The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [16]
He watched her, his expression hungry.
She pressed her lips against the pulse thrumming in his neck. “I want your Paris.”
He pulled her onto him as he fumbled with his shirt buttons with one hand. Peeling open his shirt, she ran her hands down his stomach, her fingers sliding beneath his waistband.
Keeping her tone low and sweet she spoke again. “I’m not leaving. You understand, don’t you, darling?”
He reached for the buttons on his pants. She blocked his hands. “Don’t you, Laurent?”
A low groan as he sat up. “I want you, naturellement, with me. But these are not good days. Grey’s people can get you back to New York. Go back to your life, until . . .” He shrugged and reached for her.
Until it’s convenient for you, Claire thought, silently cursing. Her fresh start was about to dry up if she didn’t somehow raise the stakes. She forced a smile. “Naturellement, I’ve enjoyed our time together, Laurent darling. But what makes you think I would stay with you?”
He said nothing, eyes drinking in her exposed body. Lips pursed, he raised his hands, palm up, in an exaggerated shrug. “You know nothing of Paris. Where else would you go, ma chérie?”
Her face flushed. A helpless American woman, he assumed, to be kept, pleasured and, yes, bled of some of her fictitious money. She pushed off him to her feet. “You underestimate me, Monsieur. I will stay in Paris. But not with you.”
Doubt marked his face.
She pressed her fingers against his lips. “A shame. We would have enjoyed each other.” She turned on her heel and marched from the room. Jerking on her clothes, she scooped her things in a jumble against her chest.
Laurent caught her at the front door. “You cannot go alone. It’s too dangerous.”
Claire glared straight into his eyes. “Laurent, step aside.”
“No. I won’t let you.”
“Very well.” She kicked him in the shin.
“Merde.” He gasped and grabbed his leg with both hands.
Laurent didn’t move as she stomped around him, down the stairs and out into the afternoon sun. Randomly picking right over left, she strode down the street, blood pounding.
As she turned onto the next block, a cool current of thought trickled through her anger, stopping her in her tracks. Alive. The word bubbled up in her head. She felt so damn alive.
Two women walked their bikes along the sidewalk behind her. Their laughter echoed off the bricks and fluttered like birds. Laurent said there was something about this city. She was starting to think that in this regard, he hadn’t lied. She felt alive for the first time she could remember. The barest smile. And she’d left him wondering. She left him wanting.
Give it a week, maybe two. A surprise meeting on the street, at the Ritz, she’d be in a new dress, a man on her arm. Yes, Jean-Luc has been so kind introducing me to all the delights of Paris, she’d say in a way that meant so much more. Laurent would beg her to come back. And damn that Englishman—she just might.
She pulled back her shoulders and, chin up, continued down the sidewalk.
Claire wandered for hours through the streets until her stomach growled and her body ached. She paused as she stepped onto a grand avenue. The last sliver of sun outlined a giant stone arch, squared at the top, streets radiating from all sides.
The Arc de Triomphe. Claire trudged toward the arch, her gaze on the buildings around her. This was the Champs-Elysées. The only Parisian avenue she knew of, home of the most luxurious stores in the world. But tonight, the wide sidewalks were empty, windows dim.
She turned onto a small street, a slender channel between tall brick buildings on each side. A quaint neighborhood, as if from a postcard, picturesque shops amidst apartment buildings. A tailor, a grocer, a baker, a café, all closed, and an elegant little flower shop.
Claire paused in front of the flower shop. La Vie en Fleurs was printed in white flowing script on a large blue canvas awning stretched over the front door. The building