The Paris Game (24 page)

“Are you all right?” she asked hesitantly, coming to stand by him. He stayed still another moment while he crafted his response, the truth flavored with a few white lies. This was going to be easy.

“Things shouldn’t have happened the way they did,” he told Sophie as he lifted his head, keeping his gaze on the street. He let his voice thicken as if becoming distraught. “I was stupid, but I was grieving. I would take it all back if I could, but it’s long over.” He sighed again. “She’ll never let me forget it.”

He felt Sophie’s fingers slide into his.

“What happened?” she asked, her voice soft and sympathetic. He turned and looked down at her guileless face, her brow wrinkled in concern. “You don’t have to tell me, but it might help.”

Marc drew her closer. “You might not want to stay if I tell you,” he said. Immediately she shook her head in denial. “No, you’ll be out that door before I even finish. Even grief can’t excuse what I did; at least, I can’t ever forgive myself for it.” He paused for dramatic effect. “After my mother’s funeral, the daughter of one of my father’s friends comforted me. I wanted to forget everything.”

He remembered the quick and unsatisfying first encounter poorly. “I got drunk. I’m sure I slept with Xavière but I was hardly coherent.”

“Sera wasn’t with you at the funeral?”

“No. My father didn’t approve of her. Not that it mattered much longer after that.” His father had had a heart attack several months later. He’d heard mention that his father had pined for his mother, but he doubted that. “I don’t think she’s ever forgiven me for it.”

“But one time?” Sophie argued.

“It was more than once,” Marc corrected.

“Oh.”

He gave her an expectant look, but she stayed where she was. “You haven’t left.”

Sophie rocked back on her feet, too indecisive and uncertain to leave. Sera was her friend; she likely was uneasy at staying, yet she was still here.

“I don’t know. I should, I guess, but that had nothing to do with me. And you’re sorry for it happening. I can tell.” She leaned against him, her forehead resting against his shoulder. “I’ve heard worse than that. Not that I’m saying it’s okay,” she added, “but at least you and Sera are still friends. I would have liked it if my parents had been.”

“Je suis désolé, Sophie.”

“It’s okay, I’m used to it by now,” she replied. “Doesn’t keep me from wanting romance and a happily ever after, though.” Her laugh was muted. He didn’t doubt that she was self-conscious about her admission.

“A knight in shining armour to whisk you away?” he asked. “Or a courtier, to charm you, tell you flattering things, and bow before you to kiss your hand?” He raised her hand to his lips, watching her blush a deep pink. She glanced up at him once and he wondered if she was embarrassed by his gesture.

“Do you dislike it?” he asked, loosening his grasp on her hand.

“No,” she said after a moment. “It’s just...intimate.” She glanced up at him. Before she could look away, he raised her hand as if to kiss it once more, except he turned it over, stroking his thumb along the delicate veins on the inside of her wrist.

“That was common,” he said, his voice so low that she leaned forward, her lips parted. “This is intimate.” He pressed his lips into her palm, his gaze not leaving hers. She shivered and dampened her lips, and he knew that he had her. He curled her fingers over her palm and leaned in. She didn’t resist his kiss, responding tentatively, and he pulled her to rest against him. If she were more experienced, he would have taken her to his desk, turned her over the smooth wood and pushed up her flimsy skirt, but instead he clasped her buttocks and stifled her gasp of pleasure with his mouth. When they parted, she sagged limply against him. He kissed a line down her neck as he slowly undid the buttons of her high-necked dress. When she didn’t object, he continued, dipping to taste the hollow between her clavicles as he spread the neckline of the grey fabric.

Her skin was soft against his lips, delicate and pale with a faint scent of vanilla; a spoonful of crème brûlée to be savored. She made a little noise of surprise when he pushed down the lace cup of her bra, tasting her small pink nipple and feeling her fingers clutch at his shoulders. He teased the nub with his tongue, letting his teeth pinch her flesh gently. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, but when he slid his hand under her skirt between her legs, she gasped and pushed back.

He lifted his head. “Ça va, Sophie?” This hadn’t been what he’d expected. Another few moments and she should have been willing. Instead, she trembled for the wrong reasons, pulling her dress together and staring at him with wide eyes.

“I can’t.” She fumbled with the buttons of her dress, but when he reached out to help her, she flinched, moving further away.

“What is it?” At that moment he wanted to get his hands on Colette.

“You don’t know?” The look she gave him was pure confusion. When he didn’t answer, she continued. “I thought you knew—especially after the other night—I like Edouard.”

“Yes, I should have known.” He let himself look surprised, even abashed. “I’m sorry, Sophie.” Let her think he’d been overcome. “I should have controlled myself better, but it’s so hard to resist you.”

“I forgive you.” Sophie replied. “I might have been leading you on without realizing it.”

“I have more experience,” he reminded her gently. “I should have known better.”

“This won’t change anything about the internship, will it?” she asked, biting her lower lip.

“Of course not.”

“I’m glad.” She smoothed the front of her dress, her face flushed.

He chuckled. “Fournier would have my head.”

“He would?” Her gaze snapped up.

“Not literally, ma chérie,” he said. “They outlawed the guillotine years ago.”

“He doesn’t seem like the violent type.” Sophie gave him a tentative smile. “Will you tell him I’m taking the offer?”

“I’ll tell him you’re seriously considering it.” He grinned. “It’s better to keep him guessing anyway. He likes the suspense.”

“That’s mean of you.” She gently scolded him.

“Perhaps. Now, if you’ll allow, I’d like to take you to dinner. We need to celebrate your new job.”

She wavered. “That’s really too much.”

“It’s what I’d do for any new employee,” he replied.

“Okay.” She gave him a shy smile and stepped back and smoothed her hair. “I don’t look like I’ve been...?”

“No, you just look lovely as always.”

“I didn’t expect Fournier to be so excited,” Sophie said as they stepped out into the street. Marc took her hand and rested it on his arm as they walked down the Rue Seguier and through a series of small side streets.

“And you’ll get to see him every day,” Marc noted dryly.

“To live in Paris would be worth it.” She gave him a smile so beatific it would humble even the Pope. Sera had looked at him like that once, and even still he thought he had seen a hint of that smile when her gaze lit upon him in Le Chat Rouge. His tender smile was more for the memory of Sera, but he would never say as much to Sophie. She walked alongside him easily, the incident in the office seemingly forgotten.

“If you could go anywhere in Paris for dinner,” he said, slowing their pace, “regardless of cost or location, where would you choose?”

“Anywhere at all?”

“Anywhere. I’m in a generous mood.”

“The Café de Flore?” she suggested. “Or the Brasserie Lipp. Or any café along St. Germain.” Very touristy, and slightly expensive for what they offered, but he didn’t mind.

“Your wish is my command,” he said in English. A startled look flashed over her face.

“I didn’t know you spoke English.” She tugged at his hand. “Would you speak English to me all night?”

He grinned. “Perhaps later, if you ask me nicely,” he replied, returning to French.

“Promise?”

“Of course, ma chérie.”

“If I spoke only English to you all night, would you reply in English?” she asked curiously.

“I might. Do you miss hearing it? I assume it’s your native tongue.”

“Sometimes. Not often though. I’ve spoken French nearly my entire life.”

“That comes from living in Ottawa, oui?” he recalled. “But your mother tongue is English. It would be hard to give up using it.”

“I’d give it up completely if I could live here, and not look back.”

“There’s always translation work to supplement your income, and indulge your need for English,” he remarked, drawing her close as they turned onto the Boulevard St. Germain. “You could do well for yourself here.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.” Sophie was quietly thoughtful as they walked. As they reached the far side of Saint-Germain-des-près, she paused. “Might we go in?”

“You haven’t been?”

“Not inside. I met Sera while I was outside sketching, but I didn’t get a chance to take a tour.”

“She mentioned that you had been sketching the flowers over the Deux Magots,” Marc smiled down at her. “Did you bring your sketchbook today?”

“Always. But it would be rude to spend all my time sketching when I’m with company.” She recited this as if she’d heard it many times before.

“I’m not your grandmother,” he said. “If there’s something you want to sketch, then by all means.”

“You might regret that.” They turned into the square, passing through the heavy doors into the church. The scent of beeswax and the slight musty smell from the hymnals and wood washed over him, so familiar. Sophie laughed softly, respecting the building’s quiet sanctity. “I might be here awhile,” she warned him, taking her sketchbook from her bag and digging for a pencil.

“I’ll just take a wander while you work.” She smiled at him but he could tell she was already distracted. Artists. Always so single-minded. He stood at the back of the nave, tilting his head to follow the soaring buttresses of the high ceiling with its gilt stars. There were worse places to be and it was a choice spot to draw. Sophie picked an empty chair and he could just see the church interior taking shape on her page. He left her there and began a slow circuit around the outer corridors, pausing briefly to admire the small chapels tucked into quiet nooks.

He stopped at the chapel of the Virgin, halfway through his circuit. His mother had taken him here to light a candle for Henri, once she had recovered from the shock of his death. The bank of candles hadn’t changed, though the cost of donation had risen. There were several people praying in the chapel this evening and he could hear the soft click of their rosary beads, along with the gentle murmur from an older woman seated nearby.

The woman near the front lifted her head to look up at the statue of the Virgin and he recognized Sera just before she dipped her head and her dark hair veiled her face once again. He observed her for several minutes but she didn’t move and he realized she would be here for some time yet. She’d been religious when they’d been together, but this seemed like something more. The rosary beads slipped through her fingers as she counted her prayers over and over. His mother had done the same thing after Henri died, and again when she was in her hospital bed, wasting away.

“It’s calming,” she’d told him, pausing in her devotions to look over to where he sat in the uncomfortable chair near her bed. “Even if it isn’t real, as you say, it’s still comforting.”

He folded a bill and pushed it into the donation box. He lit two small votives, remembering how his mother’s shaky hand had lit the tapers for Henri. He lit one for her, and one for Sera. He felt like a bit of a superstitious fool, but knew both his mother and Sera would have appreciated the gesture if they’d known. He glanced at Sera once more in parting before continuing his circuit, studying the frescoes.

He reached his starting point and walked up the aisle to take a seat next to Sophie, who had filled several pages with sketches. She hadn’t moved from where he’d left her.

“So there you are.” She smiled at him affectionately. “I thought I was going to have to come find you.”

“Finished already?”

“Not really,” she confessed, “but it’s hard to concentrate when I’m hungry.”

“Then we should get you fed. Dinner?” He rose to his feet and held out a hand.

It was a short walk from the church to the Café de Flore, just a few steps down the boulevard St. Germain.

“Should we sit inside or on the terrace?”

“The terrace, I think,” Sophie decided immediately. She chose a spot set back from the sidewalk, their backs to the gilded front window of the café, sat behind the green-topped table. Marc skimmed his gaze over the pedestrians, wondering if he’d see Sera walking by on her way to work. He relaxed into his chair and let his fingers trace the delicate bumps of Sophie’s spine before settling on the back of her chair.

“I think he’d like to take our order.” She indicated the waiter standing politely near.

“Would you like something to drink, monsieur, et mademoiselle?” he intoned.

“Champagne, s’il vous plaît,” Marc replied before Sophie could answer. “A bottle of the Cliquot.”

“Oui, monsieur.” He retreated to leave them perusing the menu.

“Champagne? Really?”

“Why not? The occasion deserves it, don’t you think?”