Chapter 5
Chapter Five
It took all my might to keep my emotions in check as we rode the lift together. Not bursting into tears was even harder. Waving him off, I wished him goodnight and stepped out onto my floor. I dragged myself into my room, shut the door behind me, and tossed my bag onto the table.
You act like you’re ninety.
Dying on the inside.
Roman’s comments slammed into me like a wrecking ball.
What happened to you?
How dare he say those things to me. He had no idea what I’d been through.
If he was saying that shit to me on day one, then my final six months in Europe with him were going to be pure hell. The bricks of life weren’t meant to be smooth or straightforward. But damn it, why did mine have to be like a box of fucking LEGO?
My chin quivered, and I fought it with clenched fists and a clamped jaw. I was not going to cry. The walls closed in, squeezing my sanity. I had to get out of there.
After grabbing my novel and bag, I strode from my room, a woman on a mission.
The antique gold bell above the door chimed as I stepped over the threshold of Chateau de Vins et Antiquités . What looked like a tiny café from the outside was so much more. The front half was the restaurant, but the back half was an antique store, offering a world of charm and hidden secrets to explore. It was a clever concept.
“Bonsoir, Pierre. C’est Daisy .” After announcing my arrival at the vacant restaurant, I aimed for my usual table by the window, took a seat, and put my bag on the spare chair.
I’d been coming to this restaurant once a month for two years, and depending on my mood, sometimes I browsed the abundant antiques, sometimes I read my book. Sometimes a little of both. Tonight, I planned on getting lost in my current romance novel.
Pierre stepped from behind the wall that led to the kitchen. A broad smile enhanced his already suave good looks. He was six and a half feet of male charisma and knew exactly how to use it. As he swaggered toward me, he ran his hand through his lush, almost black hair. He had just a touch of salt and pepper at his temples, but it was a wonder he wasn’t completely gray with the flock of ex-wives he had.
He reached for my hand and pressed his soft lips against the back of my palm. “Daisy, you look beautiful tonight.”
He was lying, but it was a little game we played each month. He flirted with me, I pretended to accept his compliments. Then he’d generally leave me alone with my book.
“Same as usual?” Pierre draped a white linen napkin over my bare legs.
“ Oui, s'il vous pla?t.” Since becoming a European tour guide, I’ve learned a little French, German, and Italian. Not enough to have in-depth conversations, but enough to know the difference between ordering a cocktail and ordering a colonoscopy.
Pierre didn’t need to ask for my order. He always cooked my favorite meal, even though that dish had long ago been removed from the menu. It truly made me feel special. He made me feel special.
He made everyone feel special, though. He’d mentioned that the majority of his patrons were wealthy women with both time and money to spare.
Pierre strolled away, and after a quick glance at his glorious derriere, I turned my attention out the window. My view down Avenue de Saint-Gwendolyn was the epitome of French elegance. Quaint little shops offered everything from apparel to homewares, restaurants were adorned with twinkling lights, and both ornamental street lanterns and professionally pruned trees lined the avenue.
They were everything my childhood homes weren’t . . . enticing.
Chateau de Vin et d'antiquités had initially attracted my attention because it had no diners. It allowed me to avoid mystified stares from people who clearly couldn’t understand the pleasure of dining alone.
A couple walked arm in arm outside my window and stopped to study the menu posted by the front door. As they explored the limited meal options, I studied them. She was about my age, I guess, he maybe a little older. The way they had their arms around each other convinced me they weren’t new lovers. They looked comfortable in each other’s embrace. No, it was more than that. They were in love.
I snapped my eyes away, plucked my book from my bag, flipped open to the page I’d secured with an Eiffel Tower-shaped bookmark, and turned my nose from the world around me to the bedroom scene about to unfold on the pages before me.
Pierre appeared with a bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal Champagne. “For you, mademoiselle .”
“ Merci beaucoup .” Expensive champagne was one of my vices. Actually, it was my only vice. This one glass cost more than I earned in three hours. But I didn’t care. It was worth every cent. Besides, I didn’t have anything else to spend money on. I didn’t have a mortgage or a car. Work paid for my cell phone and my living-away-from-home costs. During the ten or so days when I was at home, I rarely ate out, and I stocked my fridge with basic necessities. I had a tidy sum in my bank account that surprised me.
Pierre poured my champagne into an elegant eighteenth-century antique crystal glass, then he slinked away, leaving me to my beverage and my book.
After savoring a few sips, enjoying the delicate bubbles and exquisite taste, I picked up my novel again. Two sheaths of paper slipped out and fell onto the linen cloth. My visa letter and my company’s reply. I resisted touching them. I’d completely forgotten I’d secured them in there. I put my book down with a sigh, reached for my boss’s letter, and unfolded it.
Even though I could recall it word for word, I read the letter for the twentieth time.
Dear Ms. Chayne,
We refer to your request to extend your contract with Vacation Dreamz so you can renew your European work visa for a further twelve months. You are a valued employee who consistently maintains excellent feedback from clients. But, whilst we will be sorry to see you go, we must comply with company policy to only hire people between twenty-one and thirty years of age, so we remain true to the theme of our business. Accordingly, we have no choice but to decline your request.
Blah. Blah. Fucking blah.
I reached for my glass and gulped a mouthful. The date I’d be forced to leave Europe was the seventh of January. Mother’s birthday. I haven’t spoken to her since she borrowed money from me four years ago. Whilst I knew I’d never see those two thousand dollars again, I’d foolishly hoped that she would keep her promise that time. She hadn’t.
When I accepted this job with Vacation Dreamz and they gave me a new phone and new number, it was my chance to sever ties with my mother completely.
I’d be happy if I never spoke with her again.
I folded the letters together and flicked them across the table.
It’s been nearly three years since I arrived in Europe, yet I’d rarely considered what I’d do when my visa expired. But I did know that I’d rather live in a tent in Siberia than return to Australia.
No matter where I went, I’d be starting over again. I’d already done that more times than most people did in a whole lifetime.
Maybe I could go to a tropical island and read copious amounts of books, and in between meeting new book boyfriends, I could sip cocktails and swim. Except my fair skin and the sun were life-long enemies. And I couldn’t swim. Sure, I could float on my back. With my bolt-on airbags, I’d be impossible to drown. But swim? Freestyle was impossible when my tits made it their mission to occupy my armpits. I looked more like a drunk attempting to breakdance while drowning. And breaststroke? Let’s just say I give it a whole new meaning .
Who was I kidding? I didn’t want to leave Europe. I love it here. History lurked around every stone-lined corner. A new language was just a drive away. And the abundant cuisines were an adventure.
There was still so much to see.
I picked up my book again. But as I attempted to read the sexy bedroom scene, my chest squeezed. Negativity attacked like a ninja. Roman’s brutal comment about me being old cut a slice from my heart. My age carved a slice of my sanity. My single status hurt deep. My expiring visa stabbed too. The words on the page blurred. My chin dimpled, and when I clamped my eyes shut, a tear spilled down my cheek.
How the hell did I let this happen?
“Hey, ma belle , are you okay?”
I snapped my eyes open. Pierre had approached in stealth mode. “Yes. Yes. I’m fine.”
He tilted his head. “ Excusez-moi , but you do not look fine.”
I flicked the tear from my cheek. “Well, I wasn’t just then, but I am now.”
“May I?” Without my response, he pulled a chair over from another table and sat so close our knees touched. “It is okay to cry.”
Emotion ran rampant but I fought it. Fought the embarrassment. “I, um . . .” The lump in my throat made it impossible to breathe, let alone talk. I swallowed, forcing it down. “I’m fine. Really.”
“Want to talk?”
I shook my head.
“I have four ex-wives. I know women’s troubles.”
Oh, God. I quickly looked away, unable to cope with the oozing pity.
“Are you ill?”
I shook my head.
“Is someone you lovesick? ”
“No, no, it’s nothing like that.” I screwed up my face.
He placed his palm over the back of my hand, and the warmth surprised me. “Is it because you do not have a lover?”
“Oh, God.” I wanted to crawl under the chair and die. Was it that fucking obvious that my vagina had practically sealed back over?
“I see it in your eyes, Daisy. You are lonely for love.”
I pulled my hand free. “No, I’m not.”
“It is okay to admit such a thing. Admission helps you move toward your goal.”
I bulged my eyes at him. “Who are you? My therapist?”
He clutched his chest. “I am merely a gentleman concerned for a friend.”
“Friend?” I frowned. “You barely know me.”
“I know more about you than you think.”
I rolled my eyes. “Really?”
“ Oui .” He placed his hand over mine again. “I know you are an Australian who came to Paris for excitement, but you decline to take it. I know you are a woman who reads romance, yet you refuse to embrace it. I know you are sad, but you have no one with whom you confide in.”
Tugging my bottom lip with my teeth in an attempt to stop it quivering, I met his gaze. He placed his palm on my cheek, and I leaned into its warmth. Tears blurred my vision. I sucked in a shaky breath.
“I’m old.” I blurted. “And ugly.” Clutching the napkin, I wiped snot from my nose. “And single.”
He wrapped his arms around me, pulling me to his chest, and I couldn’t hold back a moment more. I sobbed into his embrace. Really, truly sobbed.
Pierre murmured words I couldn’t decipher as he ran his hand over my hair and down my back. The ninjas continued their attack. Dying on the inside. Visa expired. Leaving Europe. Getting old. Ugly. Ugly. Ugly. Round and round, cruel reality spun until I couldn’t cry anymore. I eased back, thumbed tears from my eyes, and wiped my nose again.
He offered me a napkin from the table behind. “You are beautiful, Daisy.”
I dabbed my eyes. “Yeah, right. I’m a mess.”
He placed his hands onto my cheeks, capturing my eyes with his. “You are one of the most beautiful women to grace my café.”
“Pfft. Please, you don’t have to?—”
“Shhh, let me finish.”
I frowned at his assertion.
“I see many beautiful women, but they hide under a veneer of makeup and fancy clothes. It is impossible to see their real self. When they shed their fa?ade, they are no longer beautiful. You . . . you have natural beauty that you don’t hide. This is what I love.”
I raised my eyebrows. Blinked. Blinked some more. I had no idea how to respond.
Pierre leaned forward and paused. His gaze flicked from my eyes to my lips. He smelled divine, an intoxicating aroma of expensive cologne and hot-blooded man.
My senses hit party mode.
My breath caught in my throat.
My heart rate shot to a breathtaking tempo.
Lured in by his lust-fueled gaze, I leaned forward too. I wanted him to kiss me. To take all my worries away and whisk me to another world. The look in his eyes told me he wanted it too. A delicious throb pulsed in my pussy. It was a sensation I hadn’t felt in a very long time.
Way too long.
Pierre’s intense gaze captured me. I could hardly breathe.
His warm hand touched my knee, and my breath hitched.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement. I snapped my gaze that way. A man and woman with a giant fluffy dog walked past the window.
Oh shit . I pulled back. What the fuck am I doing? I’ve totally lost my mind.
I cleared my throat. “Pierre, you are very kind. Thank you. I am fine now.”
His expression melted, and I was certain he too understood that we nearly went a little overboard.
He stood and relief washed over me.
Then he offered his hand. “Come. We will talk while I cook for you. Yes?”
“Oh, umm.” In a nanosecond, a debate crisscrossed through my brain. Only moments ago, I admitted that there were still so many things in Europe I wanted to see. Pierre cooking for me was one of them. I reached for my bag and slipped it over my shoulder. “Okay.”
His smile was intoxicating as our palms met. His hand was as warm as freshly made pudding.
In the kitchen, he led me to a barstool overlooking an enormous chopping block centered in the middle of the room. I slipped my bag from my shoulder and hooked it over the back of the stool. Within seconds a fresh glass of champagne was in my hand.
Pierre held a glass tumbler filled with golden liquid I knew would be cognac, forward in a toast. I waited, curious as to what he’d say. “To embracing passion.”
“Oh.” My heart skipped a beat. “To embracing passion.”
With his eyes locked on mine, he sipped his drink. His eyes undressed me. . . revealing my flesh, and for the first time in my life, I wanted to get naked in front of a man.
No, not just any man—Pierre.
Right here. Right now.
My insides hit inferno mode as my pussy throbbed a heady beat. If Pierre kept looking at me like he was, I’d tear my clothes off and crawl onto the enormous chopping block totally naked.
What the fuck was wrong with me?
I gulped my champagne. The lovely bubbles tingled through my body.
I didn’t think like that. Ever.
It was like my pussy had grown a brain and was now a horny puppeteer, manipulating my body to want crazy things.
Maybe Pierre sensed my fanciful slide into erotic psychosis because he put his glass aside and stepped closer, nudging his hips to my knees. His tongue glided over his lips, and the move was so sexy, electricity sizzled across my flesh.
He wanted to kiss me. I saw it in his eyes. I saw it on his lips.
Oh, God . I wanted it too.
He leaned forward. So did I.
I closed my eyes, and a heartbeat later our lips touched.
Heat cruised through me. This was better than any French champagne high. I melted into him. His lips were delicate, soft, barely a tease. It was the most exquisite, slow-burn kiss I’d ever had.
I glided my hand around his neck, through his thick hair, and parted my knees to pull him closer. He pressed his body to mine and gently swayed to a sensual beat. Heat and passion pooled in the pit of my belly. I opened my mouth, allowing his tongue to explore. Cognac danced over my tongue, and I savored its quality spiciness. His lips were exquisite.
My heart fluttered and my body inflamed. I fought the reasoning flooding my brain. Push him away. Get to your senses, girl. What the hell is happening? But I couldn’t. I wanted this. It had been way too long since my last kiss. Way too long since I’d felt this good. And, by the feel of Pierre, he wanted it too.
No, not it —he wanted me.
Delicious pulses shot through me, lighting me up in all the right places: my lips, my nipples, between my legs.
Pierre’s hands slid up my inner thigh. His warm fingers teased my flesh as they inched northward. A moan tumbled from my lips, and I parted my legs, giving him access. A deep rumble echoed in Pierre’s throat.
With panting breaths, our tongues dueled in a hot race to taste each other.
Our hands roamed, greedy to explore.
This was what a kiss should be like. Exquisite. Impassioned. This one kiss eclipsed all seven years of kisses with William. Oh, what a fool I’d been.
Fury had me wanting more, begging for the ultimate kiss that’d eluded me my entire life. My fingers explored the planes of his back, feeling the taut muscles beneath his flesh. His hands glided from my inner thighs to the sides of my torso, each time drawing closer to my breasts.
My brain shouted alternating thoughts . . . worlds apart.
What the fuck are you doing ?
Do it, girl. It’s been too bloody long .
Our lips parted. When I stole a glance into his eyes, the desire in his dark irises had do it, girl, winning.
He brushed his lips to mine, ever so gently. “Tu est trop belle.” His deep voice was loaded with lust.
“Say it again,” I insisted between kisses.
He paused and eased back, capturing me with his chocolate irises. “You, Daisy, are a beautiful woman.”
Any remaining restraint evaporated in a flash.
I’d been living in a coma.
Not anymore. Every nerve-ending had burst into life. Quivering. Trembling. Needing more. Much, much more .
I scrambled for the buttons on my shirt, undid two, then whipped it up over my head and tossed it aside. I nearly died when I looked down. My lingerie was hideous. Built for comfort not admiration. But if Pierre was horrified, he didn’t show it. Instead, he reached behind my back and did something William had never done. . . he unclipped my bra.
I released the shoulder straps, and when I flung the bra away, I searched Pierre’s eyes, nervous about his reaction to my giant melons.
William had always been reluctant, almost repulsed by my boobs.
Pierre was the exact opposite.
His eyes widened, taking all of me in and my fears washed away in a tsunami of delight. His mouth opened as if he wanted to say something but was so mesmerized, he couldn’t. With each heady breath, his chest rose and fell. His tongue slicked his bottom lip.
My heart thundered, and my insides fluttered as I absorbed the most delightful reaction to my breasts I’d ever witnessed.
His hands glided over my mounds, caressing, teasing my nipples. His palms curled beneath my breasts, touching that tender flesh that never saw daylight. He repeated the move: over, under, across. Each time my nipples peaked just that little bit more, rising to attention until they were so hard, they hurt. Hurt and ached in such a way that I wanted it more.
It was the most erotic moment of my life.
Pierre’s eyes followed his hands, transfixed, producing sensations in me I’d never felt before. I was not just a plank with mammoth ugly breasts. For the first time in my life, I felt sexy.
I was a sensuous woman who could turn a man on.
Glorious tingles shimmered through me, starting at the tips of my fingers and ending with a delicious beat in my clitoris.
Pierre cupped my right breast; the massive quantity of flesh spilled from his hand, yet his expression was one of awe like he was holding the holy grail. Delicately pinching my nipple between his thumb and finger, he was holding his breath as if breathing would break the spell the two of us had somehow fallen into. Each touch of his hands drove tremors through my body.
I couldn’t hold back a moment more. Grabbing a handful of his hair, I captured his mouth with mine, my probing tongue lost on a glorious adventure.
I was out of control. It felt so fucking good. My hand nudged the bulge in his pants.
Holy mighty erection.
Knowing I’d created that was like injecting an aphrodisiac into my veins. Pierre’s rod was thick and hard, and the look on his face was the biggest turn-on of my life.
His hand glided up my thigh and wedged between my legs. He rubbed his fingers over my denim shorts and a groan tumbled from my throat. “Oh, Pierre.”
Hooking my Del Rey sneakers into the footrest of the stool, I eased back, offering Pierre my bosom. He didn’t need an invitation. He wrapped his lips around my nipple. Sucking. Licking. Squeezing.
Raw shivers coursed through my body. My sex throbbed and it flitted through my brain that not one of my book boyfriends had me feeling like this.
I wanted to slap myself again for making that ridiculous comparison.
My breasts were loving the attention, but it was my rarely touched pussy that was begging for more.
Pierre must’ve read my mind because while his tongue lashed my nipple, his hand glided up my inner thigh. His probing finger weaved beneath the leg of my shorts into my panties and thumbed my sensitive zone.
His first touch shot rockets through me. I gasped in delight.
Yes, please. I clutched handfuls of his hair and hung on as I willed him to do it again.
He did.
I quivered with want, silently begging him to slide his finger into me.
A sliver of shame seized my chest. This wasn’t me. I didn’t beg for sex. I didn’t do things like this at all. Ever.
Maybe Pierre sensed my hesitation because he deepened his kiss.
He touched me again, right there, on that sensitive button between my legs that was a high-voltage trigger. Oh my god.
Pierre took me to a whole new world. A world where my body was alive. A world where my age and impending visa expiry weren’t important. A world where a sexy French man wanted me.
A strangle cackling echoed about the kitchen. I glanced over his shoulder. My heart exploded. “Shit!”
A middle-aged couple was watching us with goofy smiles and bulging eyes.
With a squeal, I pushed Pierre back, jumped off the barstool, tripped over my feet, and landed on my hands and knees with my melons plopping onto the cold tiles.
I ogled the couple standing in the kitchen doorway, my eyes wide, my mouth gaping.
In my lust-fueled fog, I’d completely forgotten where I was.
I jumped up and ran to the back of the kitchen. I spied my shirt on the pot rack, and when I snatched at it, buttons went flying, pinging off the chopping block.
I ran out the door .
“Daisy, come back.”
I raced through a second door, heading for cover amongst the antiques.
Faarrrkkk.
“Daisy. Daisy. Do not worry, they didn’t see anything.”
“Like hell they didn’t.” I wove around vintage desks, a regency chaise, a grandfather clock, and a stone sculpture of two naked men, one of which was missing his penis. I passed fine China, a shiny brass candelabra, and dozens of other precious items. I tried not to calculate their worth, and I refused to slow down.
“Daisy.”
I’d stormed straight into a corner and was hemmed in by a giant 18 th -century fox-hunt oil painting and a glass-shelved cabinet filled with antique sterling silver cutlery.
“Daisy, stop.” His voice was way too calm considering the virtual grenade that’d just been lobbed into my lap.
I cowered in the corner and without a second thought about my bra, I tugged my shirt on, desperate to cover myself. I went for the buttons. Shit! Three were missing. Of course, the missing buttons were the ones responsible for concealing my bust.
The blaze of heat tearing through my body would be coloring my skin, matching my flesh with my fiery red hair. Embarrassment churned my stomach.
“Daisy, it’s okay.”
“No, it's not. I don't do things like that.”
“But you didn't do anything wrong.”
“You don't understand. I just don't . . .”
His hands touched my shoulders, and I pulled away, squishing my breasts to the cold glass cabinet.
“Come back to your table. I will prepare your delicious meal for you. ”
My throat constricted. “No. Thanks, Pierre, but I’m going home.”
“But, ma belle , you love my cooking.” Sadness loomed in his tone.
Clutching my shirt closed, I turned to him. “I do, but I’ve lost my appetite. I’ll pay you?—”
He placed his palm on my cheek. “ S'il vous pla?t , Daisy. Do not be embarrassed by what we did. It was special.”
It was special all right—lock me up and throw away the key, kind of special.
I inched out of the corner and strode to the restaurant.
Oh faarkk!
Those people were still there.
Staring right at me.