The Paris Secrets trilogy: includes: Window, Screen, and Skin (2 page)

Taking advantage of the beautiful autumn evening, I lingered along the river.  I watched the
bateaux mouches
—cattlecar riverboats stuffed to the gills with tourists gawking and pointing at the ancient monuments—cruise by.  The air smelled both as sweet as the nearby crepe stands and as sour as the dank river.  I loved it all.

Once home, I set the mesh grocery bag on the kitchen counter, and filled a glass of water from the sink.  In the kitchen, a table and two chairs sat beneath the only window in the place that actually opened. 

The entire apartment was painted white, with minimal furnishings. I found the idea of picking out colors and figuring out my decorating style intimidating.  Gray furniture.  White walls.  A vase or pillow here and there added a splash of blue.  It didn't get easier than that.  Besides, I wasn't sure what went with stacks of books, and notes and file folders scattered everywhere. 

I did have a desk in the living room for my office, but that designated space tended to bleed into the living area, on the floor before the floor-to-ceiling windows, onto the kitchen table, and even around the corner and into the bedroom where more stacks of books lined the walls.

I could use a secretary. 

What I needed were book shelves.  I'd write that on my shopping list (if I could find it).

An open archway led into the bedroom that tempted strongly with a comfy, king-size bed.   The white iron frame had been a welcome prize the former owner had left behind.  I'd ordered one of those cozy air beds that came in a box, put it together myself, and
voila
!  Mounded with a fluffy white comforter and crisp white sheets, it was my favorite place to land.  But it was only nine.  Too early to hit the sack. 

I could crack open the book on string theory that I didn't want to tackle—research job—but then reminded myself that it was Friday.  I never worked on weekends, and the weekend officially began at six p.m. Friday evening (or noon if that's the way I wanted to play it).  Working freelance, a girl had to set rules and boundaries.  Otherwise, I could so wear the queen of procrastination crown.

Tonight I looked forward to sinking my brain into a novel instead of the usual non-fiction.  But first, I hadn't peed all day. 

Sitting on the toilet, I let my eyes wander along the line of clear subway tiles that cut a center dash around the room, otherwise completely tiled in white.  I mused on the utter clean whiteness of the apartment.  I, who surrounded myself with vibrant clothing and insensible shoes, had to admit I liked the starkness.  It felt new and clean.  Vast.  Promising.  Not much a girl could hide from here.

I smirked.  What was I thinking?  I had nothing to hide from.  I was an open book.  Granted, a sequestered book that didn't like to have her pages bent at the corners, and who would most certainly protest should someone crack my spine, but still. 

Okay, so I wasn't as open as I liked to believe.  Yet somewhere within my squishy depths lived a tiny vixen who would step out and have a good time if invited.

The apartment reminded me of one of those chic love nests the smart, business-savvy heroine in a romance novel would own.  She collected numerous lovers, none who ever came to her home.  They always ended up making love in the back seats of cars, or in the alleyway outside the Louvre, or in the dew-tipped grass of a garden courtyard enclosed within ancient buildings.

I could be such a heroine.  I was that heroine.  On the inside. 

I sighed.  Okay, so mostly I was that heroine.

I stripped off my clothes for a shower.  French showers are not a treat.  I like to soap up and linger under the stream, but the French apparently haven't discovered that attaching the showerhead to the wall frees up both hands.  I'd spotted the perfect showerhead in a nearby hardware store months earlier, but wasn't so skilled that I thought I could install it without creating a permanent leak.  So, once again, I struggled with the ungainly steel hose as I shampooed one-handed.  Despite the awkwardness it felt refreshing after a long day standing on my feet. 

Still didn’t stop me from yawning.

After drying off, I strolled out of the bathroom, bold in my nudity.  Curtains hung before the windows; sheers in see-through white, with heavy white draperies hanging to each side.  I kept the left side drape pulled because the window stretched halfway behind the bed.  The right drape I pulled aside during the day to let in light but kept the sheer pulled.

My bedroom was positioned at the back of the building, so our bedroom windows were separated by fifteen feet of air space across the narrow dead end.  The across-the-street neighbor had usually kept her heavy-backed bedroom curtains closed.  I didn't blame her.  With the lights on, I could see all the way into that apartments' connecting bathroom. 

I’d once stood on the street below and looked up, wondering if passing cyclists might get a glimpse of me standing
en deshabille
in my bedroom with the lights on.  Thankfully, no deal; it was just too high up, and the angle from the street didn’t work.  Whew!  I tended to walk around naked after a shower, and hopped into bed sans jammies.

Like I said, the former resident across the street had kept her curtains closed all the time, so I had never feared flashing anyone.

It had been two weeks since the new guy had moved in and I'd only caught sun-blurred details as I'd noted him moving through his living room.  His bedroom curtains hadn’t yet been pulled back.

I could feel my body wanting to fall toward the bed before I even decided that sleep was what I wanted.  No comforter tonight.  September was proving much warmer than usual.  Though the leaves on the trees had started to brighten in color, I lamented the fact that the building was not outfitted with central air, and that my window unit in the kitchen had gone kaput during a particularly steamy July. 

Gliding my hands over my belly awakened my flesh to a prickling awareness.  I was comfortable with my body, and touching it.  But for some reason, standing naked—In Paris! Before the window only covered by sheers!—felt naughty.  Decadent.

I loved that word: decadent.  Unrestrained self-gratification.  Indulgence.  And here I was, engaging in decadence.  And yet, my kneeling musketeer was strangely absent.  Oh, to grip him by the hair and pull his face closer to sup between my legs. 

I glanced to the bed.  The romance novel I'd tossed near the pillow beckoned.  I ordered them from Amazon because the bookstores here did not carry a sufficient selection of romance in English.  Rarely did I drift off to sleep without reading for at least half an hour.  Non-fiction during the week.  Escape novels on the weekend.

Opening to the bookmarked page, I wandered toward the big, gray velvet easy chair before the window—a match to the tufted chaise in the living room—and paused before the chair as a sentence held me riveted. 

I wanted to find out if Lucette would realize that Chance was two-timing her with the secretary who wore the tight pencil skirts, and who always left the top three buttons on her blouse undone.  I also wanted to snuggle into the velvet chair and lose myself in the story before going to bed, but the chair was overflowing with discarded clothing, tossed shoes, and a stack of hardcovers that awaited sorting into various research stacks.

Navigating a turn, I strode before the window.  Lucette wasn't so stupid that she didn't notice Chance was taking more care with his looks lately.  Hell, the guy had started manscaping, and he was wearing that new cologne. 

Mmm, I loved a spicy smelling man.  I could fall to my knees at the mercy of Old Spice. 

So?  I'm easy. 

But seriously, Lucette needed to notice Blaise.  Now there was a fine man.  The gardener had landscaped her yard to bloom throughout the year in varying stages of colors, and he always brought her fresh chocolate eclairs on Monday mornings when he arrived to weed and tend her garden.

I’d like a man to tend my garden.  And I wasn’t thinking about turning over dirt or plucking off dead blossoms.

Movement out of the corner of my eye caught my attention.  I paused, the opened book falling against my naked breasts.  A three-inch opening beckoned between the pulled sheers.  I peered out the floor-to-ceiling window and across the narrow alleyway.

The neighbor's curtains were pulled to the sides.  The window opposite mine revealed the interior of a bedroom thanks to a lamp on the short dresser next to the bed.

Suddenly I remembered I was naked.  I threw an arm across my chest cupping one breast, and scooted my hips backward, bending my knees and pressing my legs together while I angled the book over my pussy.  I leaned forward, maintaining my sight on the bedroom across the street. 

I spied the neighbor strolling around his bed, his attention also focused on a book.  A fencing manual?  Possible.  I'd seen him practicing a few days ago in the other room.  The position of the buildings didn’t allow a good view.  Either he'd been stabbing a sword at something or he'd killed an intruder. 

Sexy Fencer Guy wasn't wearing much of anything, save underwear.  Oh, baby.  I’ll take a musketeer in skivvies any day.

Fortunately, we both had windows sans wrought iron railings across the lower halves.  Rare in Paris, but it did provide a full-length, unhampered view. 

He hadn't noticed that he had an audience as he stood there before the end of his bed, the thick book held with both hands, and his head bowed intently over the words.  I did like a man who read.  Hands-down, it beat burping the alphabet as a means to impress the girl.

Boxer briefs hugged a nice, tight ass and the tops of well-muscled thighs.  On my list of preferred underwear types for males, boxer briefs came in at numbers three, two, and one.  They snugged the male form, yet landed lower on the thigh, like boxer shorts.  His were gray, and they conformed to his hips and ass and…unfortunately, he stood at an angle that didn't reveal the front package to me.

Biting my lip, I savored the sight.  What fortune, to catch a glimpse of a half-naked man out my window and have him look like some kind of Adonis.  I mean, how often did that happen?  Most women were lucky to spy a slouchy, middle-aged divorcee who stood in his tighty-whities, scratching his crumb-riddled belly waiting for someone to notice him.

"Welcome to the neighborhood, Mr. Sexy," I declared.

My neighbor was long, lean and ripped.  Muscles strapped his back like skin-colored armor.  Biceps curved with power and strength.  He stood straight, his shoulders tilted back.  From the side, the ripples defining his abs and chest resembled steps a girl—like me—would gladly skip up. 

Fencing did all that?  I had never thought the sport good for much more than the thighs and calves.  I'd tried it one summer in high school.  Strenuous on the legs.  And the padded vest and required mesh mask had been smelly and smothering.

He probably owned his suit and fencing sword.  I'm sure it smelled like him.  Spicy?  I could hope.

Suddenly he lifted his head, and as if remembering something he'd forgotten—he turned and looked right at me.

Chapter
Two

Frantic, I almost dropped my book, but in a miracle save, I tossed it onto the bed and tugged the sheers closed. 

"Really?" I argued with my beating heart.  "Is that the way you're going to let this one go down?"

The man was a god.  I'd seen him in his skivvies.  He'd seen me spying on him.  Naked.  Hell.  I grabbed the yellow silk robe from the end of the bed and tugged it on.  Embroidered across the breast was a little black bee.  Save the bees, save the world! 

Yeah, I was into that. 
Tres serieux
.

Holding the two sheer curtains together with one hand to each, I stood there, vacillating my options.  If I didn't open the curtains, it would be over.  But not really, because I'd always worry about seeing him on the street and having to explain that stupid moment when he'd caught me naked and spying on him. 

I was not a pervert.

At least, I didn't think I qualified for pervert status.  It had been a quick look.  And it wasn't as though he'd been trying to hide behind curtains.  He'd been standing there before the window, waiting to be seen.

Maybe
he
was the pervert?  Did it work that way?  I was out of my league on pervert knowledge.  Hadn't had the displeasure of researching that for any of my clients.

"Get it over with."  I tugged the curtain aside, and managed a silly little wave and said, "Hi" even though I knew he couldn't hear me.

His smile was nice, reaching his eyes.  He waved back, and didn't seem to notice his lacking attire.  He wore dark rimmed glasses and his loose hair was thick and waved over his ears.  It looked as though he might sweep his fingers through it to make it go back, otherwise it probably fell over his face and into his eyes in an unruly challenge.

He pointed to me, than tapped his book.

"Uh.  Oh!"  Grabbing the romance novel, I pressed the cover to the window so he could see that it was indeed one of those books with a man and woman embracing on the cover.  Didn't embarrass me.  Romance readers had the best sex lives, don't you know?

Then I pointed to him and my book.

He pressed the cover of his book to the window. 
Advanced PHP
, and…I couldn't read the tiny subtitle.  Computer stuff I couldn't begin to understand.  Beauty and brains, eh?