breathed.
‘That’s appropriate seeing as the Vestal Virgins get their name from her Roman counterpart.’
A smile escaped his lips. ‘She was also the Roman Goddess of the Hearth—of fire.’
‘And I bet you see yourself as Eros—wouldn’t you just love to get your hands on the Vestals?’
His smile tightened. ‘Actually, no. I’ve found virgins too needy for my taste.’
It was a low blow and one he wished he could take back as soon as it escaped his lips. There was something about her spiky tongue that he reacted to. Her barbs penetrated him like no one else’s.
Cara’s eyes narrowed but she raised her chin and pulled the door shut behind her, her movements releasing a cloud of her perfume. ‘Then we are better suited than I believed. I’ve always found lustful men too immature for my tastes.’
* * *
‘How are you going to introduce me to your friends?’ Cara asked as they sat in the back of the blacked-out Mercedes through the dark Parisian evening. The city twinkled with what seemed a million lights, giving it a magical quality that enthralled her.
‘As my companion.’
‘Is that how you introduce all your lovers?’
‘I wasn’t aware that you were my lover,’ he responded easily, the coolness he’d displayed since she’d made the jibe about him being immature having dispersed. She much preferred it when he was cool towards her. It made it much easier to hate him.
‘I suppose you can always introduce me as your pregnant one-night stand who you’re waiting to give birth so you can get a paternity test to prove that you’re the daddy.’
She felt him tense, knew that beneath his tuxedo his frame had tautened.
‘Why are you happy to dress in a suit for business and wear a DJ for a party, but refuse to make an effort for your own niece’s christening?’ she asked, blurting out one of the many questions that played on her mind.
‘I wasn’t aware I hadn’t made an effort for it,’ he answered coolly.
She shrugged. Pepe’s choice of attire was none of her business. ‘So where is this party?’
‘In Montmartre.’
Now he mentioned it, the lights of the sprawling hill that comprised Montmartre gleamed before them, the white Basilica of Sacre-Coeur sitting atop, almost surveying all beneath it. As they drove into the bustling arrondissement, she pressed her face to the window to take in the beautiful architecture, ambling tourists and nonchalant locals.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked. ‘Any nausea?’
‘So far so good,’ she confirmed.
‘That is good.’ Not trusting the casual tone to his voice, she looked at him and found him holding a paper bag aloft. He winked. ‘Just in case.’
Despite herself, she laughed, the action loosening a little of the angst in her chest.
He moved closer to her and pointed out of the window. ‘Through those gardens is the Musée de Montmartre. It is reputed to be the oldest house in Montmartre.’
‘Didn’t Renoir live in it?’ she asked, wholly aware of his thigh now pressed against hers.
‘Not quite—there is a mansion behind it that he lived in for a while. Maurice Utrillo lived there though.’
As they snaked their way through the cobbled streets, he pointed out more features of interest, his words breathing life into the ancient buildings, especially from the Impressionist era. He knew so much about the district, had such lively knowledge, his heavy Sicilian accent so lyrical it was a joy to listen to him.
Cara hid her disappointment when the driver came to a stop in a narrow street lined by a terrace of whitewashed five-storey homes, cafés and shops. She could have happily continued with their tour.
To her surprise, they went into a packed poky café that smelt strongly of coffee, body odour and illicit cigarettes. Pepe greeted the staff personally with his usual enthusiasm, shaking hands and kissing cheeks, before leading her through the back and out into a small courtyard.
‘Ladies first,’ he said, waving his
‘That’s appropriate seeing as the Vestal Virgins get their name from her Roman counterpart.’
A smile escaped his lips. ‘She was also the Roman Goddess of the Hearth—of fire.’
‘And I bet you see yourself as Eros—wouldn’t you just love to get your hands on the Vestals?’
His smile tightened. ‘Actually, no. I’ve found virgins too needy for my taste.’
It was a low blow and one he wished he could take back as soon as it escaped his lips. There was something about her spiky tongue that he reacted to. Her barbs penetrated him like no one else’s.
Cara’s eyes narrowed but she raised her chin and pulled the door shut behind her, her movements releasing a cloud of her perfume. ‘Then we are better suited than I believed. I’ve always found lustful men too immature for my tastes.’
* * *
‘How are you going to introduce me to your friends?’ Cara asked as they sat in the back of the blacked-out Mercedes through the dark Parisian evening. The city twinkled with what seemed a million lights, giving it a magical quality that enthralled her.
‘As my companion.’
‘Is that how you introduce all your lovers?’
‘I wasn’t aware that you were my lover,’ he responded easily, the coolness he’d displayed since she’d made the jibe about him being immature having dispersed. She much preferred it when he was cool towards her. It made it much easier to hate him.
‘I suppose you can always introduce me as your pregnant one-night stand who you’re waiting to give birth so you can get a paternity test to prove that you’re the daddy.’
She felt him tense, knew that beneath his tuxedo his frame had tautened.
‘Why are you happy to dress in a suit for business and wear a DJ for a party, but refuse to make an effort for your own niece’s christening?’ she asked, blurting out one of the many questions that played on her mind.
‘I wasn’t aware I hadn’t made an effort for it,’ he answered coolly.
She shrugged. Pepe’s choice of attire was none of her business. ‘So where is this party?’
‘In Montmartre.’
Now he mentioned it, the lights of the sprawling hill that comprised Montmartre gleamed before them, the white Basilica of Sacre-Coeur sitting atop, almost surveying all beneath it. As they drove into the bustling arrondissement, she pressed her face to the window to take in the beautiful architecture, ambling tourists and nonchalant locals.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked. ‘Any nausea?’
‘So far so good,’ she confirmed.
‘That is good.’ Not trusting the casual tone to his voice, she looked at him and found him holding a paper bag aloft. He winked. ‘Just in case.’
Despite herself, she laughed, the action loosening a little of the angst in her chest.
He moved closer to her and pointed out of the window. ‘Through those gardens is the Musée de Montmartre. It is reputed to be the oldest house in Montmartre.’
‘Didn’t Renoir live in it?’ she asked, wholly aware of his thigh now pressed against hers.
‘Not quite—there is a mansion behind it that he lived in for a while. Maurice Utrillo lived there though.’
As they snaked their way through the cobbled streets, he pointed out more features of interest, his words breathing life into the ancient buildings, especially from the Impressionist era. He knew so much about the district, had such lively knowledge, his heavy Sicilian accent so lyrical it was a joy to listen to him.
Cara hid her disappointment when the driver came to a stop in a narrow street lined by a terrace of whitewashed five-storey homes, cafés and shops. She could have happily continued with their tour.
To her surprise, they went into a packed poky café that smelt strongly of coffee, body odour and illicit cigarettes. Pepe greeted the staff personally with his usual enthusiasm, shaking hands and kissing cheeks, before leading her through the back and out into a small courtyard.
‘Ladies first,’ he said, waving his
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