit in the corners. Yuck.”
“Hmm.” He couldn’t quite meet her gaze. His club and her club were poles apart. “This club is different. Definitely not aimed at the student market. And no vomit allowed.”
“Maybe I’d like it better. You should take me there.”
His stomach clenched as if a fist was crunching it into a tight ball of paper.
She laughed. “I wonder if I’ll be allowed in.”
Fuck no.
He was intensely grateful for the waiter, who was approaching them with two plates in his hands. He had to change the direction of this conversation.
“The last time I went clubbing with Stacey they questioned if my ID was a fake at the door,” Mila said as she rolled her eyes with a grin.
She looked up at the waiter, who’d almost reached their table.
“That was before I had glasses. They make me look older, don’t you think? Old enough to get into your club?”
He inhaled, a sudden shortness of breath almost overpowering him. There was no way in hell Mila would ever put a foot in the club. The image of her in that place… the other men—
Fuck no. They’d be all over her like a bunch of blood-sucking leeches if she gave half an indication that she was keen.
He couldn’t let his mind even probe in that direction. She’s mine. The idea made him feel worse, handcuffed and derailed.
The sweet smell of the scallops he’d ordered wafted under his nose in sharp contrast with the sour swamp that had settled in the pit of his stomach.
Mila pulled in a sharp breath as the waiter placed their entrées in front of them. It was one of James’s favorites, with its bright green pea mousse, sweet and soft, flowing over the saltiness of the scallops, crunched up with micro greens and delicate flowers.
“Oh my word… this is gorgeous! The smell… oh—look at the little flowers!” She met his gaze, her eyes so full of sparkle and life. “Oh James… I’ve never eaten something so breathtakingly beautiful before.”
His heart was jolting, his pulse irregular as his eyes glimmered at her, taking in her beautiful face, the even complexion of her untainted skin, her eyes big and wide, accentuated by the dark-rimmed glasses that she wore. Those eyes were something else, and the way she looked at him he wanted to tug off her glasses, lean over the table and kiss her lips. Mark her.
She’s mine.
She took up her knife and fork, gingerly cutting into the tower of scallops, lifting a delicate bite to her mouth. She closed her eyes, chewing, her lips so tempting. “This is heaven,” she moaned as she forked up another bite.
No. This was hell. Or a chamber of hell, which he hadn’t known existed.
Ridiculous.
But he liquefied inside, as every cell in his body reminded him that this hell was the one he’d been intimate with most of his life. That quiet, surrendering way in which his dad observed his mom as she flirted with other men, eventually going off with them, fucking them all. Never objecting to her actions, letting her be because he’d rather have what she’d had left over for him than nothing at all.
He’d never wanted to tag anybody as only his, but then, this thing he was starting to feel for Mila… was he falling in love?
Fuck no. Not if he could help it. He’d never been in love. Never wanted to be in love. His dad’s misery had cured him of love, prematurely. But with everything that had happened between his parents, and then with Marlène—hell, he’d been grateful for the heads up.
He clenched his jaw, watching as Mila ate on in silence, probably confused at his indifference towards the food.
Mine. There was no such thing.
“You look like you’re about to pass out, James,” she said softly. “Better eat something, there is no way I can haul you back to your apartment on my own.”
chapter 18
Mila’s heart thudded in her chest when an hour later the taxi stopped at the Rodin Museum. This was high up on her to-do list and this time she insisted on buying their admission tickets.
Once inside the grounds, James smiled at her. “Do you want to do the gardens first, or the house?”
“The house.” She itched to see all the sculptures she’d only seen in art books. “Do you have any idea what immense skill it takes to be a sculptor?”
&
nbsp; “I’ve no idea,” he laughed. “I’m more for paintings. They’re easier to manage in the space I have.”
She shot him a smile. “You need a special nook for sculptures. And lighting. It makes them come to life.” Her breath stalled as they walked into the building, where the light from the outside beamed through the tall French windows. “Wow,” she whispered, in awe of the exhibition, which was covered in strokes of light, falling on Rodin’s masterpieces. The room was big and airy, but the space seemed intimate at the same time.
“I know.” He leaned toward her. “Go at your own pace, I have my favorites. This museum is small enough that we won’t lose each other.”
“Thank you.”
They set off in the same direction, but soon she noticed James had moved on from the pieces at which she’d lingered. She was a mess inside, overwhelmed by James’s presence, which was as deeply unsettling as everything else. He didn’t follow her, but she sensed him looking for her, making sure they were sticking close.
She’d been herself with him, and it had been easy, less stressful than always being on her guard, which she’d had to be at home for some years. She might have pretended last night when he’d stumbled upon her in his bedroom, but since this morning, she’d laid bare to him her true self.
During lunch, he’d turned strangely quiet at intervals, which had nothing to do with chewing his food. She couldn’t shrug off the notion that something else had been on his mind, something that had been triggered by a phone call, or that something had happened when he’d stepped out of L’Orangerie.
She’d tried to shrug it off, but already she cared more for James Sinclair than she’d ever bargained on. She’d always cared for him. It was hard not to care when a man like him started taking care of you. She swallowed and chewed her lip, having reached the highlight of the museum’s collection: The Kiss.
The Paris Apartment (Love Nests Book 1) Page 11