French Blue (5 page)

“I’ve said I’m sorry for that almost every week since, and you have a long memory…” She paused as Lisa feigned mock offence. “You’re all grown up now, and I know Jody hurt you badly, but that’s no reason to avoid every man, especially not here, where most of the guys look like Armani models. Even my taxi driver was hot.”

“I’m always working, so I’ve no time to meet guys, and like I said, business and pleasure don’t mix. Don’t forget I had to leave the company because of my affair with Jody.”

“Bastard. I still say he should have been the one to leave.”

“Mm. It may be the twenty-first century, but he was my boss, and the company clearly wanted to keep Jody more than me.”

“Maybe because his father was chairman?”

“You think?” Lisa said sarcastically. “Whatever, it was me who made the mistake of sleeping with him. I ought to have known it would end in tears, but I thought I was in love with him.”

“You should have sued the bastards for constructive dismissal,” said Abi.

Ah, it was all so simple for Abi. Black and white. “We’ve been through this before,” Lisa explained patiently. “Yes, I could have made a fuss, sued, maybe even won the case and probably ruined my chances of being employed by any decent company again. I’m meant to be a PR specialist, and if I can’t handle my own affairs without a public scandal, it hardly inspires clients with confidence. The CEO paid me off well and gave me some good references and now, well, I’m glad I went freelance. So maybe I should thank Jody for that.”

“It’s thanks to you working like a dog, that you’ve been successful as a freelancer. You might have forgiven him for the job, but what about for breaking your heart?”

Lisa gave a tight smile and touched her chest. “Healing up nicely.”

“Really?” Abi narrowed her eyes. “You know, I’m not too sure that you haven’t found some sexy Frenchman, but if you say not, I’m not going to be nosy…”

“That’ll be a first.” Lisa offered the plate to Abi. “Here, have another madeleine.”

“Are you trying to change the subject or get me fat?”

“Both. You need feeding up.”

Lisa took a cake. “That’s what Mum says. Oh well, as I’m in Paris and there are no Gallic billionaires to be had, I may as well stuff myself silly on patisserie.”

Later, after Lisa had helped Abi feed and bathe Bella and settle her into the travel cot in the box room, they sat down with a bottle of Sauvignon and planned their week in Paris.

As an exhausted Abi dozed off during a French TV crime series, Lisa gave up on the plot. The talk of Jody had opened up wounds again and made her even more certain that her arrangement with Olivier was the best way of fulfilling her sexual needs right now. She’d only just rescued her career and heart from the ashes, and she had no desire to risk the experience again. Her life looked glamorous, and she thanked her stars for her good fortune, but it was also lonely. Even so, there was no way she was going to whinge to Abi after what her sister had been through, and absolutely no way on the planet she was going to confess to her kinky arrangement with Olivier Lemaitre.

Abi wouldn’t understand, and Lisa wasn’t even sure she did herself. She just knew that she’d never wanted a man sexually as much as him.

Chapter Four

Olivier stood in front of a piece of sculpture in the gallery, pretending to admire his latest acquisition. In reality, he might have been looking at a mere lump of stone, because he was still thinking about his brother’s phone call from earlier.

There was nothing unusual in Alex calling, and he and his fiancée, Carla, were fine. More than fine, in fact, they were disgustingly loved up, and Alex had plenty of advice for Olivier as usual. So far, so predictable, but…Alex had a razor-sharp mind and a pathological need to be in control, which meant he’d not only been overprotective of Olivier when they’d both been sent to their English boarding school but had carried on now. Olivier had worshipped Alex when he was young, and still admired, loved and respected him now, but
putain
—he was often glad there was the English Channel between them.

Olivier circled the sculpture—a modernist piece that was meant to represent two lovers—and saw his own thoughtful face reflected in the polished granite. After the expected “
Ca va?
” which Olivier had truthfully answered, “Very well,” Alex had asked two questions Olivier didn’t want to answer. Had he started painting again, and was he seeing anybody.

“No, to the first, and mind your own business to the second,” he’d shot back.

Alex laughed. “That’s a start. Do I know her?”

“No, she’s a friend of a friend.”

“Pretty?”

“Of course.”

Olivier heard his brother’s intake of breath, almost heard the cogs turning in his brain before Alex’s voice came down the phone, laden with significance.

“Is she a virgin?”

“In what sense?”

“You know what sense.”

“Yes, she is.”

Alex gave a low whistle. “Wow. And she’s found you or vice versa?”

“Mimi introduced her, but like I said, it’s none of your business,
mon frère
.”

“That depends on whether things get serious.”

“
Putain
, Alex! I’ve only met her once.” Olivier had almost ended the call there, then realised if he did something so out of character, his brother would definitely guess that Lisa was different. Instead, Alex had gone on, imperious as ever.

“Okay, calm down, it’s just you are very choosy these days, Olivier. She must be pretty special for you to take on someone completely new to the scene. Playing Dom to a woman who’s so inexperienced can be intense.”

“She’ll be fine. She’s strong and confident. She just needs guidance in this new world.”

“Guidance, eh? I like the way you put that. So she’ll be fine, but what about you?”

Olivier laughed, but inside he was frustrated at Alex’s questions. “I’ll be fine too. Just because you ended up falling in love with Carla doesn’t mean I’m going to fall in love with Lisa Archer.”

“She’s English, then, this Lisa, with a name like Archer?”

“For fuck’s sake, Alex. Is this the Spanish Inquisition?”

They both knew that sometimes only Anglo-Saxon curses would do, and without even thinking, they’d switched to English again. “Will Carla and I get to meet the strong and confident Lisa when we come over next month?”

Olivier had stopped outside the gallery door. “I don’t know. I’m not sure she’ll stick around, and it’s only a short-term arrangement. Nothing serious.”

“You said that when you first met Caro, and you ended up not painting again. You still haven’t started.”

“This is different. Lisa knows the score, and so do I, and besides, she’s going to work in New York in a few months.” How clinical that sounded. How not like the man who had painted with such passion he’d won prizes and been the darling of the art world. Had Caro done that much to him?

“Olivier, you may be the younger brother, but you don’t always have to live up to the stereotype.”

“And what stereotype is that?”

“Charming, easygoing, not a care in the world. You do know you can take life—and love—seriously if you want to.”

“And this is the insight into relationships you’ve gleaned from a dozen years of teaching literature, is it?”

“No, it’s the insight I’ve gained from being your older brother for thirty-odd years. From watching you move from one relationship to another, thinking you’ll never get burned, then when you did find a woman you loved, doing exactly that.”

“I thought I loved Caro. There’s a difference.”

“But she hurt you when you needed her most.”

Olivier didn’t want to reply.

“That’s all in the past now, Alex and I’m not having a conversation like this out in the street. I’m late at the gallery, and I have a meeting with the curator and a new artist. Now, remind me what day are you arriving next month? Is Carla looking forward to her first trip to Paris?”

After making arrangements to meet Alex and Carla, Olivier had clicked off the phone, gone into the gallery and tried very hard to throw himself into the business of running it. It was not as romantic as people thought, and while he’d been successful at developing the gallery, it could never make up for creating his own art. Yet Lisa had intruded into his mind far too often, midway through negotiations with a client, and even in the middle of his workshop at the university school of art.

He’d constantly debated how their first night should go. Either he held back and played it safe, or he pushed her and risked her not coming back. It was a very fine balance, as delicate an art as painting or sculpting in some ways. Knowing how much pressure to apply, what was required to realise his vision—in his case, not knowing and being too afraid of failing to even start.

Their encounter behind the curtains had been mind blowing; he’d almost exploded as he’d seen her response when he’d brought her to orgasm. She’d tried to fight his more shocking suggestions, but her body had told a different story. He thought of the way she’d provoked him into testing her limits, the shock when he’d probed one of her deepest fears and desires: public nudity. His cock hardened at the reminder.

Olivier stepped into the walk-in closet at the side of his bedroom and eyed the red boxes lining the shelves, thoughtfully. Lisa had responded wonderfully back at the gallery launch, but that had still been fantasy. How would she react when it was time to take her medicine for real? He guessed she’d probably been in pieces all week in anticipation of this appointment, perhaps losing sleep and wishing she could back out, while dying to know what it would be like to submit to him in the flesh.

He selected two of the boxes, opened the lid of one of them and nodded with satisfaction.

He had no intention of disappointing her.

Chapter Five

There were many things Lisa adored about Paris. The tiny elevators in its period apartment buildings were definitely not one of them. Even the thought of squeezing into the minuscule cage made her palms clammy, which left the stairs. Her breathing was already ragged, but Olivier’s penthouse spiralled up five floors. Great. That would add another few minutes to the thirty she was already late. Not a good start to her first appointment with him.

She just hoped he’d understand.

It was all the fault of British Airways; Abi’s plane had been delayed and Lisa had lingered far too long helping her sister deal with an unexpected bout of vomiting from Bella. That had made Lisa late for her meeting in Paris—a meeting that, frankly, she should not have tried to squeeze into the schedule. But when the Head of Public Affairs of her next project had phoned to ask if she could meet the company’s American CEO on his stopover from New York, Lisa hadn’t thought an appointment with her new Dom was a good enough excuse to say no. Besides, she’d still thought she had time. The meeting started at four, and she didn’t have to be at Olivier’s until seven p.m. It was just enough time to go home, shower and change.

But then the CEO had run late too…and now, even after a breakneck taxi ride, she was super late, and by the time she’d jogged up the landing that led to the penthouse, her silk blouse stuck to her back and her chest heaved.

She stopped, her knuckles clutching tight around the banister. At the end of the landing was a door, panelled and painted white with a number 17 in brass in the centre. Next to the bell was a tiny card in a slot with a name:
Lemaitre.

Once she pushed it, there would be no walking away. You didn’t play knock and run with Olivier.

She closed her eyes and forced herself to exhale slowly to a count of five, just as she practised before any stressful event, telling herself with each breath that she was calm and in charge and that if it came to it, she could back out. She really didn’t have to do anything she didn’t want to. She could stay just the way she was…

She opened her eyes. The door was no longer there. It had been replaced by Olivier’s tall figure, half hidden by evening shadows. The sunlight falling through the skylight dappled his lower body into light, while his chest and head were almost invisible in deep shadow. Lisa caught her breath. Bare tanned feet poked out from the frayed hem of jeans that were no more than threads at the knees. Higher, and the worn and paint-spattered denim clung to the muscles of his thighs. Higher still, and the jeans were rubbed pale where they cupped the bulge of his crotch. Higher again, and they hung low from slim hips, held up with a black leather belt with a tarnished silver buckle. Above that were his taut abs, the muscles accentuated by the deep shadow that obscured the rest of him. She could only imagine the broad chest, the firm pecs and dark nipples.

He stepped out of the frame and into the shaft of light.

Her eyes were drawn to the silver ring through his left nipple and the dark lashes fringing eyes like the Seine at midnight.

It was definitely Olivier Lemaitre, but not the same guy she’d met at the party. In stripping off his clothes, he’d shed the urbane, charming shell and revealed the raw, dangerous man underneath. There was no charm in the smile, no warmth in the eyes as he folded his arms and looked at her with mild curiosity as if she were a parcel he’d been expecting and, having finally received it, was now disappointed in.