Читать книгу From Paris With Love Collection - Кэрол Мортимер, Кэрол Мортимер - Страница 48
ОглавлениеDev had a breakfast meeting with his people, who’d flown in the night before. That gave Sarah the morning to herself. A shame, really, because the day promised glorious sunshine and much warmer temperatures. Perfect for strolling the Left Bank with that special someone.
Which is what most of Paris seemed to be doing, she saw after coffee and a croissant at her favorite patisserie. The sight of so many couples, young, old and in between, rekindled some of the raw emotions Dev had generated last night.
In the bright light of day, Sarah couldn’t believe she’d invited him to make love to her. Okay, she’d practically demanded it. Even now, as she meandered over the Pont de l’Archevêché, she felt her breasts tingle at the memory of his hands and mouth on them.
She stopped midway across the bridge. Pont de l’Archevêché translated to the Archbishop’s Bridge in English, most likely because it formed a main means of transit for the clerics of Notre Dame. The cathedral’s square towers rose on the right. Bookseller stalls and cafés crowded the broad avenue on the left. The Seine flowed dark and silky below. What intrigued her, though, were the padlocks of all shapes and sizes hooked through the bridge’s waist-high, iron-mesh scrollwork. Some locks had tags attached, some were decorated with bright ribbons, some included small charms.
She’d noticed other bridges sporting locks, although none as heavily adorned as this one. They’d puzzled her but she hadn’t really wondered about their significance. It became apparent a few moments after she spotted a pair of tourists purchasing a padlock from an enterprising lock seller at the far end of the bridge. The couple searched for an empty spot on the fancy grillwork to attach their purchase. Then they threw the key into the Seine and shared a long, passionate kiss.
When they walked off arm in arm, Sarah approached the lock seller. He was perched on an upturned wooden crate beside a pegboard displaying his wares. His hair sprouted like milky-white dandelion tufts from under his rusty-black beret. A cigarette hung from his lower lip.
“I’ve been away for a while,” she said in her fluent Parisian. “When did this business with the locks begin?”
“Three years? Five? Who can remember?” His shoulders lifted in the quintessential Gallic shrug. “At first the locks appeared only at night, and they would be cut off each day. Now they are everywhere.”
“So it seems.”
Mistaking her for a native, he winked and shared his personal opinion of his enterprise. “The tourists, they eat this silly stuff up. As if they can lock in the feelings they have right now, today, and throw away the key. We French know better, yes?”
His cigarette bobbed. His gestures grew extravagant as he expounded his philosophy.
“To love is to take risks. To be free, not caged. To walk away if what you feel brings hurt to you or to your lover. Who would stay, or want to stay, where there is pain?”
The question was obviously rhetorical, so Sarah merely spread her hands and answered with a shrug.
* * *
She was still thinking about the encounter when she met Madame Girault for lunch later that day. She related the lock seller’s philosophy to Elise, who belted out a raucous laugh that turned heads throughout the restaurant.
“My darling Sarah, I must beg to disagree!”
With her blond hair drawn into a tight bun that emphasized her high cheekbones and angular chin, Elise looked more like the Black Swan of her portrait. Her sly smile only heightened the resemblance.
“Locks and, yes, a little pain can add a delicious touch to an affair,” she said, her eyes dancing. “And speaking of which...”
Her mouth took a sardonic tilt as a dark-haired man some twenty-five or thirty years her junior rose from his table and approached theirs.
“Ah, Elise, only one woman in all Paris has a laugh like yours. How are you, my love?”
“Very well. And you, Henri? Are you still dancing attendance on that rich widow I saw you with at the theater?”
“Sadly, she returned to Argentina before I extracted full payment for services rendered.” His dark eyes drifted to Sarah. “But enough of such mundane matters. You must introduce me to your so-lovely companion.”
“No, I must not. She’s in Paris with her fiancé and has no need of your special skills.” Elise flapped a hand and shooed him off. “Be a good boy and go away.”
“If you insist...”
He gave a mocking half bow and returned to his table, only to sign the check and leave a few moments later. A fleeting look of regret crossed Elise’s face as he wove his way toward the exit. Sighing, she fingered her glass.
“He was so inventive in bed, that one. So very inventive. But always in need of money. When I tired of emptying my purse for him, he threatened to sell pictures of me in certain, shall we say, exotic positions.”
Sarah winced, but couldn’t say anything. Any mention of the paparazzi and sensational photographs struck too close to home.
“Jean-Jacques sent men to convince him that would not be wise,” Elise confided. “The poor boy was in a cast for weeks afterward.”
The offhand comment doused the enjoyment Sarah had taken in Elise’s company up to that point. Madame Girault’s concept of love suddenly seemed more tawdry than amusing. Deliberately, Sarah changed the subject.
“I wonder how the negotiations are going? Dev said he thought they were close to a deal.”
Clearly disinterested, Elise shrugged and snapped her fingers to summon their waiter.
* * *
Halfway across Paris, Dev had to force himself to focus on the columns of figures in the newly restructured agreement. It didn’t help that his seat at the conference table offered a panoramic view of the pedestrians-only esplanade and iconic Grande Arche that dominated Paris’s financial district. Workers by the hundreds were seated on the steps below the Grande Arche, their faces lifted to the sun while they enjoyed their lunch break.
One couple appeared to be enjoying more than the sun. Dev watched them share a touch, a laugh, a kiss. Abruptly, he pushed away from the table.
“Sorry,” he said to the dozen or so startled faces that turned in his direction. “I need to make a call.”
Jean-Jacques Girault scooted his chair away from the table, as well. “Let’s all take a break. We’ll reconvene in thirty minutes, yes? There’ll be a catered lunch waiting when we return.”
Dev barely waited for Girault to finish his little speech. The urge to talk to Sarah, to hear her voice, drove him through the maze of outer offices and into the elevator. A short while later he’d joined the throng on the steps below the Grande Arche.
It took him a moment to acknowledge the unfamiliar sensation that knifed through him as he dialed Sarah’s number. It wasn’t just the lust that had damned near choked him last night. It was that amorphous, indefinable feeling immortalized in so many sappy songs. Grimacing, he admitted the inescapable truth. He was in love, or close enough to it to make no difference.
Sarah answered on the second ring. “Hello, Dev. This must be mental telepathy. I was just talking about you.”
“You were, huh?”
“How are the negotiations going?”
“They’re going.”
The sound of her voice did something stupid to his insides. To his head, too. With barely a second thought, he abandoned Girault and company to the team of sharks he’d flown in last night.
“We’ve been crunching numbers all morning. I’m thinking of letting my people handle the afternoon session. What do you have planned?”
“Nothing special.”
“How about I meet you back at the hotel and we’ll do nothing special together?”
He didn’t intend to say what came next. Didn’t have any control over the words. They just happened.
“Or maybe,” he said, his voice going husky, “we can work on our next time.”
A long silence followed his suggestion. When it stretched for several seconds, Dev kicked himself for his lack of finesse. Then she came back with a low, breathless response that damned near stopped his heart.
“I’ll catch a cab and meet you at the hotel.”
* * *
Sarah snapped her phone shut and sent Madame Girault a glance that was only a shade apologetic. “That was Dev. I’m sorry, but I have to go.”
Elise looked startled for a moment. But only a moment. Then her face folded into envious lines.
“Go,” she ordered with a wave of one hand. “Paris is the city of love, after all. And I think yours, ma petite, is one that deserves a lock on the Archbishop’s Bridge.”
Sarah wanted to believe that was what sent her rushing out of the restaurant. Despite the lock seller’s philosophical musings, despite hearing the details of Elise’s sordid little affair, she wanted desperately to believe that what she felt for Dev could stand the test of time.
That hope took a temporary hit when she caught up with the dark-haired, dark-eyed Henri on the pavement outside of the restaurant. He’d just hailed a cab, but generously offered it to her instead.
Or not so generously. His offer to escort her to her hotel and fill her afternoon hours with unparalleled delight left an unpleasant taste in Sarah’s mouth. Unconsciously, she channeled Grandmama.
“I think not, monsieur.”
The haughty reply sent him back a pace. The blank surprise on his face allowed Sarah more than enough time to slide into the cab and tell the driver her destination. Then she slammed the door and forgot Henri, forgot Elise, forgot everything but the instant hunger Dev’s call had sparked in her.
She wrestled with that hunger all the way back to the hotel. Her cool, rational, practical-by-necessity self kept asserting that her arrangement with Dev Hunter was just that, an arrangement. A negotiated contract that would soon conclude. If she made love with him, as she desperately wanted to do, she’d simply be satisfying a short-term physical need while possibly setting herself up for long-term regrets.
The other side of her, the side she usually kept so sternly repressed, echoed Gina at her giddiest. Why not grab a little pleasure? Taste delight here, now, and let tomorrow take care of itself?
As was happening all too frequently with Dev, giddy and greedy vanquished cool and rational. By the time Sarah burst out of the elevator and headed down the hall toward her room, heat coursed through her, hot and urgent. The sight of Dev leaning against the wall beside the door to her room sent her body temperature soaring up another ten degrees.
“What took you so long?” he demanded.
Snatching the key card from her hand, he shoved it into the lock. Two seconds after the door opened, he had her against the entryway wall.
“I hope you had a good lunch. We won’t be coming up for food or drink anytime soon.”
The bruising kiss spiked every one of Sarah’s senses. She tasted him, drank in his scent, felt his hips slam hers against the wall.
He kicked the door shut. Or did she? She didn’t know, didn’t care. Dev’s hands were all over her at that point. Unbuttoning her blouse. Hiking up her skirt. Shoving down her bikini briefs.
Panting, greedy, wanting him so much she ached with it, she struggled out of her blouse. Kicked her shoes off and the panties free of her ankles. Hooked one leg around his thighs.
“Sarah.” It was a groan and a plea. “Let’s take this to the bedroom.”
Mere moments later she was naked and stretched out on the king-size bed. Her avid gaze devoured Dev as he stood beside the bed and shed his clothing.
She’d seen portions of him last night. Enough to confirm that he ranked much higher than number three on her personal top ten list. Those glimpses didn’t even begin to compare with the way he looked now with his black hair catching the afternoon light and his blue eyes fired with need. Every muscle in his long, lean body looked taut and eager. He was hard for her, and hungry, and so ready that Sarah almost yelped when he turned away.
“What are you doing?”
“Making sure you don’t regret this.”
Her dismay became a wave of relief when she saw him extract a condom from the wallet in his discarded pants. She wasn’t on the pill. She’d stopped months ago. Or was it years? Sarah couldn’t remember. She suspected her decision to quit birth control had a lot to do with the realization that taking care of Grandmama and keeping a roof over their heads were more important to her than casual sex.
Showed what she knew. There was nothing casual about this sex, however. The need for it, the gnawing hunger for it, consumed her.
No! Her mind screamed the denial even as she opened her arms to Dev. This wasn’t just sex. This wasn’t just raw need. This was so elemental. So...so French. Making love in the afternoon. With a man who filled her, physically, emotionally, every way that mattered.
His hips braced against hers. His knees pried hers apart. Eagerly, Sarah opened her legs and her arms and her heart to him. When he eased into her, she hooked her calves around his and rose up to meet his first, slow thrusts. Then the pace picked up. In. Out. In again.
Soon, too soon, dammit, her vaginal muscles began to quiver and her belly contracted. She tried to suppress the spasms. Tried to force her muscles to ease their greedy grip. She wanted to build to a steady peak, spin the pleasure as long as she could.
Her body refused to listen to her mind. The tight, spiraling sensation built to a wild crescendo. Panting, Sarah arched her neck. A moment later, she was flying, sailing, soaring. Dev surged into her, went taut and rode to the crest with her. Then he gave a strangled grunt and collapsed on top of her.
* * *
Sarah was still shuddering with the aftershocks when he whispered a French phrase into her ear. Her eyes flew open. Her jaw dropped.
“What did you say?”
He levered up on one elbow. A flush rode high in his cheeks and his blue eyes were still fever bright, but he managed a semicoherent reply.
“I was trying to tell you I adore you.”
Sarah started giggling and couldn’t stop. No easy feat with 180 plus pounds of naked male pinning her to the sheets.
A rueful grin sketched across Dev’s face. “Okay, what did I really say?”
“It sounded...it sounded...” Helpless with laughter, she gasped for breath. “It sounded like you want to hang an ornament on me.”
“Yeah, well, that, too.” His grin widening, he leaned down and dropped a kiss on her left breast. “Here. And here...”
He grazed her right breast, eased down to her belly.
“And here, and...”
“Dev!”
Pleasure rippled in waves across the flat plane of her stomach. She wouldn’t have believed she could become so aroused so fast. Particularly after that shattering orgasm. Dev, on the other hand, was lazy and loose and still flaccid.
“Don’t you need to, uh, take a little time to recharge?”
“I do.” His voice was muffled, his breath hot against her skin. “Doesn’t mean you have to. Unless you want to?”
He raised his head and must have seen the answer in her face. Waggling his brows, he lowered his head again. Sarah gasped again when his tongue found her now supersensitized center.
The climax hit this time without warning. She’d just reached up to grip the headboard and bent a knee to avoid a cramp when everything seemed to shrink to a single, white-hot nova. The next second, the star exploded. Pleasure pulsed through her body. Groaning, she let it flow before it slowly, exquisitely ebbed.
* * *
When she opened her eyes again, Dev looked smug and pretty damn pleased with himself. With good reason, she thought, drifting on the last eddies. She sincerely hoped he still needed some time to recharge. She certainly did!
To her relief, he stretched out beside her and seemed content to just laze. She nestled her head on his arm and let her thoughts drift back to his mangled French. He said he’d been trying to tell her that he adored her. What did that mean, exactly?
She was trying to find a way to reintroduce the subject when the phone buzzed. His this time, not hers. With a muffled grunt, Dev reached across her and checked his phone’s display.
“Sorry,” he said with a grimace. “I told them not to call unless they were about to slam up against our own version of a fiscal cliff. I’d better take this.”
“Go ahead. I’ll hit the bathroom.”
She scooped up the handiest article of clothing, which happened to be Dev’s shirt, and padded into the bathroom. The tiles felt cool and smooth against her bare feet. The apparition that appeared in the gilt-edged mirrors made her gasp.
“Good grief!”
Her hair could have provided a home for an entire flock of sparrows. Whatever makeup she’d started out with this morning had long since disappeared. She was also sporting one whisker burn on her chin and another on her neck. Shuddering at the thought of what Elise Girault would say if she saw the telltale marks, Sarah ran the taps and splashed cold water on her face and throat.
That done, she eyed the bidet. So practical for Europeans, so awkward for most Americans. Practical won hands down in this instance. Clean and refreshed, Sarah reentered the bedroom just as Dev was zipping up his pants.
“Uh-oh. Looks like your negotiators ran into that cliff.”
“Ran into it, hell. According to my chief of production, they soared right over the damned thing and are now in a free fall.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
Detouring to her closet, she exchanged Dev’s shirt for the thigh-length, peony-decorated silk robe Gina had given her for her birthday last year.
“It’s all part of the game,” he said as she handed him back his shirt. “Girault’s just a little better at it than I gave him credit for.”
The comment tripped a reminder of Elise’s disclosures at lunch. Sarah debated for a moment over whether she should share them with Dev, then decided he needed to know the kind of man he would be doing business with.
“Elise said something today about her husband that surprised me.”
Dev looked up from buttoning his shirt. “What was that?”
“Supposedly, Jean-Jacques sent some goons to rough up one of her former lovers. The guy had threatened to sell pictures of her to the tabloids.”
“Interesting. I would have thought Girault man enough to do the job himself. I certainly would have.” He scooped up his tie and jacket and gave her a quick kiss. “I’ll call as soon as I have a fix on when we’ll break for dinner.”
Sarah nodded, but his careless remark about going after Elise’s lover for trying to sell pictures of her had struck home. The comment underscored his contempt for certain members of her profession. How much would it take, she wondered uneasily, for him to lump her in with the sleaziest among them?
