The Last Time I Saw Paris by Lynn Sheene

usually throw extravagant parties, shop for diamonds and seduce”—Claire glanced at Laurent—“pitiful, dim-witted men. A bit tiresome, really.”
    A low laugh rolled over the table. Madame Bruel began a story about an American movie she had seen like that, Hôtel Grand . The cousin poured Claire more wine. Dessert was served, a runny cheese confection spooned onto crystal plates.
    They laughed, drank and ate. Soon a feeling near warm camaraderie blanketed the table. The cousin—was it Burcet or Bertrand?—laid his hand on Claire’s thigh when he yet again refilled her glass. Jacques and Odette excused themselves to get home to little Gerard.
    “Grandma will have had her fill of him by now.” Odette extended a warm smile to Claire as they left.
    Monsieur and Madame Bruel also begged their leave; he was a lawyer and had an early case. The remaining group drifted from the table, the women to the chairs by the fire, the men near the window. The cousin eyed Claire before he took his place with Laurent and Grey, a thin pout on his face.
    Claire turned to examine the painting over the fireplace. It had been brilliantly executed, tiny brushstrokes depicting two poor farm children gleaning the last stray bits of the harvested field. “Très enchanteur,” Claire murmured as she wondered why the hell Laurent hung such a depressing scene over his mantel.
    Sylvie and Babette closed ranks around Claire. “Laurent said you didn’t speak French,” Babette started.
    “I’ve learned.”
    “Strange you hadn’t studied it in school,” said Sylvie.
    “Yes. Isn’t it.”
    “I thought all American socialites went to finishing schools. Babette and I met in Switzerland at Château Mont-Choisi.”
    “How nice for you both.” Claire took a drink and smiled, showing her teeth. “I was already finished.” Claire was reminded of something her Mama said: You gotta be careful, Claire, fighting with pigs. They like to roll around in the mud. You just get dirty.
    “ C’est vrai? Well, in France it takes more than blue eyes and lipstick to interest a man of consequence,” Sylvie said, eyes glittering.
    Claire felt a pair of eyes on her back. She turned. The men were standing by the window drinking scotch. Laurent was pointing something out to the cousin on the street below. Grey was watching her.
    She drank deep and emptied her glass. “I think I’m ready for something stronger.”
    Claire marched past Grey and placed a hand on the cousin’s thick shoulder. Gazing deep into his eyes, she slid her fingers down his arm to tap the rim of his glass. She smiled, running a tongue over her lips. What the hell was his name? “Hello again, my personal bartender, how about some scotch?”
    In short order, her glass was full, the scotch was building a warm fire in her stomach, and Sylvie and Babette, for the moment, stopped stalking her. They all retired to the stuffed chairs scattered around the window. Babette slid next to Grey. Claire leaned against the cousin, the most boring man she had ever met, and asked him about textiles. It was hard to feign interest and keep the conversation going. She still couldn’t remember his name, and the drink had gone straight to her head.
    She ran two fingers down his jelly-filled leg toward his knee. Sylvie and Babette were silent. Apparently, even in France it was in poor taste to insult the woman who was giving your cousin a small erection. Laurent lost the pretense of being interested in his wife, and his gaze kept falling on Claire. All that was ruining the pleasant fuzziness she felt were the burning cold glares from Grey.
    “It’s late. And time for me to go.” Grey lurched from the seat, away from Babette’s tangling arms.
    The cousin’s hand slid down her hip toward Claire’s thigh. His pudding body pressed against her. A wave of nausea hit her. She swallowed. Cold air was needed. Fast.
    Claire pulled herself free and stood. “I also must be leaving. I have a full day of shopping