lying beneath. Their skirts flow like silk as they walk. And it’s not
like home. Nobody under the age of forty is fat. Not even plump. I’m going on
a diet soon as my feet hit American soil. But not yet.
By the time I’d got to the top of the steps
of the Sacre Coeur I didn’t feel like going inside the church. Instead I just
looked at the city unfolding below. I imagined all the heated conversations
going on behind closed doors and all the love making that was taking place below.
A little electric shock flickered through my stomach as I imagined that,
followed by pangs of hunger.
The smells of aromatic tobacco smoke,
frying butter, musty wine and seafood teased my appetite.
I wandered through the square with my mouth
watering.
The place was packed with easels and
artists and tourists just like me.
Everyone was taking their time, no matter
what they were doing.
The cafes were filling up for service and I
checked them all out until I found a price to fit my budget.
As soon as I sat, the waiter arrived.
He had on a maroon waistcoat with an old,
leather money belt around his hips.
“Madame?”
The way the word rolled from his tongue
made me want to join the lovers of the city. I squeezed my knees together and
ordered a glass of Sancerre.
When he turned to go to get the order, I
must have dropped my bag because there was a man looking up at me holding it
out to me.
“Maybe I think this is yours.”
Oh my God.
He was gorgeous.
His hair was long and midnight black. It
was pulled tight to his head and was tied back into a ponytail.
His brown eyes shone like pebbles against
his perfectly tanned skin and the open buttons of his shirt revealed a chest
that was covered in rugged curls of hair.
I can’t have said anything because he was
talking again.
“I think you may have dropped your bag.”
The lilt of a soft French accent softened the deep tones of his voice.
“Yes. Yes it’s mine.”
He handed the bag over and I took it, then
he pulled back the chair opposite me and gestured towards it. “Would you mind
if I joined you?”
Mind? A sexy Frenchman in Montmartre
wanting to sit with me? Hell no.
And that was the beginning of the most
wonderful holiday of my life. The most wonderful week I’m ever likely to live.
We shared a dinner of mussels cooked.
Nibbled our way through cheeses. Sipped through two bottles of the crisp, cool
Sancerre until the world seemed to roll back in time.
As the waiter went to pick up our bill, the
man reached out to me.
I felt his strong, warm fingers at my
throat as he lifted the necklace from my skin.
“Your jewellery is wonderful. Are they
real?”
I hadn’t worn my pearl necklace for a long
time. Not since Errol died. I don’t know why I’d even put it in the suitcase,
but there I was in Paris with a man admiring them from across a table.
“Do you know, I’m not actually sure.” Of
course they probably were. Errol wasn’t in the habit of buying anything but
the best.
“There’s an easy way to tell. May I?” He
lifted my hair and reached behind me with both hands. If I hadn’t known better,
I might have been worried that he was going to strangle me. Or steal my
jewels.
As he unclasped the necklace his chest came
close to mine. I wanted to bury my face in that forest of hair. Wanted to keep
that raw, masculine scent of his in my nostrils for as long as I could manage.
The moment was over far too quickly and he had the necklace in his hand.
“If you rub the pearls against your teeth,
you can tell. Like this.” He opened his mouth and I could see the perfect
softness of his moist tongue hiding. I wanted it on me. Imagined it caressing
me. Crossed my legs tight to stop the buzz between my legs.
He rubbed the pearls on the top of his
slightly crooked teeth.
“See. It’s easy. You try.”
He gestured and I leaned forward.
He held out the necklace and I parted my
lips. The moment was tender and I was worried he might
like home. Nobody under the age of forty is fat. Not even plump. I’m going on
a diet soon as my feet hit American soil. But not yet.
By the time I’d got to the top of the steps
of the Sacre Coeur I didn’t feel like going inside the church. Instead I just
looked at the city unfolding below. I imagined all the heated conversations
going on behind closed doors and all the love making that was taking place below.
A little electric shock flickered through my stomach as I imagined that,
followed by pangs of hunger.
The smells of aromatic tobacco smoke,
frying butter, musty wine and seafood teased my appetite.
I wandered through the square with my mouth
watering.
The place was packed with easels and
artists and tourists just like me.
Everyone was taking their time, no matter
what they were doing.
The cafes were filling up for service and I
checked them all out until I found a price to fit my budget.
As soon as I sat, the waiter arrived.
He had on a maroon waistcoat with an old,
leather money belt around his hips.
“Madame?”
The way the word rolled from his tongue
made me want to join the lovers of the city. I squeezed my knees together and
ordered a glass of Sancerre.
When he turned to go to get the order, I
must have dropped my bag because there was a man looking up at me holding it
out to me.
“Maybe I think this is yours.”
Oh my God.
He was gorgeous.
His hair was long and midnight black. It
was pulled tight to his head and was tied back into a ponytail.
His brown eyes shone like pebbles against
his perfectly tanned skin and the open buttons of his shirt revealed a chest
that was covered in rugged curls of hair.
I can’t have said anything because he was
talking again.
“I think you may have dropped your bag.”
The lilt of a soft French accent softened the deep tones of his voice.
“Yes. Yes it’s mine.”
He handed the bag over and I took it, then
he pulled back the chair opposite me and gestured towards it. “Would you mind
if I joined you?”
Mind? A sexy Frenchman in Montmartre
wanting to sit with me? Hell no.
And that was the beginning of the most
wonderful holiday of my life. The most wonderful week I’m ever likely to live.
We shared a dinner of mussels cooked.
Nibbled our way through cheeses. Sipped through two bottles of the crisp, cool
Sancerre until the world seemed to roll back in time.
As the waiter went to pick up our bill, the
man reached out to me.
I felt his strong, warm fingers at my
throat as he lifted the necklace from my skin.
“Your jewellery is wonderful. Are they
real?”
I hadn’t worn my pearl necklace for a long
time. Not since Errol died. I don’t know why I’d even put it in the suitcase,
but there I was in Paris with a man admiring them from across a table.
“Do you know, I’m not actually sure.” Of
course they probably were. Errol wasn’t in the habit of buying anything but
the best.
“There’s an easy way to tell. May I?” He
lifted my hair and reached behind me with both hands. If I hadn’t known better,
I might have been worried that he was going to strangle me. Or steal my
jewels.
As he unclasped the necklace his chest came
close to mine. I wanted to bury my face in that forest of hair. Wanted to keep
that raw, masculine scent of his in my nostrils for as long as I could manage.
The moment was over far too quickly and he had the necklace in his hand.
“If you rub the pearls against your teeth,
you can tell. Like this.” He opened his mouth and I could see the perfect
softness of his moist tongue hiding. I wanted it on me. Imagined it caressing
me. Crossed my legs tight to stop the buzz between my legs.
He rubbed the pearls on the top of his
slightly crooked teeth.
“See. It’s easy. You try.”
He gestured and I leaned forward.
He held out the necklace and I parted my
lips. The moment was tender and I was worried he might
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