Under My Skin: A Contemporary Romance Set in Paris (Bistro La Bohème Book 2) (6 page)

He shook his head. The heater against his back and the tea in his stomach
were beginning to warm his blood and relax his muscles. He suspected Jeanne’s
slightly throaty voice had something to do with it, too. She always sounded as
if she’d just rolled out of bed.

The sexiest voice a woman could have.

He lifted his eyes. What was the point in not looking if hearing her speak
produced exactly the same effect?

“I’m staying with my dad. He lives in Paris.”

“Oh,” she said. “I didn’t know your parents were divorced.”

“It’s been ages. But they are on OK terms, making life easier for all of
us.”

“You’ve got siblings?”

“Nope.” He put his empty mug down. “What about you? Any brothers or
sisters?”

“A brother. He’s in Nîmes, running the bakery with Mom and Dad.”

They remained silent for a moment.

Mat knew he had to thank Jeanne for the tea, collect his coat
,
and walk out. It was after midnight. She
must be tired and wishing he’d just leave so she could finally go home. He
racked his brain for a reason to linger.

There was none.

He stood abruptly. “Thank you for the tea.”

“You’re welcome.”

He took a step sideways to get out of the narrow space between the heater
and the table, and ended up a mere two inches from Jeanne, who’d risen from her
seat in the meantime. They both froze and stared at each other. He swallowed
,
as his gaze traveled from her
mind-blowing lips down to her heaving breasts, and then back up to her warm
brown eyes.

He took a deep breath, catching the smell of coffee in her hair. His
pulse throbbed in his head.

“I’m going to kiss you,” he said. “You may slap me or kick me in the
balls afterward, but I must kiss you.”

He cradled her head with both his hands to execute his threat. His lips
touched hers reverently, lightly, barely grazing them. She let out a soft sigh.
He inhaled her head-turning scent and once again brushed his burning lips over
hers. He had imagined this moment a thousand times, trying to guess how she
would taste. Honey? Chocolate? Mint? But he didn’t want to deepen the kiss just
yet. He had dreamed of doing this for so damn long. He was going to take it as
slowly as he possibly could.

Her lips were soft and warm beneath his as he kissed her with an adoring
tenderness he didn’t know he possessed. He shifted closer, his hands caressing
her shoulders and her back, pressing her to him. The desire that stirred in him
was nothing like he had experienced before. It roared like a wild beast and
clawed his insides. It demanded to be set free, urging him to abandon all
control and invade her mouth, her body, her very soul.

But he wasn’t giving in to it. Not yet. He kissed the corner of her
mouth, tugged on her lower lip, and nipped it lightly.

She moaned and dug her fingers into his shoulders. “Oh Mat,” she
whispered against his mouth.

He pulled away just enough to take in her heavy lids, her flushed cheeks,
and her heaving chest. She was peering at his mouth, her head tilted up, an
unspoken plea in her eyes. She wanted him. Jeanne—the woman he’d craved
so desperately, so hopelessly—now desired him, too. He feasted his eyes
on her as his shoulders pushed back and his chest expanded.

Does she have any idea
what it means to me to see her like
this?

Could she guess what it did to him to watch her aroused by his gentlest
kiss? To know she desired him, to see her all but begging him to kiss her
again?

He traced the outline of her jaw and cupped her nape, delving his fingers
into her silky hair. His other hand circled her waist. He held her firmly,
preparing to brand her with an entirely different kind of kiss. He was done
teasing. The kiss he wanted now would be hot, hard, and messy.

And infinitely intimate.

His phone rang, startling him
.
It was Cécile’s ringtone, which was unusual. When one of them traveled for
work, they respected French etiquette and never called each other after ten
o’clock. Something must be wrong.

He pulled the phone from his pocket and turned his back to Jeanne. “Are
you OK?” he asked Cécile
,
his voice
sounding like a stranger’s.

“I’m fine. Sorry about calling, I was just . . . I had
this bad feeling, like something happened. Are
you
OK?”

“I’m fine,” he echoed her words.

“Are you at your dad’s already?”

“Not yet. I’m about to leave.”

“Will you please take a cab?” she pleaded. “You must be a little drunk,
what with all those wines you’ve been sampling.”

“I will. I promise,” he said.

He shoved the phone into his pocket and swirled
around. Jeanne was no longer beside him. She stood outside by the entrance
,
zipping up her parka. She had already
pulled the rolling grilles halfway down. He grabbed his coat and rushed out.
She lowered the grilles completely, locked them, and bolted away before he
could say anything.

***

Chapter Four

January

It was a gorgeous midwintry morning, the air bristling with an exotic
crispness brought by the northern winds all the way from Greenland. Snow had
fallen all night, dressing Paris in a pretty white coat, all prim and virginal,
as if the world didn’t know better. Christmas decorations still dangled from
the wires strung across the streets, a little sad by daylight but a welcome
illumination as soon as night would fall.

Jeanne turned away from the window and rubbed her temples. An aspirin was
in order if she was going to make it through the morning shift without dozing
off in the middle of José’s account of his latest rendezvous. She filled a
glass with water and swallowed a pill. It should kick in before the first
customers arrived.

It had been a rough night. At two in the morning loud voices coming from
Daniela’s loge woke her up. While she fumbled for the light switch and tried to
peel her lids open, Daniela’s angry shouting turned into screams of pain.
Jeanne pulled a fleece on top of her pajamas and ran out. She knocked on
Daniela’s door, louder and louder until the voices inside quieted, and Daniela
opened the door.

“What’s going on?” Jeanne asked.

“Nico—that is, my boyfriend showed up drunk. I’m sorry,” Daniela
said.

She had a blackened eye and a huge bruise on her arm.

An irate male voice came from inside the loge. ”Who are you talking to?”
Then a burly red-eyed man shoved Daniela aside and stood in the doorway. “Who
are you?”

“I’m Daniela’s next-door neighbor. And who are you?” Jeanne asked.

“I’m Daniela’s man. You have a problem with that?”

Jeanne inhaled. The guy was scary but she refused to show her fear. “I
have a problem with you hitting her.”

He looked her over, then turned to Daniela and sneered. “Sounds like
you’ve got yourself a friend. Or maybe she’s your special lady friend?” He
glanced at Jeanne. “Not a beauty”—he hiccuped—“but
so”—another hiccup—“hot.”

Nico narrowed his eyes, trying to focus his gaze on Jeanne. His mouth
fell slightly open and a small stream of drool trickled down his chin.

Jeanne nearly choked with disgust. “If you don’t leave right now, I’m
calling the police.”

“Really?” He put his hands on his hips and snickered. “And what will you
tell them—that you heard lovers bickering?”

“You hit her,” Jeanne said. “I’m not blind. And neither are the cops.”

Daniela pushed him to the side and pointed at her eye. “This isn’t his
fault. I fell this morning and hurt myself.” She gave Jeanne a pleading look.
“Please don’t call the police. They’ll only add to my problems. Please.”

Jeanne shook her head in dismay. How did you help someone who refused to
be helped?

She turned to Nico and said as ominously as she could manage. “I’m going
back to sleep. And I suggest you do the same.” Her gaze fell on his drool again
and she winced. “And if you hurt her once more
,
I’m calling the cops, whether Daniela wants me to or not.”

Then she spun around and strode to her apartment, praying he’d do as
instructed.

Nico wolf-whistled. “Nice ass.”

Jeanne chose to ignore him and pushed her door open.

“Ooh, I’m so scared, I’m trembling,” Nico said before Daniela pulled him
inside and shut the door.

The rest of the night was quiet, but it took Jeanne several hours to fall
asleep again. She thought about the incident and played alternative scenarios
in her head. In all of them, she was a lot stronger and stood up to the jerk
much more convincingly. In one of the versions, she even punched him in the
face and knocked him out. And then said to Daniela,
You’re wasting your life
with the wrong man
.

Then, somehow, her thoughts wandered to Mat—the wrong man in her
own life. She hadn’t seen him since their kiss at the bistro, but he’d been
ever-present in her thoughts. She’d lost count of her daydreams where he’d show
up at
La Bohème
to announce he had broken up his girlfriend because he
wanted Jeanne too much to fight it
.
In other fantasies
,
he’d knock on
her door, tell her the same thing, kiss her, and make love to her.

But it had been almost two months since Amanda’s party, and she hadn’t
seen or heard from him. Not even a note or a text to say he was sorry. Nada.
Which meant only one thing—she should stop thinking about him and get
real. He wanted her, all right, but he was clearly able to fight it
.

And so would she.

In the morning, just before heading to the bistro, she called her old
friend Greg.

“Hey, how’s my favorite barista doing these days?” Greg asked, sounding
happy to hear her voice.

Jeanne told him about Daniela and her violent boyfriend. ”Can you help
her?” she asked. “Your NGO’s there to help people who are in trouble, no?”

“First, I’m in Nîmes, so it’s difficult to reach out to someone in
Paris,” Greg said. “Second, we help refugees and asylum seekers—people
who have no one to turn to.”

“And how about battered women? Who helps them?”

“I know just the person, as it happens. I’ll talk to her and call you
back,” Greg said.

Jeanne let out a sigh of relief. “You’re a darling.”

“Let’s just hope your friend will be willing to accept help. A lot of
women in abusive relationships underestimate the gravity of their situation.”

“I know,” Jeanne said. “But then again, she seems
to be a sensible person. Besides, she has a kid. I hope she’ll do it for him,
if not for herself.”

***

The aspirin finally kicked in, and Jeanne inhaled, relieved her head was
no longer squeezed by invisible forceps. She turned the coffee machine on,
tamped a coffee cake in the filter basket, and poured milk into a steel jug.

“Hey, Amar
,
come over here.
It’s time for lesson number . . . what number did we leave off
on?”

“Forty-seven? Or was it four hundred forty-seven?” Amar planted himself
next to her and dipped the steaming wand into the milk. “I really need my crème
this morning.”

“So do I,” Jeanne said. “But, remember, the main purpose of these two
cups is to test the grind. You’ll tell me if the grinder needs adjusting after you’ve
had your crème
.
”

“Whoa. This is going too fast. I’m not ready for such a big step.” Amar
pulled a panicked face.

“Don’t worry; I’m not assigning points today. Now, pay attention. You
want to heat the milk to seventy degrees, no more. If you overheat it, your
crème will taste burned.”

She poured the heated milk onto the coffee, creating a perfect froth,
handed the cup to Amar
,
picked up
her own espresso cup, and inhaled its full-bodied aroma.

Thank God for coffee.

Didier arrived with bags of fresh croissants from the nearby bakery. He
removed his coat and gloves, and offered a croissant to Jeanne. “In exchange
for your smile, princess.”

“You’re mistaken, monsieur. I’m a baker’s daughter.” Jeanne smiled and
took the croissant.

“To me, you’re a princess,” Didier retorted.

Amar placed his cup on the countertop. “Can I have one
,
too? I’ll smile as much as you want, and
you don’t have to call me a princess.”

Didier glared at him. “If you want a croissant, greenhorn, you have to
pay for it.
La Bohème
isn’t a charity.”

“I’ll buy you one if you diagnose the grinder correctly,” Jeanne offered.

Didier rolled his eyes. “Still trying to train him? It’s a waste of
time.”

He put a few delicious-smelling specimens on display and packed the rest.

Jeanne turned to Amar
.
“Don’t
mind him. He isn’t as mean as he’s trying to appear.”

“I agree—he isn’t. He’s much meaner than he’s trying to appear,”
Amar said.

Didier tied his black apron around his hips. “When we take this place
over, we should refurbish it to make it trendier. The neighborhood is
gentrifying at rocket speed. We need to make
La Bohème
attractive for
the local bobos
.
”

Jeanne squirmed. What made him so sure it would be
we
? “I agree it
needs refurbishment. Badly. And those god-awful flowery tiles definitely have
to go.”

“I’m glad you agree,” Didier said smugly.

“Yes. But . . . I would keep most of the original
fixtures. They give
La Bohème
its identity. And I wouldn’t worry about
the bobos
.
This place tends to grow
on them.”

“Let’s not argue about it now, but . . . wouldn’t you
prefer to tend a chic lounge bar rather than a bistro counter?” Didier arched
an eyebrow
.

“I like this counter. Besides, if
La Bohème
became a lounge bar to
attract more bobos
,
we’d lose a good
share of our usual patrons. The old people will stop coming. We’d lose clients
like José, Madame Blanchard, Monsieur Pascal
,
the Costa couple, and many more. To some of them
La Bohème
is life
support.”