Meet Me in Venice (7 page)

They laughed together, sipping their champagne and nibbling on the dark green olives from Nice. Daria’s lean face, still faintly tanned from a couple of weeks on windswept Cape Cod, was animated, her eyes sparkled and she pushed her heavy hair back, sighing contentedly.

“If I weren’t missing Super-Kid so much I’d say I couldn’t be happier than at this moment, here with you in my favorite city.” She reached for Preshy’s hand. “I miss you, you know.”

“I know.” Preshy squeezed Daria’s hand tightly. “I miss you too. And anyhow, did you speak to Super-Kid today?”

“I did. And she said I needn’t hurry home, the grandparents
were taking her to Disney World. She’s too busy being spoiled rotten to miss me. Tom said he knew there was a time when all parents became redundant, he just didn’t realize it was at three years old. Now, where are we going to eat?”

“I thought La Coupole? It’s simple, easy . . .?”

“Sounds good to me.”

La Coupole was the most Parisian of brasseries. Opened in the twenties, it was large and lofty with massive pillars wonderfully painted by starving Montparnasse artists in exchange for meals. With its colorful murals, art deco light fixtures, red banquettes, a famous bar and its rows of tables with their white cloths, crammed next to each other, it was usually jammed with a hodgepodge of actors, politicians, publishing types, models and locals and tourists. Preshy said it was fun for simple food and people watching and it was just what they fancied.

It was still early for Parisians and the place was half-empty. They were shown to one of the tables lined up against the wall and so close to each other you could eavesdrop on every word spoken by your neighbors. Daria ordered fish and Preshy the
steak frites.
They were sitting contentedly sipping red wine, enjoying their catch-up conversation about life and family and friends in Boston, when Daria nudged her.

“Just look what’s coming our way,” she said under her breath.

Preshy followed her gaze, and then she saw him. Tall and dark and handsome as an Armani model, he was the man of every woman’s dreams. And at that instant he turned his head and looked at her. His dark blue eyes seemed to collide with hers. It was as
though he was absorbing her deep into their blueness, drinking her in for a long moment and not letting her go. The connection lasted only seconds but a shiver ran down Preshy’s spine as she finally dragged her eyes away.

The maître d’ was showing him to a table across from them but then she heard him say, “No, this one will do.” And he came and sat at the table next to her.

She sipped her wine, not looking at him, but little electric signals seemed to pass between them. He was so close she could have reached out and touched him.

“Bonsoir, mesdames,” he
said, acknowledging them, the way the polite French did when they were at close quarters in a restaurant, but she could tell from his accent he was American.

“Bonsoir, m’sieur,”
they replied. Daria nudged her meaningfully. “Smile at him,” she whispered, just as their food arrived.

“Pardon me,” the stranger said, “I don’t mean to intrude, but I don’t know what to order here, and what you’re eating looks awfully good. Can you tell me what it is?”

Since it was quite obviously steak and fries, Preshy slid him an amused sideways look. She swept her long coppery blond curls flirtatiously back over her shoulder, thinking what a stroke of luck she was wearing her good little black dress.

“Hi, I’m Bennett James,” the handsome stranger said. “I’m in Paris on business.”

“Where are you from?” Preshy asked.

“Shanghai.” He frowned. “It’s a long way.”

“Shanghai?” she said, surprised. “I have a cousin there. I’ve never met her but her name is Lily Song.”

Bennett James shrugged. “Shanghai’s a big city,” he said, unsmiling, and Preshy felt foolish for even supposing he might know her cousin.

“And your name is?”

“Precious Rafferty.” She blushed as she said it and she added quickly, “But when I was nine I cut I down to Preshy.”

“I don’t blame you,” he said and they all laughed. Then Preshy introduced Daria, who said she definitely recommended the
steak frites
if it was comfort food he was after, so he ordered that and a bottle of red wine and they got to talking about Boston and Paris. They only talked a little bit about Shanghai though, because Bennett said he was on “vacation” tonight in the loveliest city in the world. But he did say that he ran an export business that was becoming too big for him to handle and he needed to recruit new management to help him out.

He sipped his wine and his eyes locked with Preshy’s again, and again there was that electric jolt of attraction.

She felt Daria’s elbow in her ribs and slid her a sideways glance. There was a grin on Daria’s face as she said, “Sorry, my darling, but I’m running late. I promised Tom faithfully I’d be back at the hotel by nine.”

She gathered up her bag and her pale-blue gold-buttoned blazer—Daria would be preppie to the end—and slid out from the banquette.

“You’re leaving me alone with him,” Preshy whispered, as Daria bent to kiss her goodbye.

“You betcha,” Daria whispered back.

Bennett James got to his feet. “So nice to have met you, Daria,”
he said, giving her his long intense blue look and holding her hand in both his.

She nodded and said, “Enjoy the rest of your stay in Paris,” then with a wave she strode away through the now crowded tables.

Preshy felt the hot flush of panic up her spine; she was alone with a man she had only just met and whom she fancied strongly. Was she just going to say goodbye politely, as Daria had done, leaving him with her number, only to hover anxiously by the phone for the next week hoping he would call? Or was she going to go with this hot flow that urged her toward him and very possibly into his bed? It was crazy; after all, she wasn’t a promiscuous woman, and anyway she hardly knew him.

She felt his eyes on her and turned to meet them. In the silence it was as though he had touched her.

Finally he said, “Have you ever taken the sightseeing boat on the river Seine?”

She shook her head. “Only tourists do that.”

He grinned. “Then be a tourist with me. We could see Paris by night from the river. Could anything be more beautiful?”

He reached out and took her hand. His was smooth-skinned, warm and lightly tanned. A hint of dark hair peeked from his shirt cuff with the expensive gold and enamel cuff links and a simple gold watch. Those electric signals seemed to surge to Preshy’s very toes.

“I’ll do it,” she breathed.

“Good!” He signaled the waiter for the check, brushing away her protests and insisting on paying hers and Daria’s too.

“I’m just glad I met you,” he said, giving her that all-enveloping look again.

S
EATED
next to Bennett in the taxi on the way to the Pont de l’Aima, Preshy wondered whether he was going to try to kiss her. And if he did would she let him? After all she had met him only a couple of hours ago. What would he think of her? But to her surprise he did not attempt to kiss her. In fact he kept a discreet distance between them, filling in the silence that had fallen by asking her questions about herself and life in Paris.

“I know nothing about antiques,” he said as the taxi finally squealed to a halt at the
quai.
“You’ll have to teach me.”

Did that mean he wanted to see her again, Preshy wondered as he hurried her toward the sleek, brightly lit
Bateau Mouche.

As the glass-topped sightseeing boat slid smoothly down the river, Bennett led the way to a seat in the bow. The boat’s floodlights
lit up the magical scene as they glided under Paris’s loveliest bridges, illuminating in turn the magnificent public buildings and gilded monuments; the white dome of the Sacré-Coeur; and the massive buttresses and towering gargoyle-topped finials of Notre-Dame.

Preshy had never seen Paris from this angle before. “It’s breathtaking,” she murmured, instinctively reaching for Bennett’s hand.

His lips were close to her ear as he whispered, “I have a confession to make.”

She said, surprised, “We’ve known each other only a few hours, what could you possibly have to confess?”

“I saw you earlier, before La Coupole. I was looking in the window of your antiques store. It was your hair that grabbed my attention.” He took a strand of her long coppery hair, smoothing it between his fingers. “I couldn’t see your lace and you hurried away so fast, so . . . well, I just followed you.” He laughed as he said it. “I promise I’ve never followed a woman in my life before, but there was just something about you, that long-legged lope and the hair flying all over the place . . . Anyhow I took a seat near you at Deux Magots. And then I saw your face.

“I’m surprised you didn’t feel my eyes on you,” he added. “I was staring so hard. I was just getting up my courage to come over and speak to you . . . actually, to try to pick you up,” he confessed smiling, “when I heard you say you were going to La Coupole. So again I followed you. My luck held and I was able to get a table next to you.” He shrugged. “Of course, now you’ll probably think badly of me. But I’m an honest man, I had to tell you.”

Nothing this romantic had ever happened to Preshy in her entire
life, and she was dazzled. “I’m flattered,” she said softly. “I don’t think I’ve ever been followed by a man before.”

“And I hope you never will be again,” he said. Then as the boat slid silently into the darkness under a bridge he leaned in and kissed her.

Preshy’s lips trembled under his. The kiss was not passionate, though. Rather it was filled with a questioning tenderness. Bennett James seemed to know not to rush things; he seemed to be holding back, taking his time with her, letting her get used to the newness of it. She was grateful he recognized that she was not the quick-into-bed let’s-make-out kind of woman. She needed to be gentled along; she needed romance.

Still enchanted by the magic of Paris illuminated from the sightseeing boat and by their kiss, they took a taxi back to the Deux Magots where they sat over a final glass of champagne, talking and watching the street performers, the acrobats and the jugglers dressed in fantastical costumes, while a solitary guitarist played out-of-tune Spanish flamenco music, making them laugh. And then later, Bennett walked her back to the rue Jacob.

They stood in the courtyard, facing each other. He took both her hands and again Preshy felt that electric connection between them. She studied his lean finely sculpted face; he was without doubt the most beautiful man she had ever seen.

“I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed Paris so much,” Bennett said. “Thank you for a wonderful evening.”

“Thank
you
for picking me up.”

“Could you.” He hesitated. “I mean would you give me your phone number?”

Preshy scrambled in her purse for a business card. Of course she couldn’t find one, nor did she have a pen so she wrote her name and number with a lip pencil on a tissue and handed it to him.

He shook his head, smiling. “What kind of businesswoman doesn’t have her card handy?”

“I’m not such a hotshot businesswoman, I just happen to love antiques.”

He nodded, then instead of kissing her as she’d expected, he put a finger gently to her lips. “I’ll call,” he said, then he turned and strode out onto the street.

As the courtyard gates clanged behind him, Preshy turned and ran up the steps, fumbling to unlock the door. Once inside she ran to the window, searching the street for any sign of him. But he was gone. Sinking into the sofa she checked her phone messages. There was just one. “Call me,” Daria said, “as soon as you get in.” Quickly, she dialed her number.

Daria answered right away. “I couldn’t sleep thinking of you,” she said without waiting. “So . . . tell me what happened.”

“Oh, Daria,” Preshy said in a voice that trembled, “I think I’m being swept off my feet.”

A
T
ten the next morning the phone rang. Preshy pounced on it. “Hello?” she said, hoping it was him, yet surprised when it was.

“Preshy, it’s Bennett.”

“Ohhh . . . Bennett . . . hi . . . I mean . . . how are you?” Pulling her wits together, she said, “I hope you slept well,” then wished she hadn’t because it sounded as though she’d been thinking about him—which she had, but she didn’t want him to know that.

“Not very,” he said. “I was too busy thinking about you.”

This time words escaped her completely.

“Listen, Preshy, I’m returning to Shanghai tomorrow. Will you have dinner with me tonight?”

“Tonight? Why, yes, I’d love to.”

“Tell me where and I’ll make a reservation,” he said.

Preshy thought quickly. He was returning to Shanghai; she might never see him again after tonight; she could end up just a quick Paris fling . . . “No, I’ll make the reservation,” she said firmly. “Why don’t you pick me up here at eight?”

“Eight. I’ll be looking forward to it.”

“Hmmm, me too. See you then.”

She smiled as she put down the phone. She would take him to Verlaine. Sylvie would keep an eye on her. She wouldn’t let her get into any trouble.

VERLAINE WAS ONE OF THOSE
small storefront bistros in a narrow tree-lined street near the church of St. Sulpice in St. Germain. Its walls were lined with faded silvery mirrors that reflected the rosy lamplight as though through a fog, and dark green taffeta curtains swept across the windows, keeping outsiders from looking in while at the same time making the dining room feel cozy. Everything else was very simple: pale green linens, small vellum-shaded lamps, green banquettes and sturdy gilt chairs with green cushions. A great bouquet of field flowers that looked fresh-picked from some sunny meadow—daisies, sunflowers, goldenrod, lilacs and cherry blossom, depending on the time of year—greeted you as you walked in. And the fact that Sylvie used only what was seasonal and fresh in the market, combined with her true talent as a chef, was what delighted her customers and kept them coming back.

Sylvie was small and round and gamine-cute with merry brown eyes, short black hair and a temper when she was crossed. Which, in her job as chef and owner of the Bistrot Verlaine, meant a good deal of the time. Sous-chefs were the bane of her life and she had no doubt she was the bane of theirs because, as she told them frequently—and loudly—and truthfully—none of them lived up to her high standards.