The Paris Apartment (Love Nests Book 1)

by Sophia Karlson

  “Then stop toying with me, James Sinclair.”

  “Why? It’s fun to see you blush.”

  As if on cue heat rushed to the roots of her hair and she looked away. “Because—” She bit her own tongue to stop the words from slipping off her tongue. Because she might not want to keep that promise they made.

  How could she even feel like that? She was not one to go against her better judgment, moral or otherwise. She shrugged and stepped away from him, taking in the rectangular tables on the sidewalk—so not French—and the people sitting outside reading and chatting. Looking up at the shop’s sign, she read, “Shakespeare and Company?”

  “My favorite bookstore in Paris. They have everything in English.”

  They crossed over the pavement to the entrance. “I haven’t brought anything to read.” And nights were going to be lonely until Stacey got there. She might as well browse and get something to take her mind off James.

  “They have a good art book selection if you’re looking for something you can’t find at home.”

  “Those are addictive and expensive.” She’d seen his collection. It was to die for. Most of them had probably come from here.

  The door closed behind them and she took in the store, the low hush of patrons murmuring, the intense smell of printed books hanging in the room, laced with a dash of aged and faded paper.

  “I’ll be on that side,” he said and pointed to the art book section at the far end of the shop.

  Good. She needed some distance from him. The day had almost rolled on too easily, like a date she wanted to be on, with a friend she’d known for years, someone she’d secretly had a crush on and who’d finally come to the party.

  She wandered through the store, not in any particular direction, picking up a book here and there, but really wanting to be where he was, browsing art books with him by her side. When she got to the classic English literature she paused and picked up Tess of the D’Urbervilles. It was thick, and after reading the back cover she popped it back into its slot.

  Her hand hovered over Jane Eyre. She’d never read it before, and for a moment felt almost uncultured. Did watching the movie count?

  A tickle ran down her spine and she turned to see James meters from her, waiting. She’d felt his gaze on her before she’d even looked up.

  “Found anything you like?” he asked as he closed the gap between them.

  “I’m looking for something to read.” She tugged Jane Eyre from its slot on the shelf and gazed at the cover. “Can’t go wrong with a classic, can I?”

  “A book about a man with a secret in his tower, seducing a sweet, innocent girl?”

  “He doesn’t seduce her.” She playfully swatted him on the arm with the book. “She loves him so much that she comes back for him despite everything that has happened. Despite all his secrets.” She looked up at him, finding his jaw set and twitching.

  He dropped his gaze first, turning towards the bookshelf. After a quick inspection, he took Jane Eyre from her, holding out another book. “You should read something French while you’re in Paris. Here, Madame Bovary. The ultimate French classic.”

  The cover didn’t pull her in, with its impressionist painting of a woman, who turned away from the onlooker and looked distracted. “What’s it about?”

  “A wife who slowly destroys herself, because she is bored, firstly by having a lover… or was it lovers? Then by becoming a total shopping maniac and ruining her husband financially. In the end she—”

  “Say no more! If that just doesn’t cheer us right up,” she said, laughing at the monotonous tone he’d used. She shoved the book back and retrieved her copy of Jane Eyre. “Now I’m going to browse the art section.”

  He chuckled as she edged past him, and he didn’t follow her immediately.

  Two hours later they were back in the apartment with their purchases. They’d stopped at a supermarket on their way home and she’d bought some turkey and salad essentials. She was digging in the food cupboard to see what James had in his pantry for a salad dressing when there was a knock on the front door.

  She strained to listen, not sure she’d heard a knock. But someone knocked again. James was in his bedroom, packing his things for the evening. “James?” she called.

  “Just a minute!”

  She went to the front door, looking through the peephole. A man stood in front of the door, waiting, with a bottle of champagne in his hand. Why hadn’t he rung the bell from the intercom on the street as she’d had to? She shrugged, wondering if he was a neighbor who lived in the same building.

  James hadn’t mentioned a friend coming over, but the man looked about his age. She opened the door an inch, and he cocked his head and smiled even wider.

  “Hi,” he said in English. “I’m here for Stacey? And her friend Mila?” His gaze swept over her face and her hair that she’d bundled together and tied on her head as she usually did when cooking.

  Mila took in his face, liking his tall frame and dark, slightly unkempt hair. He wore a tailored shirt, tight fitting over his slender muscles, slim-fit trousers and shoes that Stacey would swoon over. She’d have to let her know what she’d missed out on. Her heart skipped a beat. Was this the friend Stacey had wanted to introduce her to?

  “Stacey’s not here,” she replied, not sure if she should open the door as wide as it could go and let him in, or subtly make him go away. She didn’t want a fifth wheel during dinner with James. The way the man was peeking past her into the apartment made her wonder where James was. Surely he hadn’t missed the loud knock on the door or their voices in the entrance hall.

  “Ah, dommage. Sorry for Stacey.” He looked at her, still smiling, the white tips of his teeth peeking through his perfect lips. “You must be… Mila? Did I say that right?”

  She grinned. “Yes, Mila.” The way he said it made her simple name sound so seductive.

  He leaned in towards her, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek, then turned and kissed her on the other cheek. “I’m Damien. Enchanté. And welcome to Paris.”

  The kissing had happened so fast, his sudden, unexpected proximity intense. He’d pushed right into her personal space, and for a split second, she was disoriented, as this intrusion wasn’t exactly welcome. When he pulled back she laughed, shifting on her feet. “Sorry, I’m not French. That was a first.”

  “Got you there,” he laughed back. “I can see you’re not French,” he said as his eyes dropped to her body, probably studying her cheap clothes.

  Nope, those weren’t French and her whole outfit possibly cost the same as his left sock. She smiled knowingly. Only Stacey could pull a man like this out of her magician’s hat in Paris. From where did Stacey know him?

  He pulled his fingers through his hair, messing it up more. “That’s how we French say hi.” He had a bone-melting French accent, and it only added to his allure.

  “How do you know Stacey?” She didn’t want to ask him in, not until James was there to hint that it would be okay.

  “Ah.” He paused, looking past her into the apartment. His eyes hooded over, and he pursed his lips as footsteps sounded on the parquet floor.

  James put his hand on Mila’s hip, his chest not touching her back, but his body’s warmth almost scalding as he made his presence known.

  “James.” Damien pronounced the J so softly, letting the rest of the word ooze into a negligent S. A second passed, in which she was certain he wanted to lean in and kiss James too. How weird. Instead, he held out his hand. “I didn’t know you were in Paris.”

  She wanted to shift to make space in the doorway for James to shake Damien’s hand, but James hadn’t moved. His hand weighed on her hip as he ignored the handshake that should be happening. Tension pulsated between the men, and she was like the glass wall that held them apart. They obviously knew each other, because after a moment James said, his voice so cold, it
made a shiver speed down her spine, “Damien.”

  “I came to see Stacey… and Mila, of course.” Damien’s gaze dropped to hers, then lower, to the hand that rested on her hip, the fingers flexing, then tightening again.

  “I see. Stacey’s not here. Neither is Marlène.”

  Mila swallowed at the mention of James’s ex-girlfriend’s name. Damien’s gaze darted between hers and James’s, and she sensed a silent, unspoken feud battled between the men.

  She shifted on her feet, uncomfortable in the tense atmosphere. James pulled her closer so that her back rested against his chest and his arm circled around her waist. His posture was stiff as a plank, yet he leaned in and pressed a kiss to her temple. She closed her eyes, not sure what to make of this sudden move. Her hands moved up to his arm that possessively held her close.

  Damien laughed, a dry, throaty smirk that broke free from somewhere in his gut. “Not wasting your time either, Sinclair.” He stepped away from the door. With a grin and a wink to her, he raised the champagne bottle in a mock cheer. “Bonne nuit. Enjoy.”

  He was gone in a second, his swift rush down the stairs echoing in the corridor. When James’s arm didn’t loosen its grip she realized she could hardly breathe.

  “Let go, James, you’re holding me too tight.”

  “Didn’t your parents teach you not to open the door to strangers?” he hissed, but his grip loosened and with a soft stroke over her belly he dropped his hand. He stepped away and waited for her to retreat from the door.

  “He didn’t seem to be a stranger, knowing Stacey, and clearly knowing you,” she said as she pushed past him. “He didn’t buzz from the street intercom, I thought he was a friend of yours.”

  He gripped her wrist. “Don’t ever let him into this apartment. You understand?”

  A cold stone settled in her stomach at his tone and his harsh words. He let go with a tight sigh but didn’t say anything.

  “It’s none of my business,” she whispered as she walked off. A second later the door banged, and she closed her eyes as the keys clanged. James had locked the door behind Damien.

  chapter 20

  James cursed under his breath as he rested his forehead against the door for a second. He’d shut the door too hard, had turned the key too harshly. It was none of her business for now, but soon it would be her business. He sensed it in his gut, where the past few minutes had twisted him tighter than a cord.

  With Damien on his doorstep, it had felt as if his whole world had closed in on Mila, and as if he could do nothing to prevent her from getting burnt.

  He knew Damien—too well. Damien liked to fuck a woman’s ass while she was blowing another guy at the same time. And yeah, he’d been that guy. And Marlène had been that woman. Numerous times. Things didn’t get more intimate than that. The things Marlène had wanted would be way off Mila’s radar. Mila was different, untainted and still exploring herself, wandering in the foothills of her own sexuality. But most confusing of all was how he felt different when he was with her.

  He pushed off the door and scrubbed his face to get a grip. How the hell had Damien known that Stacey was going to be there? And where the fuck had he gotten his sister’s number?

  He threaded his fingers through his hair, cursing as he stalked across the carpeted floor of the lounge. Mila was in the kitchen, eyes downcast as she chopped some tomatoes. So freaking innocent, so unaware.

  He paused. He shouldn’t get any closer to her; he shouldn’t let her in.

  It’s a little too late for that, an inner voice whispered. The lid had been opened and with certainty, he knew that she would see his whole sordid world for what it was before she left Paris.

  She swept the chopped tomatoes into the salad bowl and looked up to meet his eyes. Her gaze was unwavering, and he could do nothing but to look away with an ill-suppressed sigh.

  There was an easy way out of this, a way that would explain everything and would stop her wondering. It would also make her stay the hell away from Damien, with his double dose of dick and suave French charm. He swallowed, huffing out a breath. If he told her the truth, then everything would stop right there.

  “Marlène cheated on me with Damien.” He hated bringing his ex into any conversation with her for it soiled Mila, indirectly. But she would understand cheating in the normal sense of the word, for what it was worth.

  She lowered the chopping board, her eyes widening. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “Of course you didn’t. No need to be sorry.” Maybe it had been the best thing that had happened to him. Because if not for what had happened, he’d still be with Marlène and wouldn’t have met Mila. He inhaled sharply, shaking his head against the notion that sprung up in his mind.

  He broke away from her intense stare, in which he found no pity, but only incredulity. The expression would’ve made him chuckle any other time. Yep. He’d been cheated on. He continued to the bedroom where he was still unpacking his suitcase from Singapore, flinging his dirty clothes with heated resolve into the laundry basket.

  When she called him for dinner twenty minutes later he had his things sorted. Washing for Madame Leborgne to deal with, a cabin bag packed with his things and the suit he’d need for the next day’s work meetings hanging on the door. He’d dressed in his gym clothes and a superficial sense of calm settled over him as he rolled the suitcase to the front door.

  In the kitchen, Mila was quiet as she dished up. He wasn’t hungry. The anger at Damien and at seeing his shitface staring down at his Mila had closed any gaps in his stomach.

  “Are you going to be okay here tonight? Alone?” he asked between bites, finding the food hard to swallow. They’d had this discussion before, but now… who the fuck else was going to bypass the street code and knock on his door with her here alone? Who the hell else had Marlène given the door code to? He wanted to punch something to shreds.

  “Are you going to be okay? Alone?” she shot straight back.

  His gaze met hers over the short stretch of the kitchen island.

  “You look all pumped up,” she said softly.

  He couldn’t look at her. Not with the sincere concern ringing in her voice, her eyes searching his with such worry—it pained him. He pushed his plate away, his fingers trembling with the need to dig into her hair and pull her towards him. He wanted to kiss her mouth, slide his lips over hers, taste the vinegar of the dressing she’d made on her tongue, while digging into her mouth with his own until she moaned. He wanted to make her think of anything but Damien and what had passed. He wanted to take this restless energy that had amplified in his body and fuck it out into her pussy. Claiming her, again and again. Mine.

  Did she find Damien attractive? Most women did. Most men did. And Damien knew how to play his game. He’d been staring at Mila with that gaze that could make a woman come on command. What would have happened if he hadn’t been there? Would Mila have let him in? Would she have slept with Damien? His gut contracted, bile rising to his mouth.

  He’d seen that look in Damien’s eyes and had known he’d been interpreting his words correctly. Not wasting your time either, Sinclair. Damien thought he was fucking her just for the piss of it. Had gotten there ahead of him. That Mila was fair game. Had that been true, at first? He couldn’t get his head around it now, not with his body in this tightly strung state. “I need to go to the gym. Get rid of this cagey feeling.”

  Her eyes widened at his words. “Oh, okay.”

  He relaxed his fingers, which had curled into fists. “I’m sorry.” He raised his hands, dropped them on the table.

  “I get it, James. He upset you.” She shook her head. “I’d be upset too.”

  She gathered their half-eaten plates. “I’m wondering how Stacey knows him. It’s cruel of her to have invited Damien here, knowing he’s the reason you broke up with Marlène.”

  That was not exactly how
it had gone down. And Stacey would know squat about it. Unless…

  “I’m going to go,” he said before the conversation went any further. There was only one mutual acquaintance between Stacey and Damien who could have introduced them to each other. Marlène. “You have my number. Call me, if you need to.” He walked off, not waiting for further comment, in case he couldn’t hold himself back anymore.

  Two hours later he hit the shower at the gym. He’d worked himself into a frenzy, drenched with sweat as he pummeled the heavy boxing bag, but he hadn’t been able to get enough. Not even the thirty-minute sprint he’d done on the treadmill afterward or the weights he’d lifted had helped.

  All he could think of was Damien and Mila, and what could have happened if he hadn’t been there. And then of Marlène, and what would happen if she arrived and he wasn’t at the apartment.

  He’d already decided he’d go sleep at a hotel, not being in the mood for any of his usual crowd, or for the explanations that might be needed. Mila didn’t need to know that he opted for a hotel, but as he took his suitcase and walked out of the gym into the last wink of twilight, he didn’t turn to the Regina, as he’d planned. He found himself retracing his steps, going home.

  He entered the lobby, leaning against the wall close to the elevator for a minute. To gather his thoughts, to herd his scattered resolve back to where it belonged. He wouldn’t touch her; it would be sleeping. The bed was big enough for both of them with space for a third to spare. Intentionally. King size, extra length, extra depth. He groaned as he took the stairs, at last feeling the exhaustion rise in his body from the overdose of exercise. With his jet-lag still biting, he could slip quietly under the covers and fall asleep. She’d slept so deeply in his arms last night, not stirring until that morning. Hopefully, it would be the same tonight.

  He turned the key softly, opening the apartment door with a careful turn of the knob. The entrance hall and lounge were dark, lit up only by the city glow penetrating the windows. He left his things by the door, took off his shoes and padded through the lounge to the master bedroom. The door was ajar, the air conditioning buzzing. For the rest, it was déjà vu.