by Nora James
“You need three hands,” he said. “One for the bowl, one for the whisk and one for the bottle of olive oil. I didn’t notice your third hand.”
She laughed, her cheeks flushing, the prettiest of pinks, and the smile extended not only to her eyes, but to her whole body. Even her shoulders seemed to relax. She held up her hands. I took the third one off before travelling so it wouldn’t cause any problems with Customs. So will you hold the bowl for me?”
Would he dare hold it for her? Could he trust himself? The truth was he didn’t need to, so better not tempt the Devil as the French saying went.
“The bowl is very heavy,” he explained. “That is why I picked it for this task, so when you beat in the oil you don’t have to hold it at all. And I am very happy you didn’t come here with three hands. You might have scared me. I might have thought you were an alien.”
She let out another little sound of amusement. “I am an alien. You know it has two meanings? Alien as in extra-terrestrial and alien as in a foreigner.”
“Well my English is certainly improving and now I am doing double-entendres in your language.” He gestured to the bottle of oil. “You must pour it very gently and whisk continuously. Show me how you did it this morning.”
She bit her lip as she poured the golden liquid into the bowl with her left hand, whisking away with her right. It was a little too fast and he instinctively held out his hand to slow her down, touching her lightly on the arm. Her soft skin reminded him of the irresistible velvet of a rose petal. Paul quickly pulled his hand away from Elise’s arm, relieved that she didn’t seem to notice the effect her contact had on him; in fact, she didn’t seem to notice his touch at all. Or was she trying to ignore it as much as he was?
He watched her beat the oil into the eggs for an instant and saw that her movement wasn’t as steady as could be, and the whisk drew a triangle rather than an egg shape in the mixture.
“Think of an oval, draw it with the whisk,” he offered.
“Isn’t that what I’m doing?”
He stood behind her, put his hand under her wrist and guided her. “There, that’s better, much better.”
She was working it perfectly now, and while the mayonnaise was slowly but surely becoming thick and creamy, all he could think about was the weight of her wrist against his hand, the light coconut scent of her hair, the warmth of her body close, so close to his. He wanted so much to hold her in his arms and bury his face in her neck. He closed his eyes and images of her naked body against his flooded his mind, as if they were true memories.
The mayonnaise was ready, shiny and voluptuous, the glorious yellow of a summer sun. She put down the whisk and, as he stepped away from Elise, she turned around.
With a lop-sided smile of satisfaction she proclaimed her victory. “I did it! We did it. How can I thank you?”
“There’s no need. I am glad I could help a little.”
He followed the outline of her body with his gaze, all those shades of pink of her perfect skin, and thought of a way she could thank him that he’d definitely enjoy. He felt a little naughty for it, a tad inappropriate, and smiled to himself, but he wanted her. Oh, how he wanted her, even if just for an instant!
He stepped closer to her, slowly wrapped his arms around her waist and found her lips with his and in that moment nothing mattered but her skin and how her hips felt pressed squarely against his. His heart pounded his chest, his body called for hers and he was nothing but feeling, nothing but the sensation of her.
Suddenly something pushed against his chest. He came back down to Earth and realised it was her hand giving him an energetic shove. She had rejected him.
“How could you?” She yelled at him while he tried desperately to recover, emerging from a beautiful dream he didn’t want to leave behind. “Who do you think you are?”
He wanted to apologise, he’d acted appallingly. He’d been so drawn to her, he’d thought she’d felt the same way, too. But he’d misjudged her, had been mesmerised by her and had let go of all rationality.
He wanted to tell her that he was sorry and embarrassed, wanted to start over, but while he searched for the right words she stormed out of the kitchen and left him to his shame.
Chapter 11
Elise ran up the stairs to her studio apartment, her heart in her throat not because of the sudden physical effort but because of all the wild emotions running through her. He had kissed her. Paul had kissed her. She was stunned.
On the landing she stopped and ran her index finger over her lips, where his had been only moments ago. She couldn’t believe he had done that, nor could she believe how good it felt. She knew he was attracted to her, had sensed it so clearly when they were standing just the two of them in the pantry amongst all that glorious food, but never had she thought that he would act on it. She was attracted to him, too, more than she’d ever been attracted to a man in her life, but she wouldn’t have thrown herself at him without a shred of decency the way he had at her.
She heard hurried footsteps coming up the stairs so she quickly opened her handbag and searched for the key. She couldn’t lay her hands on it and as the steps grew louder as they neared, so did the beating of her heart. She was sure it was Paul and she simply couldn’t face him. Not now. At last she saw a spot of bronze metal under her hand mirror and pulled out the key, but it was too late. She felt a hand on her shoulder.
“Please, Elise, look at me.”
Slowly she turned to him. His soft eyes seemed to beg her for forgiveness, but she knew that she couldn’t trust him. It was a trick to get her into bed for a bit of fun while Julie was away. Well, she had news for him. She wasn’t going to lie on her back and let him have his way with her just because he was attractive and she hadn’t had sex in a while. She was worth more than that and so was Julie.
“How could you?” she blurted out, looking him straight in the eye.
He hung his head. “I, uh, I thought you wanted me to. I’m sorry if I misinterpreted your, uh –”
“Excuse me? Misinterpreted my what exactly?”
She hated it when men attempted to explain away their mistakes by blaming it on the woman’s pretty lips or clothing that seemed a little too revealing according to them. And no, she hadn’t been sending him signals to jump on her and steal a kiss in a kitchen pantry, even if she did find him terribly handsome. In fact, she could have thumped him for putting her in this position. He’d made her remember what it was like to kiss someone for the first time, made her want something she was perfectly happy without and in any event couldn’t have since he was with another woman, a woman she knew and, to make matters worse, a woman who was helping her.
He opened his mouth but must have decided it was better not to speak, or perhaps he felt he was wasting his time with her now that it was clear that she didn’t want him, for he shut it almost immediately without uttering a word and started down the stairs. She thought it cowardly of him to retreat like that. She’d had enough of men who did the wrong thing, had enough of Steve’s cheating and lying to put up with it ever again, even for a second. And she certainly wasn’t going to be the other woman.
“Will you tell Julie about this or shall I?”
He stopped dead in his tracks before turning around slowly. “Julie? You think I should tell Julie?” He frowned slightly, a soft crease forming between his neat eyebrows.
Elise huffed. Was Paul plain stupid or pretending to be? Or was he the type of man who thought that what a woman doesn’t know won’t hurt her? It was probably the latter. After all, he’d bought flowers for some other conquest and not even tried to hide them when Elise had bumped into him at the flower markets.
The man had no shame. Who knew how many affairs he’d had, all the while probably telling Julie that she was his one and only? It wouldn’t even surprise Elise if he turned out to be one of those men who collected affairs like stamps or trophies, the more the merrier—for him.
He opened his hands, holding them out to her as if to
plead for mercy, and although he was still far from her she instinctively took a step back.
He repeated the question, this time an even deeper rumble. “Why tell Julie?”
He sought Elise’s gaze, climbing the stairs until his eyes were at the same level as hers, his lips a mere centimetre away and she could feel that vibrant, undeniable tension between them, the kind that held the promise of irresistible pleasures of the flesh. She banished the thought, annoyed with herself that her mind would even wander down that path when she hated Paul for doing the same.
She nervously bit the inside of her cheek. Why was he asking the question anyway? He didn’t need Elise to tell him.
“You know the answer to that,” she said.
His eyebrows shot up in an exaggerated fashion while his lips curled downwards. “I do? Because this is her business? At least it was after work. I did not realise you were such a puritan. In France it is not such a big deal.”
Elise scoffed. “Of course it’s her business.”
Paul was probably lying. She was quite certain it would be a big deal to Julie—unless she and Paul had some kind of open arrangement, which was probably more common in France than Australia. In any case, it wasn’t something Elise would want to be a part of.
“In any case it’s a big deal to me, Mister,” she continued. “You are a piece of work to treat women this way. Besides, I am perfectly happy on my own. There was that bouquet, too, at the flower markets. Don’t think I’ve forgotten about that bouquet. It’s all a facade, everything is, isn’t it? The only thing that matters is sex. I know men like you. I know men.”
Paul shook his head as he let out a heavy sigh. “There is something wrong with you, you know that? Something very wrong.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I hope it is not contagious.”
He hurried down the stairs, two by two, without looking back this time. “Dingue! What is it in English? Yes, nutcase. Definitely a fine specimen of nutcase.”
She was the nutcase? For a split second she pictured herself running after Paul, but she thought it better to stay away or she’d end up strangling the man. She slid the key into the keyhole of her front door and breathed a sigh of relief as she entered her very own sanctuary. She threw open the window and took in the view of the street below. Men and women came and went, some taking a leisurely stroll, others dashing about like dragonflies over water. The temperature was perfect, cooler than earlier in the day, but not cold enough to warrant a jacket or jumper. It would have been so easy to enjoy this wonderful part of the world if it weren’t for the way her stomach had tightened and the urge to clench her teeth. If it weren’t for men like Paul life would be perfect.
No, Elise wasn’t the nutcase. How could it not be Julie’s business? She heard Paul’s words again. “Because this is her business? At least it was after work.”
She rubbed her nose, suddenly uneasy. At least it was after work? What did he mean? Unless… She closed her eyes, wanted to hide under a rock as she realised he meant that it was Julie’s café, not that it was none of her business. And if that was what had crossed his mind when Elise talked about telling Julie, the only thing that made sense was that he and Julie were not a couple. Could that be true? She’d found them in each other’s arms, with two glasses of champagne on the table.
She sat on her bed and held her head. Perhaps Julie and Paul were nothing more than good friends. They could have a mother-son type of relationship, couldn’t they? That wasn’t impossible. Why had she jumped to the conclusion that they were lovers? Had what cheating Steve done to her coloured her views so much that she had become judgemental, intolerant, incapable of seeing beyond the ghosts of her past? She hoped not. Oh, how could she ever face Paul again? And why, oh why did it seem to matter so much? She wasn’t sure, but it did.
She stood. Maybe he was still downstairs locking up. Maybe if she hurried she’d catch him. And then what? She’d apologise. He’d accept. They’d be civil, maybe even friendly again during English lessons. Yes, an apology would clear the air.
She went to the window to close it. As she glanced down she saw Paul leaving the café, shoulders hunched, head down—a far cry from his usual proud stance. She felt sorry that she’d done that to him.
“Paul!” she called out. He looked around, searching for someone in the street. “Paul,” she cried again but it was too late. He’d hurried off.
She slipped on her shoes, grabbed her keys and handbag and raced down the stairs. She had a key for the side door for when the café was closed. She fiddled with it in the lock but it seemed stuck. Then she remembered she had to pull the door a little before unlocking it. It finally opened, and then she had to lock it again. She couldn’t leave the building unlocked for anyone to enter after hours. She sighed with exasperation. It was all taking too long. Paul would be miles ahead by now. She’d missed him for sure. In the street at last she ran as fast as she could, darting around a couple holding hands, jumping every now and then higher than the crowd in front of her in the hope that she’d catch a glimpse of Paul.
She came out of the narrower back streets at the Saint Michel fountain, its clear waters splashing over the bronze statue and into the majestic pond-like base beneath it. It was even more crowded here with lots of groups of people from babies to grey nomads sitting around on the rounded edge of the fountain eating sandwiches filled with sausages and chips. Others quickly licked ice-cream before it dripped onto their hands or down their sleeves.
It was hopeless. She’d never find Paul. He was gone. She stopped, her hand on her chest, panting from the effort but hardly paying attention to it. Her mind was on the lump that had formed in her throat, the ache in her heart that told her that Paul mattered to her more than any language student ever should. She couldn’t understand it. Maybe it was just as well that she’d lost him or who knew what stupid move she might have made next?
Paris was to blame. That had to be it. The air here was filled with a je ne sais quoi and it had somehow gone to her head against her best efforts to remain reasonable. Well, at least he wouldn’t try to kiss her again now. That was one good thing that had come out of this mess: her misjudgement would guard her against her own impulses and the influence of this beautiful city.
“You seem lost.”
The voice came from behind her and even with the surprisingly loud splashing of the fountain in her ear she recognised it immediately. She turned around and found herself gazing straight into Paul’s dark chocolate eyes.
She examined his expression for clues as to how he felt but it was a perfect poker face with a dash of arrogance: he’d regained the somewhat pompous look he’d presented to her the day they first met. He’d probably practised that look when he’d needed to remain impassive with a million demanding customers who annoyed him. And with the women who failed to succumb to his charms, and those he’d ditched, too.
She averted her eyes. “I thought you’d be in the Metro by now.” As she looked down, she saw he was carrying a small package, beautifully wrapped from a nearby pâtisserie and guessed he had bought cakes to take home. Or was he visiting someone?
He pursed his lips. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
She realised it had come out wrong again. She was relieved he wasn’t in the Metro, even if what he was now showing her was the mask he slipped on whenever he was uncomfortable. She waved her hand. “No, that’s not what I meant. I’m glad I caught you. In fact I’ve been running after you.”
He said something that she didn’t quite catch. “Sorry? The fountain is loud.”
He leaned closer, turning his lips to her ear, so close his breath caressed her skin like a summer breeze. It sent a tingle down her spine and she inhaled sharply, not just as a reaction but as prevention, to steel herself against his charms. It must have been another conspiracy of the French, a plan to bring people together whether they wanted to or not. Why else would you build fountains that created so much noise when the sound of water could be so soothing and gentle
?
Paul repeated his sentence. “That confirms my suspicion that you are completely mad.”
He shoved his free hand in his pocket and bent his right leg. She could tell from his body language that his cockiness was clawing its way back to the surface.
She shook her head, suddenly annoyed with herself. It had been a mistake to run after him. She looked again at the cakes he was holding and recalled the bouquet at the flower markets. What had she been thinking? Even if he wasn’t with Julie he was with someone else, which again made him a cheat since he’d kissed Elise and would have had sex with her there in that dark pantry if she’d let him, she was sure.
“You know what, Paul, you’re right. I am mad. It runs in the family. Let’s do our best to remain civilised during the lessons. Outside of those hours we don’t have to deal with each other. Have a good evening.”
Elise turned her back to him and prepared to cross the road, expecting to feel pride at the way she’d handled him. Instead, the sadness she felt at that moment came as a complete surprise.
Suddenly a firm hand landed on her arm. Paul had come after her. “Non,” he said, a strong nasal French negation full of determination. “You ran all that way after me for a reason. There is something you need to say to me, so go on.”
He watched her with such intensity that she felt he deserved an explanation, even if he might think her silly afterwards. Sometimes you had to give regardless of what it cost, because if you didn’t it would weigh on your heart forever.
“You’re right. What I intended to say was, uh, that I’m sorry. There may have been a misunderstanding. I thought that you and Julie were an item.”
His nose crinkled up. “Item? An item is a thing in a shop, non? I do not understand.”
“I mean, I thought you and Julie were together, a couple and so when you kissed me… It wasn’t until after that I understood.”
She didn’t know what else to say. Surely he could figure out the rest and accept her apology without making her get down on her knees and beg for forgiveness. Then again she could picture him doing just that.