Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [83]
“I’m sure,” Michael said.
Anne’s eyes crinkled as she smiled into the sun. Her streaked hair had grown since Michael had known her. It curled softly around her ears. “She was the sexiest one in Three Women of the Marais,” Anne said. “I always have fun writing about her. Let me tell you a story …”
Michael turned away, to stare at the hole in the trees. His romance with Anne felt like homework. He had begun to be diligent about it: see her at work, sleep with her now and then, talk dirty to her, take her to dinner. What had been breathtaking as fantasy was boring, even oppressive, as reality.
The truth was he loved Lydie.
But could he say he was still in love with her? “In love,” he had learned during his time away from her, covered more than a state of long-term commitment. It covered more than gentle contentment. Michael still wanted passion and lust, and he had learned that he wanted them with his wife.
“Chéri,” Anne said. “Why aren’t you listening?”
“I’m a little distracted,” Michael admitted.
“The separation has been hard for you. I have seen that.”
“Yeah.” Michael, who had told Anne about leaving Lydie one night when he had really needed comfort, hated to talk about it. He saw how happy it made Anne. Then he felt guilty for leading her on. Was he using her? He didn’t exactly know what she wanted from their relationship, but he had some idea. The last night he had stayed at her apartment, she had whispered that she loved him.
“It is always like that,” Anne said. “No matter how bad the problems are, it is always hard to leave a person you once loved. My friend Jean called me last night, and ah!”
“He’s back from Brittany?” Michael asked. He wondered where Lydie was now. Probably shopping for props in the rue de Rivoli. Didier’s ball was just two weeks off.
“Yes. Of course he claims to have been miserable there without me. I adore Bretagne.”
“Do you wish you had gone?” Michael asked, hoping for her to say yes.
“Not with Jean. With you, perhaps. Yes, I think I would see a different Michel in Bretagne.” She giggled. “Maybe next year. When the critics review your construction, they will never allow you to leave France.”
“I leave in six weeks,” Michael said.
“We shall see when the time comes.”
Michael planned his meeting with Lydie carefully. He would show up at the apartment, unannounced, so she would not have the opportunity to decline. If she refused to let him in, he would use his key.
Climbing the stairs to his floor, he felt as nervous as a boy on a date, or a slasher. The key in his hand felt like a weapon. He rang the doorbell.
“Who is it?” came Lydie’s voice.
“Me.”
She opened the door instantly, surprising Michael. Seeing her face-to-face for the first time in—how long? Days? Weeks? He noticed her pallor, normal for Lydie in the middle of winter, but not the end of summer. A black velvet headband held back her burnished hair. She wore the dangling gold earrings their friend Holly had brought her from Egypt. But to counteract the elegance of her headgear, she wore a baggy T-shirt over jeans.
“Can I come in?” he asked.
She stepped aside, glaring, saying nothing. He wasn’t used to seeing her wild, out of control. The look in her eyes alarmed him. He thought that look was the last thing you’d see in the forest as the panther tore your throat.
It felt strange and good to be back in his apartment. Michael looked around the living room, saw nothing had changed. Lydie stood behind him, her back against the door; he wondered whether he should wait for her to invite him to sit down or to just take his regular chair.
“I want to talk to you,” he said.
“I want to kill you,” she said, and Michael flashed, not to the panther, but to Neil Fallon.
“Lydie—” he said, stepping toward her.
She held out one hand, like a traffic cop. He stopped dead.
“You saw me in the park?” he asked. Maybe she nodded; he couldn’t quite tell. “Can we straighten this out? Do you want me to tell you about it?”
“Go to confession if you want to