by Angel Payne
I sighed hard and nodded. “Not even after two lunches, two dinners, and a couple novel’s worth of texts.” Along with a new diamond bracelet and a leather bomber I’d drooled over in a window on Avenue Montaigne. And oh yeah, forty thousand more dollars in my bank account.
And I was actually sitting here, complaining to my friends about it.
Because somehow, somewhere between those incredible moments on the boat and now, I’d given up more than gained.
I’d lost Lucien.
But when? How? Why?
The only answer my senses gave up was a constant headache, a turbulent belly, and dread that clung to my nerves like moss on a gravestone.
“Well.” Gigi dotted that with a determined sigh. “Have you tried making the move for more?”
“The move?” My inflection made the meaning clear. “Wench, I even attempted a modified ‘Desperate Dara.’”
While Leese burst with a sturdy giggle, Gigi frowned. “Desperate Dara?”
“A regular at the first club where Juls worked in New York,” Leese clarified. “She was pretty and sweet but had that ‘desperate’ look dogging like a bad aura.”
Gigi winced. “Ooohhh nooo…”
“Ohhh, yes. Guys picked it up like a pheromone from the second they walked in the door. If one of them took pity and agreed to dance with her, she did this crazy thing with them…”
Gigi groaned again. “Do I even want to know?”
“Probably not.” Leese snickered. “We called it the orangutan on crack. She literally tried to hump the crap out of their waist or thigh, or whatever.”
As the memories took over, I added a long laugh to the exchange. “Oh, sweet baby Jesus,” I finally muttered. “Haven’t revisited that part of Memory Lane in a while.”
By now, Gigi was joining us in the giggling. I didn’t blame her. “So did it work?” she asked.
“About half the time.” My smile fell as I finished. “But damn it, this time I landed on the wrong side of half.”
Like the awesome posse they were, they instantly stowed their snickers. Along with her sober-up, Gigi pushed her heart-shaped chin onto her palm. “I’m so sorry, Juls.” But her condolence twisted into an irate scowl. “Oh, poo on a pike,” she spat. “I knew Milo shouldn’t have introduced you two.”
“Why?” As miserable as I was, the thought of not knowing Lucien at all was like walking a Dystopian landscape. Barren. Gray. Desolate. “Because the man is treating me like a precious gem instead of his disposable fuck toy?” Though damn, letting the man handle me like his disco dolly sounded like a perfect idea right now.
“No.” Gigi tightened her glower. “Because he’s messing with your head like this.” She pushed her head up but kept her hand in a fist. “I know you two were grownups about the whole. I know you probably agreed to keep things fun and light, at surface value. But—”
“But what?” Leese prompted.
Gigi pulled in a long breath. “You two remember who else tried to do that, right?”
“Shit,” I groused.
“You and Nico.”
Had Leese been by my side, I would’ve shoulder-butted her for going there. Instead, I opted for a more dismal frown. Didn’t help anything. The pronouncement was still a fist to my chest. Gigi and Nico were a world-famous fairytale, a love celebrated like John and Yoko, Will and Jada, Faith and Tim. It hurt to think of sharing such a connection with Lucien.
It hurt…because deep inside, I wanted it too.
So I laughed instead.
Not a lot. Just enough to lighten my friends before stating, “Gigi…honey…that’s a fun thought, but Lucien and I aren’t anything like Nico and you.”
Her laugh mellowed into a smile. The warmth jumped into an extended wink—just before she drawled, “Uh-huh. Sure thing, honey.”
Leese threw up both hands. “All right, so maybe he’s not Mr. Right for her. But I think we all agree that he’s Mr. Right Now, yes?”
“Yes!”
As Gigi took her turn to applaud, I muttered, “Whatever.” And then copied Leese, raising my hands. “Fine. Yes. Mrs. Rocca for the win.”
“At least for now.” Leese offered the concession with her hands perched on the edge of her desk, still looking like a tigress ready to pounce. “That’s subject to change, once we get the man’s answer about his crazy mixed signals. You deserve a full, honest answer about the intimacy whiplash, Juls.”
“Same page,” Gigi piped in.
I pushed my lips into a fresh twist. “Preaching to the choir, sister. But how do I get the monk to talk?” And if I was lucky, maybe he’d toss some extra features into that package.
Leese shot her hands back up. “You’re asking the wrong gal-pal here. I’m oh-for-three in the last year, and fuck buddies is where it’ll stay with the two I have now.” She swept one of those hands toward her monitor. “Annnd take it away, Miss I-snagged-my-soulmate!”
Gigi chuckled while shaking her head, but again sobered fast. She leaned in to emphasize her answer. “All the yuk-yuks aside, you really have to talk to him, Juls.” She jabbed a finger at her camera. “You getting this? You have to talk to him.”
I compressed my lips. “We haven’t exactly been marinating in silence together, okay?”
“You know what I mean,” she stressed. “There’s talking and then there’s talking.” She softened that slice with a small smile. “It’s not my business to know details of what happened a week ago, but clearly you two were playing hopscotch and you threw a few markers outside the lines.” She leaned back a little. “I might be wrong, but Lucien Paget may simply be a guy who doesn’t know how to hop outside the lines.”
I refilled my wine and then took a thoughtful sip. The buzz was mellowing into bizarre clarity for my brain. Then again, maybe it wasn’t the wine at all. Maybe it was a bottle of awesome known as Gigi Proust. “So to win the game, I’ve got to break the rules?”
“No.” Gigi ended the chastisement by pushing air through her nose. “To save the game, you’ve got to step outside the boundaries.” She swallowed deeply. “Probably starting with your own.”
I didn’t try to hide my fresh huff. “Been there done that and have ordered the T-shirt, okay?”
“Have you?” And once more, she was cocking that perfect auburn brow like the scalpel she clearly presumed to have in my brain.
A new huff, with twice the force. “Gigi—”
“Or have you given him just the basics?”
“Gigi.”
Leese tilted her head and mellowed her expression. Shit. When Leese got gooey, I knew I was in trouble. “I’m sorry, Ju-Ju Bee.” And when she used my junior high nickname, I was in a lot of trouble. “She’s kind of right. You are good at sticking to the basics.”
I answered them with a sulking silence. As it passed, I chewed on my lips and guzzled on my wine. But damn it, the juicy Cabernet wasn’t bringing any more clarity for any of my thoughts.
Except for one.
What if they’re right?
And what if that meant I had to consider gashing open more emotional veins for Lucien?
And if I did, what would that even mean? Or accomplish?
Except the impossible.
That if I opened up more, he would too. That maybe my bravery would inspire his. That maybe, because he’d already seen so much of my personal brand of craziness, he’d be okay with the rest. That he’d even understand the rest. The insecurity about my value as a daughter, a woman. The uncertainty about my decisions, professionally and personally. The hesitancies about trusting men…but the loneliness that had become acute, in this city so many miles from home.
The city I’d sworn wouldn’t get to me.
The man I swore I wouldn’t fall for.
Shattered commitments on both fronts. The anvil on my chest, the stings in my eyes, and the strangle around my throat confirmed it. I hid my hands from my camera, hiding the helpless clench of my hands, as well. These two didn’t need any more ammo for their
cannons of concerned friendship. I wasn’t one iota sorry about the camouflage either.
Right now, the only thing I regretted was the Grand Canyon that’d somehow been flown across the Atlantic and then plunked between Lucien and me. Now that I knew what needed to be done about it, I was restless to get started.
I had to commandeer an emotional helicopter. Right freaking now.
Thank God Leese routed that much out. “Go get him, Ju-Ju Bee,” she cheered, and swung a mini high-five at her screen. “You have to take that priest by the collar and wrestle him down right.”
I giggled. Couldn’t be helped. “Okay, no argument on that—but do you goddess geniuses have brilliant ideas for how and when?”
At once, Gigi tossed her chestnut curls. The move was so flawless, I wondered if she planned on auditioning for Glinda in Wicked sometime soon. She sure as hell had the singing voice for it. “Well, that part’s easy,” she stated with supreme sass.
I jogged up both brows. “Oh?”
“Nothing beats the element of surprise.”
“Surprise?” Leese joined me on the puzzled echo.
“Ohhh, absolutely.” As soon as she lowered her head, she swirled an elegant fingertip at her screen. “Whenever I pull the ‘nothing’s wrong’ bullshit on Nico, he cuts me off at the pass by surprising me. He leaves the studio early and takes me to SoHo for dinner, or a walk through Central Park and drinks at Cipriani, or even just bringing my favorite fro-yo if I’m busy at work. The thing is, since I haven’t had days or weeks to prepare for the conversation, what he gets out of me is the same thing you need from Lucien.”
“Honesty.”
There was an answer I could supply. And a plan I could execute.
Bolstered and renewed, I flashed them both a huge grin. “I already have the perfect idea too.” Actually, a hundred of them—though one stood above and beyond the rest. “Have I told you both that you’re amazing?”
Gigi’s gaze danced like irises in the sun. “Only about a million times.”
Leese giggled. “But you can tell us again.”
“Better yet, just go and get back that sparkle in your eyes, girlfriend.”
“Yes, Miss Proust,” I joked.
But inwardly, I added one more line. That’s the plan, missy. That is definitely the plan.
15 Days and Counting
I leaned against a tree across the street from Paget International, set off a shaded street in the 8th Arrondissement that blended old and new only the way Paris could achieve.
And I was fidgeting like a nervous schoolgirl.
Granted, I looked the opposite. To the outside world, I was a bad-ass bicycle girl in my black neoprene shorts and hot pink cycling shirt. Thank God. Nobody had to know about the gawky dork except me. Well, me and maybe the squirrel up in the tree. He stared at me intently while nervously nibbling a nut between his sweet paws.
“Dude,” I mumbled at the animal. “I won’t give up your game if you don’t give up mine, okay?”
But I still felt like the husks of his nut, falling in skittery paths to the pavement. As the minutes ticked by until one o’clock, the squirrel’s biological brethren skittered through every inch of my nervous system, merrily attempting to rip up my composure with their eager feet.
“Want to give me a break, guys?” I added through my teeth. But the little bastards weren’t listening.
I’d just have to deal. And keep telling myself this was going to be epic. That everything was going to work out. I was in such unfamiliar territory—though unbelievably, that did not apply to the sights around me. In just under two weeks, I’d learned a lot about the nooks and crannies of Paris, thanks to the man I waited on now. Ever since Lucien’s new decision that everything below my waist was off-limits, a lot of our time lately was spent walking through the city. We discovered interesting shops and eateries, chatted with people in all colors and professions, and of course, enjoyed many textures and genres of music.
Because of our adventures, I’d learned what a keen music ear the man had. He focused on melodies, tempos, and vibes nearly as acutely as he did me. I had to admit, it was a cool side of him to observe. Granted, I still missed our sexual chemistry, but a star gone supernova wouldn’t fill that bill either. If I had to settle for second best, sharing the pleasure of live music with the man was a damn great alternative.
But there I went again. Thinking about what Lucien Paget could do with his cock. And his lips. And his fingers. And his eyes. And his—
“Stop.” I gritted it out, ordering the composure squirrels to go run rampant elsewhere. Too little, too late. I shifted my weight a little, concentrating on taking deep, full breaths.
It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay. This is going to be great. He’s not going to think you’re a meme-worthy creeptastic stalker bitch. Even if he does, he’ll be nice about it…right?
I didn’t have a clue about the rhetorical worth of that. I’d never done anything like this in my life. Pax had hated surprises, and I’d found out why the hard way. Why I never questioned his behavior, always looking over one shoulder wherever we went, was a humiliation I’d always live with. There was some small comfort in knowing I wasn’t the first or the only he’d scammed. God only knew how many other rackets and schemes he’d been a part of. I’d probably throw up if I ever did find out. Gee; just what the squirrels needed.
There was a flutter of activity at the building’s sleek glass doors.
I pushed away from the tree. My heart raced into OMG-OMG-OMG mode as Lucien left the building. He was still in conversation with another man. They were both dressed like something out of a designer fashion spread for men, trendy but elegant in their fitted suits. Lucien was wearing the same dark tie as the day we’d first seen each other, when he’d stepped out of the Avanti shadows—and my hottest fantasies—and into every sense I possessed.
Today, the effect was even more violent.
Today, he wasn’t just a fantasy anymore.
I knew exactly what it felt like to be beneath that long-limbed body. The tingles those long fingers could inspire on my face and skin. The heat they incited when he thrust them up into my sex…and how deeply his dark passion could drown me once they were ther.
Most of all, exactly how much I reveled in it.
God, I wanted it all back.
Damn, this had to work.
I waited as he said goodbye to his colleague, admiring the grace with which he leaned into their handshake. I’d first compared him to a demigod of Olympus and here he was, fulfilling that vision once more to the inch—only with more power than ever because it was paired with the man I now knew: the person who adored his parents, addressed waiters across the city by their first names, and had asked how I took my coffee just once in two weeks, because he’d remembered it perfectly thereafter. The guy who did things like slide secretive smiles down at his phone, as if the woman sending him the text on it could see him doing it. In this instance, he was in luck. And ohhhh yes, how I was too.
To: Lucien Paget
From: Juliette Darienne
Hi there, hot stuff.
To: Juliette Darienne
From: Lucien Paget
Bonjour, mon reve.
To: Lucien Paget
From: Juliette Darienne
What are you doing?
To: Juliette Darienne
From: Lucien Paget
Lunch appointment. They were supposed to send transportation. Waiting.
To: Lucien Paget
From: Juliette Darienne
Hmmm. Perhaps I can help.
I stifled a giggle while watching him succumb to a curious frown. Though my stomach was still a mosh pit of butterflies, they were excited ones now. Gigi was right. This surprise tactic could be kind of fun.
To: Juliette Darienne
From: Lucien Paget
I do not understand.
To: Lucien Paget
From: Juliette Darienne
Look up.
I lifted a hand. Waved shyly.
His jaw plummeted toward the road. Before he damn near sprinted across it.
The butterflies began a full-on dub step routine.
“Errrr…hi again,” I greeted.
He let the edges of his lips tug up. The expression was part gawking boy, part stunned man…one-hundred percent sexy.
“Lucien? Are you okay?”
His gaze sliced up and down my form like a starving man eyeing a steak. “I…I am…” He shook his head. Unfurled a low growl. “Fuck.”
I bit my lower lip. Ohhh yeah, just like a dumb-ass schoolgirl.
“Okaaay. Is that a good fuck or a bad fuck?” Like that helped my effort to be a sexy surprise here.
He stepped up onto the curb, all traces of his elegant strength gone. His moves were stiff jerks, his arms bent as if tethered back. “Chéri, there is no such thing as a bad fuck with you.”
I laughed. It couldn’t be helped—and it felt really, really good. Fortunately, he joined in as we rushed at each other, hugging like it had been years instead of days since we’d last done it. “Well, that’s damn good to hear.” My forced levity went to a good cause. I gained back some needed sass. Now I was able to hitch a hand to my waist and cock him a flirty smile. “Because I’m your lunch date.”
He rocked his head back so hard, the wind loosened his thick waves from their product, fanning them on the air. “Pardon?”
“Your lunch appointment,” I clarified. “With Cycling Escapes International, right?”
As the man impaled me with a nonplussed stare, I scooped one of his hands into mine. With a shockingly smooth step back, I swept my other arm back, motioning toward a pair of shiny vintage-style bicycles that I’d leaned against a low stone wall. Both machines were outfitted with paniers that hung off the back racks. A long baguette peeked out from one, a wine bottle from the other. “Bonjour. Nice to meet you. I’m here to take you on your ‘international cycling escape.’ But first, you’re hereby ordered to put that away.” I gestured to his phone. “Yvette has helped me out.” My mention of his assistant turned his scrutiny into a full-fledged gape. I basked in his delighted shock for a second before finishing with, “Your schedule is clear for the next two hours.”