The Paris Game (14 page)

Marc shrugged out of his blazer and draped it across the back of another chair. Her eyes followed his hands as he settled into his seat, drawing the bow across the cello’s strings. Even the discordant sounds as Marc tuned the cello made her catch her breath in anticipation. He looked up from the instrument and she knew he had heard her.

“Any requests, ma chère?”

“Anything.” It didn’t matter, so long as he played.

“See if you can remember this one.”

Within two bars, Sera knew the piece. Schubert’s Trio in E-Flat. He had played it for her many times before. She took one more sip of her wine before she placed it on the coffee table and relaxed into her chair. She had heard this piece played by a trio once, and she wished that she was a pianist so she could accompany him. He’d tried to teach her the part, taking her up to the music room in his parents’ apartment, showing her the notes on his mother’s beautiful piano. She’d been so intimidated by the shining keys that she could barely focus on his lesson. He segued into a piece by Bach that she recognized but couldn’t name. It was darker in tone than the Schubert, but she loved it all the same. Her gaze kept going back to the movement of his hands; the glimmer of the bow as it dipped, the precise movements of his fingers on the neck, his hands that could be so gentle or cruel as he chose. The bruises on her hips were gone, but the memory was still vivid. She had never understood how she could enjoy the pain the way she did with him, how she could be aroused by it. The music dropped off and she raised her head from the back of the chair.

Marc played the first few notes of '
Ma Chanteuse
'. “Will you sing with me?” he asked.

“Now?” She hadn’t expected to sing, and she wasn’t at all ready. He nodded and began the song again. Sera took a deep breath and as her cue came, she sang the first line. Her voice was shaky, but as she relaxed, it became strong and the words came more easily.

Our eyes met in understanding, I forgot everyone but you.

Unlike at the club, Marc didn’t look away from her, and she didn’t look away from him, though her cheeks flushed. As she sang the last lines, she didn’t want the song to end, and yet, a small part of her wished that he hadn’t played it. In the club, she could focus on the crowd, but here it was a repeat of too many other evenings. She closed her eyes against the memories, but they came anyway.

She hadn’t forgotten when Marc had brought her into the living room and made her sit on the sofa. He had been bursting with glee all evening and it had driven her mad when he wouldn’t tell her what the surprise was.

“You might want to close your eyes,” he’d told her. She’d given him a puzzled look, but had done as he’d requested. He’d sung the song to her, his low tenor complementing the music. He had enchanted her. She’d opened her eyes, and he’d looked at her with such passion...

Sera felt Marc’s hand on her cheek and his thumb wiping away the unexpected wetness. He knelt a hair's breadth from her when she opened her eyes.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” She glanced down, away from the concern in his eyes.

“You’re crying because you’re fine?” His skepticism didn’t surprise her, but she didn’t want to explain. He cupped her face in his hands and she couldn’t look away again. “You can tell me what it is, Seraphina.”

They regarded each other in silence; he stroked her cheeks lightly and all she wanted to do was lean forward that last few inches and kiss him.

“I should go.” She sat back and he let go of her, though his hands moved slowly away, as if reluctant to obey.

“It’s three in the morning, Seraphina. You shouldn’t be taking a taxi at this hour.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.” She rose to her feet and he mirrored her movement.

“Stay.”

She’d promised herself she wouldn’t. She’d go downstairs, wait at the nearby taxi rank. She’d be home in her own bed, safe and sound. Alone. Without him.

“I’ll even give you the bed. No fighting required. Unless of course you want to fight.” He winked at her and she took a deep breath. Nothing would happen.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you give up without a fight. I hope your sofa is comfortable.” She teased him to keep him at bay.

“It’ll do.” He bent and put his cello in its case, closing the lid. “You can even sleep naked if you want. I wouldn’t mind in the least.”

“I’ll just borrow one of your shirts,” she told him, turning towards the bedroom. “I don’t want to tempt you.” He followed her into the other room, moving in front of the wardrobe before she could open it.

“Let me find you something,” he offered. She went to sit on the bed and watched as he pulled a pair of pyjama bottoms from one of the shelves.

“Those will never fit me.”

He chuckled. “They weren’t for you. It gets chilly on the sofa at night, all alone.” He began to unbutton his shirt, and her breath caught in her throat. This hadn’t been part of the deal. He took his time with the shirt, giving her the barest glance of skin, skin she knew well. She put up a hand.

“If you think that stripping down in front of me is going to work—it’s not.”

He removed his cufflinks and set them on the antique bureau, then pulled off his shirt and tossed it to her. “That’s all you’ll get to look at, ma chère.” He picked up the pyjama bottoms and walked to the door. “I’ll be in the bathroom, should you need me.”

She nodded, watching him go. His shirt was warm on her lap, and the scent of his cologne compelled her to lift the fabric to her nose and inhale deeply. She caught herself and flushed. If he’d seen her… She changed into the shirt quickly, buttoning it up with furtive glances towards the door, sure that he would come back. She turned off all the lights but the small bedside lamp and crawled under the covers. She fell asleep listening for his footsteps.

Sera woke as she felt the bed shift. Marc’s warm body settled in beside her. “What are you doing?” she murmured sleepily.

“I couldn’t sleep, and I need my rest before I travel tomorrow. Go back to sleep, ma chère.”

She rolled over to face him. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, as if she wasn’t there. Once she would have rested her head on his arm, curled herself around him. She thought of her night with Jeremy. It didn’t match this.

“Thank you for playing for me tonight.” Her vision was starting to clear, and she thought she saw him smile, but it wasn’t his usual pleased smirk.

“De rien, ma chère.”

Chapter 8

Marc woke and found himself on his side, Sera’s back pressed against his chest. His hand lay flat against her stomach where the shirt had ridden up and her hair was strewn over the pillow under his cheek. Her thighs shifted over his as she moved in her sleep and he closed his eyes and counted to ten. It didn’t help. He shouldn’t have given in to his need last night. It would have been better if he’d stayed on the sofa.

As he withdrew his hand and slowly shifted away from her, he heard her murmur something unintelligible. He managed to extricate himself without waking her and carefully tucked the covers in around her. She looked younger in her sleep, very much like she had been when they had first met, but there were shadows under her eyes that hadn’t always been there. If only she would tell him who she owed money to. It was unlike her to be in such financial straits; she had always been so cautious with her money after her difficult childhood. He wanted to force her to tell him, but it might break whatever trust they had left.

With a frown, he left her to sleep. He stripped off the pyjama pants as soon as he reached the bathroom, dropping them in a heap on the tile. He left the door unlocked, though he knew it was unlikely Sera would join him. He turned the water as hot as he could stand and stepped under the spray, splashing his face and washing away the last vestiges of sleep. He lingered longer than usual after he’d finished washing, thinking of Sera in his bed, untouchable. He wondered what she would have done if he’d woken her with light, teasing touches. He imagined that she would have turned in his arms with a sleepy smile and slid her hand down under the waistband of his pants, wrapping her hand around him as he unbuttoned his shirt and stripped it off her. He’d push her underwear down her legs and find out how wet she was. At least, that’s what she would have done when they were together. But now? He waited for her to throw him a hint, a crumb from her plate.

Sera had shifted in her sleep when he returned to the bedroom and though he was fully dressed, he wanted to slide back into bed with her. She sprawled on her back with the covers half off and he could just see the soft weight of her breasts against his shirt. He watched her for several minutes as she began to stir, affixing his usual half-smile in place as she opened her eyes.

“Sleep well, ma chère?”

She nodded slowly and he could see that she was still coming to herself. She’d always been one to sleep late, and it was nearing noon. He had to be at Gare du Nord in several hours to catch the Eurostar to London. If he could have put it off another day, he would have, just to have a few more hours in bed with her.

“You slept in the bed last night,” she challenged, though there was no anger in her tone. She sat up and pulled the fabric of his shirt back to some semblance of order, pushing her hair back from her eyes. It was a glorious mess of uneven waves and she was beautifully disheveled.

“I did. And you didn’t seem to mind.” He paused. “If you can be ready shortly I can drop you at home on my way to Gare du Nord.”

She looked at him in surprise.

“You’re leaving?”

“Business awaits.” They looked at each other and he thought about asking her to stay, and not just for another few hours. But instead, he turned to leave. “I’ll let you get dressed.”

He placed his bags by the front door—a mid-sized rolling suitcase and a messenger bag that held his laptop and several art prints sandwiched between stiff boards. The Degas was among the prints, but he expected it to slip by security unnoticed. They were usually more concerned about his laptop than about art catalogue samples.

He made two cups of espresso as he waited for Sera, setting one aside for her while he downed the other. He smoked a cigarette, cracking open the kitchen window. She slipped into the kitchen on quiet bare feet, her hair damp and pulled back into a braid, wearing last night’s rumpled clothes.

“Is this for me?” She reached for the espresso, taking a sip after he’d nodded, closing her eyes and making a sound much like she had when he’d given her pleasure. He wanted to take her right here, and damn the consequences. Instead, he finished his cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray.

“Where are you going?” Sera asked after she’d finished the espresso. He took the cup from her and turned to the machine to make another round.

“London, this time. I’ll be there a few days, maybe over the weekend.”

“Should I call you when you’ve lost our wager?”

“I still maintain that Edouard wouldn’t move that fast, but if by some miracle he manages it, you are more than welcome to call me.”

“Expect a call then. Sophie wouldn’t have turned him down.”

“Will you be calling to talk dirty to me? That would be a pleasant way to spend the hours in my lonely hotel room.”

“I’ll be working, but I’m sure you can manage to entertain yourself.”

He was disappointed when she didn’t rise to his suggestion, as she would have done when they were together. She took the fresh cup of espresso from him instead, looking contemplative, her gaze moving past him.

“I’ll manage somehow,” he agreed. “I’m used to being alone.”

“When you return, we can drink to your business success and my newfound windfall.”

“I’ll have to know who to give the money to in order to pay off your debts,” he reminded her.

“When the time comes,” she said finally. She set down her cup. “Shall we go?”

Marc nodded. Sera went to gather her things and he waited by the door with his suitcase in hand and his messenger bag over his shoulder. They descended the stairs in silence and she didn’t speak again until they were in the taxi. She tucked herself in next to him and he laid his arm over her shoulders, lightly caressing her arm.

“Thank you for playing for me last night,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry if I worried you.”

“My playing hasn’t made anyone cry since I first started.”

“Who used to cry?” She was trying to hold back a smile.

“My teacher, when I used to screech my way through the music. And my father. He was unimpressed from the start. He didn’t want either of his sons following in their mother’s footsteps. We were both to be businessmen, like him.”

“But did he actually cry?”

“No, probably not. If he did, I never saw it. With frustration perhaps, in his study, drowning his sorrows in whisky.” Yet his mother had managed to convince his father to let him continue. He’d loved her for it.

Their conversation stilled until the taxi drew up outside Sera’s apartment block. He opened the door and helped her out, keeping hold of her hand. She glanced from him to the building and back again.

“When will you be back?”

“A couple of days. No later than Saturday evening, I expect.” Marc bent to kiss her, expecting her to turn her head so he could kiss her cheeks. Instead, she met him halfway. Her lips were soft and she tasted of the espresso they’d drunk. He wanted to take her back to his apartment, or upstairs to hers. He drew her closer, but she pushed back gently.