Читать книгу One Kiss in... Paris - Robyn Grady - Страница 18

Although the morning was far too fresh to leave the top down, Mateo arranged a late model French convertible for the road trip.

From Bailey’s wide-eyed expression as they cruised beyond the city limits, she was in thrall of the unfolding country scenes … roads lined with trees whose leaves had been kissed with the russets and reds of autumn and far-reaching vineyards busy with the business of harvest. She marveled at the colombage houses with their geometric half-timber patterns. Mateo had obliged when she’d begged to stop at a rustic farmhouse with a leaded-glass feature that highlighted a coat-of-arms on the lintel above.

And there was so much more ahead of them.

He didn’t dwell on the niggling doubts that had surfaced since she’d accepted his invitation to join him on this trip, although at times he had found himself wondering if he’d acted too quickly—whether he was a fool believing Bailey was cut from a different cloth than Linda. But they were here now, and he intended for them both to make the most of it.

“After we visit the children,” Mateo said, stepping on the gas, “we’ll go back to Paris and spend a couple of days. Longer if you want.”

“Two days will be wonderful,” Bailey said, focused on a tractor trundling over a patchwork of fields. “I told Natalie I’d be back on deck by next Monday.”

“She won’t mind—”

“I know she wouldn’t,” Bailey said, looking over at him, “but I’ve taken up enough slack. Natalie was good enough to offer me a job. I need to step up to the plate.”

Changing down gears to take a bend, Mateo was deep in thought. That Natalie had offered Bailey a job didn’t bother him in the least. What did rankle was the fact that she scrubbed floors to pay back money he would never miss. After the time they’d spent together, the intimate moments they’d shared, if he didn’t know that she’d argue, he’d tell her to forget the debt. He’d much rather set her up in an apartment and, if she followed through with the idea, finance her way through university, like Ernesto had done for him.

Of course he’d be clear that any arrangement would not include a marriage proposal. From what she’d told him of her experience with Emilio Conti, she’d be glad of the clarification. She’d had one close call. She wouldn’t be looking forward to the sound of wedding bells.

That made two of them. He liked children but he did not want the responsibility of bringing his own into this world. Life was too uncertain. No one could convince him otherwise.

They reached the town by eleven. Five minutes later, the convertible made its way up the long dirt ruts that led to the Ville Laube Chapelle, a fine example of early French architecture which had been restored over time and transformed into a children’s home last century. Bailey sighed, taking in the hundred-foot steeple and angels carrying the instruments of Passion adorning the ornamental gables. Unpolished strong buttresses contrasted with the intricate foliage friezes and elevated stained-glass windows that captured then speared back the sun’s late morning light.

Mateo’s throat thickened enough he had to clear it. So many years on and still, whenever this scene greeted him, he was six again … feeling uncertain again.

As they parked and slid out from the car, a girl with short-cropped, blond hair, standing beneath the enormous oak Mateo remembered, gawped, dropped her skipping rope and raced inside. A moment later, children poured out through opened double doors that near reached the sky. Eager women, alternatively clapping hands to order the scattered children and patting down their dresses, followed. One lady, with chestnut hair that bounced on the shoulders of her yellow blouse, hurried to line the children up in the yard. Madame Nichole Garnier, Mateo’s contact and current director of the orphanage.

Many girls held bouquets, flowers plucked from the home’s gardens or nearby meadow. Every boy had their shoulders pinned back. When the assembly was reasonably quiet, beaming, Madame Garnier swept up to greet her guests.

“Monsieur Celeca, it is wonderful to see you again,” she said in French. Light green eyes sparkled as she came forward and kissed him, first on one cheek then the other. She turned to Bailey. “And you’ve brought a friend.”

“Madame Nichole Garnier.” Mateo spoke in English, knowing Madame would follow suit. “This is Bailey Ross.”

“Mademoiselle Ross.”

“Call me Bailey.”

Madame held one of Bailey’s hands between the palms of her own. “And you must call me Nichole. I’m very happy you are here.” Smiling, Madame held Bailey’s gaze a moment longer before releasing her hand and speaking again with Mateo. “The children have been eager for your arrival.” She pivoted around and beckoned a boy standing at the middle front of the group: six or seven years of age, dark hair and chocolate brown eyes fringed with thick lashes.

Mateo’s chest swelled as he smiled.

Remy.

After Remy strode forward then pulled up before them, Nichole placed her hand on the boy’s crown. “You remember Remy, Monsieur.”

Mateo hunkered down. He’d hoped that, since last time, someone might have seen the same special qualities and warmth he saw in this child. He’d hoped that Remy would have found two people who would love and adopt him. Still, in another sense, he’d looked forward to seeing him again. From the boy’s ear to ear grin, Remy hadn’t forgotten him either.

“Bonjour, Remy,” Mateo said.

The boy’s mop of hair flopped over his eyes as he smiled and nodded several times. Then, without invitation, Remy reached and took Mateo’s hand and Mateo’s heart melted more as he was dragged off. He hated whenever he left, but he really ought to come more often.

Bailey looked on, feeling the connection, subtle yet at the same time unerringly strong. These two—Mateo and Remy—had a history. An ongoing solid relationship. When Natalie had suggested Mateo might bring home a child, was she speaking of anyone in particular? Did the Ramirezes know about this boy?

His little hand folded in a much larger one, Remy drew Mateo nearer the other children, still lined up and standing straight as pins. Bailey fogged up watching the girls hand over their flowers and the boys beam as they shook their benefactor’s hand.

Exhaling happily, Nichole folded her arms.

“We so look forward to his visits.”

“How long has Mateo been coming back?”

“This will make eight years. Two years ago he helped with dormitory renovations. Last year he sponsored the installation of a computer network and fifty stations. This year I’d hoped to discuss excursions. Perhaps, even an extended stay in Paris for the older ones.”

Bailey was certain he’d like that idea.

Her gaze ran over the remarkable building that looked something like a smaller version of Notre Dame, without the gargoyles. How many stories those walls must hold.

“Has this place changed much since Mateo’s time?” Bailey asked.

“The structure has been renovated many times over the centuries. Some of the furniture and facilities will have been upgraded since Mateo’s time, much of it via his own pocket.”

Bailey studied the children again, well dressed, obviously well fed, not a one looking discontent. The word orphanage brought up such Dickensian images … never enough food, never enough care or love. But Bailey didn’t feel that here. She only felt hope and commitment.

When Mateo had greeted each child, Remy still stood beside him, a mini-me shadow.

“Remy seems quite attached to Mateo,” Bailey pointed out.

“I think Mateo is quite attached to him.” But then Nichole rubbed her arms as if she were suddenly cold. “Remy lost his mother when he was three,” she confided in a lowered voice. “His father dropped him here saying he would return when he could. Four years on …” She shrugged.

No sign of him.

Bailey’s chest tightened. At least she’d had her mother until she was fourteen. Had a father too, although he’d been emotionally absent these later years. But looking at that little boy.

Bailey angled her head. “Remy seems happy enough. Lively.”

Was it because he was too young to fully understand there was another way to live … with a family, a mother and father?

“He’s a joy.” Then Nichole hesitated. “Although he doesn’t speak often. There’s nothing wrong with his hearing. Seems he simply doesn’t care to talk most of the time.” Her expression softened. “But he and Mateo have a relationship that extends beyond words.”

A thought struck and Bailey’s smile wavered. “Do you think Remy’s father will ever come back for him?”

“I can only say Remy will always have a home here if he doesn’t.”

Nichole Garnier meant it as a comfort but Bailey heard a dirge rather than a choir. From the little she’d seen, this establishment was well run, with genuine carers who were dedicated to their work. Still, any comprehending child would rather be with his parents in a real home if there were any way, even if that father had once abandoned him … wouldn’t he?

Hand cupped to his mouth, Mateo called out.

“Bailey, the girls want to meet you. The boys too.”

Laughing, Mateo ruffled Remy’s hair and Bailey and Nichole moved forward.

“Have you known Mateo long?” Nichole asked as they walked together and bands of birds warbled nearby.

“Not very.”

“He’s a good man.”

Bailey grinned. “I keep hearing that.” She’d even said it herself.

“He gives others so much joy. He deserves every happiness.”

Bailey heard the tone in Nichole’s voice … the suggestion theirs might be a relationship that could bloom into love and marriage. Perhaps she ought to set the older woman straight. She and Mateo might be lovers, but that didn’t translate into anything permanent. He didn’t want anything permanent.

As they met again and Mateo took her hand and introduced her, Bailey reaffirmed to herself—right now, she didn’t want permanent either.

After the children dispersed, Nichole Garnier showed them around the buildings and grounds.

Although the kitchen facilities, plumbing and sleeping quarters were all twenty-first century, the exterior was undoubtedly restored medieval; and the interior, including the lower chapel, retained much of its original decoration, including intricate paintings. Having grown up in a young country like Australia, Bailey was in awe of the sense of history these children were surrounded by every day. The hallowed atmosphere made her feel insignificant, humbled, and at the same time part of the very heart of this sacred place, as if she, herself, might have strolled these soaring halls in a former time.

They enjoyed a lunch of soupe a l’oignon and quiche aux legumes after which the children sang for their adult audience. Although she understood little, Bailey couldn’t remember a performance she’d enjoyed more. At the concert’s close, she and Mateo provided a standing ovation while the children all bowed and grinned.

Mateo had a meeting with Nichole in the afternoon, so Bailey spent time with the children playing escargot—a French version of hopscotch—and le loup and cache-cache, or hide and seek. One little girl, Clairdy, stole her heart. Only five, Clairdy had white blond hair and the prettiest violet colored eyes. She never stopped chatting and singing and pirouetting. By the end of the afternoon, Bailey’s stomach ached from laughing and her palms were pink from applauding.

For dinner they gathered in the dining hall. When Nichole said a prayer before the meal, Bailey’s awareness of her surroundings swelled again and, from beneath lowered lashes, she studied her company, particularly the man seated beside her. How amazing if she could see all the world with Mateo. Even more incredible if, in between, they could stay here together in France.

Bailey bowed her head and laughed at herself.

If fairy tales came true …

After the meal, she and Mateo said good-night to the children, Madame Garnier and the others, saying they would be back the next day, then slipped outside and back into the convertible. As they drove down those same dirt ruts, Bailey searched her brain. At no time had Mateo discussed where they would be staying.

“Have you booked a room in town?” She asked, rubbing her gloved hands, relishing the car’s heat.

“I own a property nearby.”

“Well, it can’t be the Palace of Versailles,” she joked, thinking of his three story mansion in Sydney. But he didn’t comment, merely smiled ahead at the country road, shrouded in shadows, stretching out ahead.

Within minutes, Mateo pulled up in front of a farmhouse, similar to the one they’d stopped to study earlier that day. With the car’s headlights illuminating the modest stone facade, Bailey did a double take. No immaculate grounds. No ornate trimmings. This dwelling was a complete turnaround from Mateo’s regular taste.

As Mateo opened her car door and, offering a hand, assisted her out, Bailey slowly shook her head, knocked off balance.

“We’re staying here?”

“You don’t like it?” he asked, as he collected their bags.

“It’s not that. In fact …” Entranced, she moved closer. “I think it’s wonderful.” She had only one question. “Does it have electricity?”

“And if it didn’t?”

“Then it must have a fireplace.”

“It does, indeed.” His smile glowed beneath a night filled with stars as they walked to the door.

“In the bedroom?” she asked, imagining the romantic scene.

“Uh-huh.”

She studied his profile, so regal and strong. “You never stop surprising me.”

At the door, he snatched a kiss. “Then we’re even.”

A light flicked on as they moved inside and unwound from their coats. The room smelled of lavender and was clean—he must have had someone come in to tidy up—with a three seater settee, a plain, square wooden table and two rattan backed chairs. Bailey’s sweeping gaze hooked on the far wall and she let out a laugh.

“There’s a fireplace in here too.”

He’d disappeared into a connected room, reemerging now minus their bags. Crossing over, he stopped long enough to brush his lips over hers before continuing on and finding matches on the mantel.

“Let’s get you warmed up.”

Feeling warmer already, she unraveled the scarf from around her neck while taking in the faded tapestries on the walls as well as the flagstone floor, hard and solid beneath her feet. Feeling as if she’d stepped into another dimension—another time—she fell back into the settee and heeled off her shoes.

“How long have you owned this place?”

“I stayed here the first year,” he said, hunkering down before the fireplace. “I came back and bought it soon after.”

She hesitated unbuttoning her outer shirt. “Eight years ago?”

He’d struck a match. His perplexed expression danced in the flickering shadow and light as he swung his gaze her way.

“Why so surprised?”

“Why haven’t you pulled it down and built something more your style?”

When his brows pinched more than before he turned and set the flame to the tinder, Bailey’s stomach muscles clenched. She wasn’t certain why, but clearly she’d insulted him. He was all about working hard to surround himself with fine things. Possessions that in some way made up for being cast off with nothing as a child. She’d have thought that here, next door to the heart of those memories, his need for material reassurance would be greatest. It was obvious from Madame’s testimony and the well-equipped state of the orphanage that Mateo wanted those children to benefit from pleasant surroundings.

Still, whatever she’d said, she didn’t want it to overshadow the previous mood.

“I’m sorry,” she said, curling her chilled feet up beneath her legs.

“No need to be,” he replied, throwing the spent match on the pyre. “You’re right.”

Finding a poker, he prodded until the flames were established and the heat had grown.

“I had planned to build something larger,” he said, strolling back toward her. “But after I spent a few nights under this roof, I found I didn’t want to change a thing. In some ways I feel more at home here than I do in Sydney.”

Not so odd, Bailey thought as he settled down beside her. Roots and their memories run deep.

His gaze lowered to her hands. Holding up her wrist, he smiled. “Do you know you play with this bracelet whenever you’re uncertain?”

Studying the gold links and charms—a teddy bear, a heart, a rainbow—she shrugged. “I didn’t know, but I guess it makes sense.”

He rotated her wrist so that the flames caught on the gold and sent uneven beams bouncing all over the room. Bailey moved closer. The heat of his hand on her skin was enough to send some of her own sparks flying.

“I’ve never seen you with it off your arm,” he said.

“My mother put it together for me. A charm for each birthday.”

Lowering her wrist, he searched her eyes.

“Until you were fourteen?” he said. Until the year your mother died.

“I knew about the bracelet all those years before. It was supposed to be my sweet-sixteen gift. But then Dad refused to give it to me, so …”

“You took it anyway?”

“No. This bracelet belonged to me but I would never have taken it without my father’s consent. When my sixteenth birthday came and went, I begged for him to give it to me. It was a connection … a link to my mother that I’d waited for all that time. He said he wasn’t certain I could look after it, but he didn’t have the right to keep it from me.”

“He gave it to you in the end.”

“He never really spoke to me again after that.”

“Sounds as if you both miss her very much. You’d have a lot of memories you could share.”

She huffed. “You tell him that.”

“Why don’t you?”

“He wouldn’t listen.”

“You’ve tried?”

“Too many times.”

He sat back, absorbed in the crackling fire. After a time, he said, “I’d give anything to speak with my biological father.”

“What would you say?”

He thought for a long moment and then his eyes narrowed.

“I’d ask him why. But I’ll never have the opportunity.” He found her gaze again. “What would you say to your father if you could?”

She pondered the question as she never had before.

“I guess I’d ask why too.”

“One day you’ll have your answer.”

When she shivered he wrapped his arms around her, bringing her close to the comfort of his natural warmth. His breath stirred her hair.

“Is that better?”

Looking up into his eyes, she spoke from her heart. “Everything’s always better when you hold me.”

When his brow furrowed, Bailey shrank into herself. Despite the atmosphere, she’d said too much. Not that her words were a lie. She’d never meant anything more in her life. She felt safe, protected, in his arms. But the way that admission had come out …

Too heavy. She’d bet that kind of “I can’t live without you” talk had got a number of his previous love interests gently bumped away. But it wasn’t too late to reshape her confession, to season it with the tone they were both more than comfortable with.

Pressing closer, she skimmed her lips across his sandpaper jaw, then hummed over the full soft sweep of his mouth. “On second thought, I think I need to have you hold me a little closer.”

She felt his smile, heard the rumble of approval vibrate through his chest.

“But there’s something stopping that,” he murmured as his palm cupped her nape and she nuzzled down to find a hot pulse throbbing in his neck.

“What’s that?”

“Clothes.”

Delicious heat flushed through her. They’d made love so many times these past weeks, she’d lost count. But something about his voice, his touch, tonight went beyond anything that had come before. Every cell in her body quivered and let her know … whatever they shared would never get any better than this.

But this time she wanted to be the one to lead … to tease and control and drive the other insane with want.

She lifted her face to his and let his lips touch hers before she slid away from his hold and stood in the firelight before him.

“You build a good fire,” she said.

He sat straighter. “You’re warm now?”

“Beyond warm.”

She caught the hem of her lighter shirt and drew it up over her head. The heat of the flames kissed her bare back while Mateo’s intent gaze scorched her front. Her heartbeat thudding, she reached around and released her bra and let the cups fall from her breasts to the soft-pile rug at her feet. When he tipped forward, her flesh tingled and nipples hardened beneath his gaze.

She could see in his eyes that he wanted to drag her to him … wanted to kiss and taste her as much as she wanted to devour him too. But she didn’t go to him. Instead she recalled how he’d entered the hotel suite bathroom the night before, without a stitch on, ready to stroke and tease.

She first released the clasp above the zip of her dress pants then eased the fabric past her hips, down her thighs. As the pants came down, she leaned over, nearer to where he sat and waited. Close enough for him to reach out and touch. When she straightened, only one item of clothing separated her from her birthday suit.

His breathing was elevated now, his chest beneath that black shirt rising and falling in the firelight. She recognized the fiery intent in his gaze. How long would he go before hauling her in?

She edged a step closer and a muscle in his jaw began to jump. When she reached for his hand and set his hot palm low on her belly, he came forward and traced his warm mouth over her ribs. Trembling inside, she drew his hand down over the triangle of silk at the apex of her thighs then slowly, purposefully, back up again. His kisses ran higher, brushing the burning tip of one breast as his touch trailed and fingers twined around the elastic of her panties sitting high on her hips.

Groaning, he nipped her nipple at the same time he dragged the scrap of silk down.

Time melted away when his head lowered and his mouth grazed what a second before her panties had concealed … tenderly and then deeply as he cupped her behind and urged her ever closer. She didn’t resist when he lifted her left leg and curled her calf over his broad shoulder. She only knotted her fingers in his hair as he continued to explore, his tongue flicking and twirling at the same time the heat at her core kindled, sparked and caught light.

A heartbeat from flashpoint, she recalled she hadn’t wanted to surrender to these burning sensations this soon. Now it was too late. This felt—he felt—too good to stop.

As she was sucked into that void, all her muscles locked, the fire raged and, dropping back her head, she gave herself over to the tide and murmured his name.

She was barely aware of being lowered down upon that soft pile rug or Mateo’s hard frame lowering on top of her. As the waves began to ease and, sighing, she opened her eyes, she found the wherewithal to smile. He hadn’t taken the time to take off even his shirt before he thrust in and entered her, filling her in every sense while whispering French and Italian endearments in her ear.

Her legs twined around the back of his thighs as her palms grazed up the hot, hard plate of his chest. He began to move, long measured strokes that built on that fire again. Each thrust seemed to nudge precisely the right spot as his lips sipped lightly from her brow, her cheek. When he drove in suddenly hard and fast, she gripped his head and pulled his mouth to hers. His tongue probed as his body tensed and burned above her. Then she felt the warm touch of his palm sculpting over her breast, the pad of his thumb circling the nipple before he rolled the bead and she gasped as a bright-tipped thrill ripped through her.

His mouth left hers as he levered up. Amid the flickering shadows she could see his muscles glistening and working as his hips ground against hers. She trailed her fingertips down the ruts of his abdomen. Then, scooping them lower, she fanned his damp belly before she gripped his hips, closed her eyes and moved with him, feeling the inferno growing, wishing this sensation would never end.

When he groaned and stiffened above her—when he thrust another time and never more deeply—she reached, held on to his neck and joined him, leaping off that glorious ledge again.