We'll Always Have Paris (5 page)

“Good thing we didn't come by car,” Ryan said. “We'd need to hire a designated driver.”

“I'm not drunk,” she protested. “Just very relaxed.”

“Don't try to walk a straight line when you say that.”

They floated out of the restaurant on a cloud of great food, great conversation and great cognac. Kate thought she saw her brother and his wife walking toward them and she yanked Ryan into an alcove until the coast was clear. Ryan was sure Alexis and Gabe waved at them from the window of a passing cab. He twirled her behind a lamppost.

They felt lighthearted, silly, deliriously and unexpectedly happy.

Linking arms as they walked the cobbled street seemed the natural thing to do.

“There are more Donovans here than back in New York,” Ryan observed. “Who's watching the city?”

This struck Kate as hilariously funny.

“Yep,” said Ryan. “You definitely had too much brandy.”

Which was probably true, but who cared? She hadn't been this happy in years.

“Oh, look,” Kate said. “I see old Mr. Gardner from the hardware store.” She pretended to hide
behind Ryan, who ducked his head and pulled up the collar of his shirt to shield his identity.

Seconds later he grabbed her hand and started running toward the Eiffel Tower.

“I'm in heels,” Kate protested, “and I've had way too much cognac. Why are we running?”

“Remember Mrs. Harmel?”

She thought for a second. “Our home-room teacher?”

“She waved at us from the window of that bistro over there.”

She couldn't help it. She started laughing all over again. They saw the kid who used to deliver their daily paper twenty years ago. They saw her Uncle Bob from New Jersey who was eighty-seven and determined to die without ever once setting foot outside the Garden State. They saw Santa Claus, Easter Bunny, and an assortment of cousins, high-school classmates and Mick Jagger.

By the time they reached the base of the Eiffel Tower they had laughed so hard and so long, their sides ached.

“What if one of our clan really did see us together?” Kate asked as they leaned against a railing and tried to catch their breath.

He shrugged. “If they did, they did.”

“How would we explain this?”

“We'd tell them it was none of their business.”

“We couldn't do that.”

“Why not? It
isn't
any of their business.”

“I know. But they're family. They—”

Her words caught in her throat. The sky was the color of spilled India ink, spangled with stars. The sight of the Eiffel Tower soaring up into the darkness, glowing like a column of diamonds, made her shiver.

He drew her into his arms and she rested her head against his shoulder and let it all wash over her. The sweetness. The wonder. The pain. She couldn't escape any of it, and for once she didn't want to.

For a little while they were just another pair of lovers lost in their own world. Nobody gave them a second glance. This was Paris, after all, and it was only a matter of time.

* * *

T
HEY WERE QUIET
as they walked back to the hotel. Something had changed between them. She couldn't see it or hear it, but she knew it just the same.

They were moving toward each other across time and space and nothing short of a meteor strike could knock them off course.

They nodded to the doorman as they crossed the lobby of the Hotel St. Michel. They nodded to the desk clerk as they walked toward the elevator. They made polite conversation with the elevator operator as they creaked and rattled up to the sixth floor.

They fell silent as Ryan turned the key in the lock and opened the door to Room 625.

Small lamps burned in the entrance hall and in the sitting room, casting a soft pink glow. A bottle of brandy and two snifters rested on a tray atop a side table next to a small vase of perfect ivory roses. The sheer curtains at the windows billowed in the fragrant night breeze.

He tossed his keys on the table and turned to face her.

Kate's throat went dry. She met his eyes and years of shared history seemed to wrap itself around them, drawing them closer together until she was in his arms and the room, the hotel, even Paris fell away and all that was left was the two of them.

He tasted of coffee and cognac. Rich, deep, thrilling. She couldn't get enough of the feel of his mouth against hers. She was sixteen again and on fire for the only man she had ever loved.

T
HEY LEFT
a trail of clothing from the foyer through the sitting room to the bedroom. By the time they fell together onto the bed, he was naked and she wore only ivory lace panties and red heels. She had never felt more powerful or sensual in her life.

His body was as familiar to her as her own. The muscular shoulders, the scar on his back from a diving accident, the smell of his skin. She would know him in the dark.

This was Paris. Paris wiped the slate clean if only for the night. While they were in that room, entwined together on that bed, they could be whoever they wanted to be.

No barriers. No boundaries. No limits. The warmth of cognac against her nipple…the moist heat of his tongue as he licked his way down her body…the raw male power that made her scream her pleasure in a way she never had before.

Anything was possible when there was no tomorrow.

They didn't talk. Words were dangerous. Words
could turn on you when you least expected it. They let their bodies say all those things they had kept hidden from each other for far too long.

The chemistry between them was undeniable. It had been from the beginning. But tonight, on that wide soft bed in Paris, their chemistry was touched by magic and the combination brought her to tears.

She turned her head away so he wouldn't see but he knew instantly.

“You're crying,” he said, holding her close. “I didn't—”

She snuggled even closer. “You were wonderful. This was—” She searched for words to describe the way she was feeling, but they didn't exist in English or French or any other language.

“I know.” He brushed his lips against her forehead. “For me too.”

They had been careful this time. There would be no surprises nine months later to ruin a perfectly happy divorce.

Not that they talked about the divorce. By some unspoken agreement the divorce was off-limits tonight. They would do whatever it took to keep the fragile magic bubble of happiness aloft as long as they could.

They made love. They ate room-service croissants and washed them down with brandy and coffee. They made love again and then congratulated each
other for proving you didn't have to be twenty-two to sizzle.

“Show me the portrait,” he said as he handed her the last croissant.

“You'll see it at the wedding.”

“How about a sneak peek.”

“Maybe later.”

“Come on,” he said. “I'd really like to see it.”

He almost backed off when he saw the uncertain look in her eyes, but then she swung her legs off the bed and motioned for him to follow her into the foyer.

He watched as she carefully unwrapped the painting from innumerable protective layers of paper and protective backing.

“The TSA got a preview at the airport,” she said as she peeled away the last layer. “Raul and Melinda liked it but Sean and Paulie said it lacked nuance.”

He laughed out loud and she smiled.

“I hope Alexis likes it. I didn't want to do one of those stiff and formal portraits. I tried to capture who we are—well, who we were.” She turned it around to face him and the room fell silent.

She had painted their daughters on the back porch. Somehow she had caught them at an imaginary point between the girls they used to be and the women they were becoming. They were achingly lovely, his daughters, and ready to fly off into lives of their own. The way they leaned forward. The look
in their eyes. Young women on the verge of their futures.

She had painted him into the upper right hand corner of the composition, watching over his daughters but no longer a part of their daily lives. She had chosen to paint herself as a reflection in the French doors behind the girls, a distracted but watchful presence with her easel and paints.

There was a bittersweet edge to the painting that he hadn't noticed before in her work. She had captured a family about to spin off into separate orbits. Alexis and Gabe would build a family of their own and one day soon Taylor and Shannon would follow suit. In a perfect world that would have marked the start of the second chapter in their married life, a renewal of all the early promises.

Instead they were standing on the brink of divorce.

How the hell could he have lived with her for so long, shared a bed and a life, and not come close to recognizing the depth of her talent? He had known she was good, but nothing had prepared him for this.

He felt he had been walking around blindfolded. He knew about the courses she had taken, the workshops, the day care she had bartered for art lessons, the careful management of their family budget so she could buy supplies. He knew it all. He had been there every step of the way. So why hadn't he been able to make the leap with her from
passing interest to consuming passion? Why hadn't he seen her as the gifted artist she was and not just his wife?

“Say something, Ryan.”

He was completely captured by the painting and the future unfolding for her. “Once that magazine article comes out, you're going to be on your way.”

“You might be partial to the subject matter.”

“This is the best thing you've ever done.”

“Look at our girls. You couldn't possibly paint a bad portrait of them.”

“Don't do that, Kate. This is great work. Admit it.”

She hesitated then a huge smile spread across her face. “You're right,” she said, tilting her head to one side as she inspected her work. “This
is
pretty damn good.”

“That magazine article might change your life.”

“We'll see. You never really know which way these things are going to go.”

A thousand different emotions played across her familiar and beautiful face. He saw their history in her eyes. What he didn't see was their future.

“I was wrong.”

She continued to look at him but said nothing.

“I expected you to jump when I got the job offer in Boston.”

“So did I,” she admitted. “I always said painting was portable. I just didn't know that I wasn't.”

“We still could have made it work,” he said. “I never gave us the chance.”

She turned her head away and he couldn't tell if she was angry, sad, or had simply stopped hearing him a long time ago.

“You know what?” she said finally. “I probably wouldn't have listened. My contacts were all in New York. Everyone I knew, everyone I cared about. You might as well have asked me to move to Mars.”

“I didn't ask,” he said. “I announced.”

She shot him a look. “Yeah, you kinda did just announce it.”

But they both knew the problem went far deeper than that. They had drifted apart long before the Boston job offer. Work, kids, everyday life. Sometimes he thought they had scheduled themselves right out of their marriage.

But never out of love. For the first time in years, he finally understood that the love not only remained, it had flourished.

Now all he had to do was find a way to make her see that too.

* * *

T
OWARD DAYBREAK
it started to rain.

They had barely drifted off to sleep when it began, a steady tap-tap against the windows and eaves.

“I'll bet Aunt Celeste planned this, too,” Kate said as Ryan got up to open the windows. The sweet smell of April rain and flowers filled the room.

If there was anything more romantic than being in bed with the man you loved on a rainy spring morning in Paris, she couldn't think what it might be.

“The deck's definitely stacked in favor of romance.” He was standing by the window, looking down at the street traffic.

“Come back to bed,” she murmured. “We just went to sleep a few minutes ago.”

He bent down and placed a kiss against her temple and she sighed happily. “Don't worry,” he whispered as she drifted back into sleep. “I'll be back in time for the wedding.”

They didn't need the Louvre or the Eiffel Tower or the Champs d'Elysee.

Right now they had each other and that was everything.

* * *

K
ATE WOKE UP
a little before eleven to an empty bed. It took a few seconds for her to remember that she wasn't home in her New York bed; she was in Paris.

With Ryan.

She touched his pillow with the back of her hand. It was cool. That was odd. She hadn't heard him get up.

The shirt he had worn yesterday was tossed over the side chair. She reached for it and slipped it on. It still smelled of him and she shivered with something close to pure animal pleasure.

The bathroom door was open, but there was no
sign of him there or in the sitting room. A funny little tingle of apprehension began to snake itself around her spine, but she pushed it away. He was a man and men could only go two or three hours without food. Maybe he had gone out in search of an Egg McMuffin or, better still, freshly baked croissants from one of those incredible bakeries that had been around since the Revolution.

She was about to go take a long hot shower when she decided to make sure the wedding portrait was safely tucked away, and she padded out to the foyer. The portrait had been neatly rewrapped and returned to the huge travel portfolio. His cell phone was on the floor near the escritoire but his bags were nowhere to be seen.

Okay,
she told herself as that uneasy tingle took hold again, this time with a vengeance. Every millennium or so, a man actually put his stuff away. Maybe this was one of those miracle moments. His cell probably fell out of his pocket when he bent down to stow his bags. She decided to play Nancy Drew for real this time and checked the foyer closet. It was empty. She ran back into the bedroom and checked the big double closet and it was empty too. There was nothing under the bed, hidden away behind the drapes or in the tub.

He was gone.