What If It's Love?: A Contemporary Romance Set in Paris (Bistro La Bohème Book 1) (25 page)

“No, we didn’t.”

“I don’t understand—”

Rob didn’t let her finish. “Where are you
calling from?”

“Luxembourg Gardens, the Senate end.”

“Can you take line 4 at Odeon and get off at
Château d’Eau? I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Please, I need to show you
something.”

Half an hour later, Rob invited Lena to step
into a minimalist studio apartment off Boulevard de Strasbourg.

“This is where I’ve lived since I moved back
to Paris. By myself.”

Lena looked around.

“I never moved out,” he said.

She looked into his eyes and smiled.

He took a step toward her. “I can’t believe
you’re here.”

He was so close now. Close enough for her to
feel the heat of his body. He took a handful of her dark hair and brought it to
his face. Then he closed his eyes and inhaled. Lena stood still, her head
tilted up and her eyes shut.

Oh, how she had missed him! She ached to put
her arms around him, run her hands through his hair, and kiss him with all the
ardor she was capable of. But she also wanted to savor every moment, every
second of this delicious reacquaintance. Unlike in Moscow two months ago, it
was just the two of them now, without the distressing presence of Dmitry or
Amanda at the back of her mind. She delighted in being with Rob like this, free
of guilt and misgivings, free to let him take things as slow as he liked.

He kissed her ever so gently. Her hands went
to his chest, his neck, his hair. He continued to softly kiss her lips, taking
his time and teasing her. Then his big, warm hand cupped one of her breasts.
His touch was as gentle as his kisses—and incredibly erotic. His thumb
brushed her nipple through the thin fabric of her dress, and she quivered.

“Rob,” she whispered into his ear. “I want
you.”

He cradled her face in his hands, his eyes
intense as they searched hers. And then his mouth came down on hers, hard. His
tongue pushed inside with so much pent-up hunger that all rational thought fled
from Lena’s mind, leaving behind only liquid fire. Her whole body became a
vortex of excruciating need. She needed the feel of his bare skin against hers.
She wanted his hands all over her. She craved the weight of his body.

Rob knelt before her and pressed his face
into her tummy. His hands began to stroke her thighs, pushing her skirt up as
he progressed. Lena closed her eyes and threw her head back. A moan escaped her
lips. She couldn’t wait another minute. He let out an unintelligible groan and
pulled her down to him, easing both of them onto the carpet. And then he was
atop her, around her, in her, giving her what she hungered for, holding nothing
back. The world exploded into a billion shiny pieces—then slowly came
together again, in perfect congruity and peace.

* * *

“There’s something I still don’t understand,”
Lena said as she lay on the couch, her head on Rob’s lap. “What about Amanda’s
Facebook update from early May? She announced you were moving in with her.”

Rob stroked her hair. “Oh yes, that update.
After I returned from Moscow, I spent two weeks working around the clock. I
rarely talked to anyone unrelated to the company. I hardly slept or ate until
all the merchandize was manufactured and shipped. During that time, Amanda
started telling people we were moving in together . . . Imagine
my surprise when I got a text from Mat congratulating me on the big step.”

“What did you do?”

“I finally took an honest look at my
relationship with her. I couldn’t be with her anymore. I didn’t want to live
the way you were living with Dmitry—a lie. Amanda and
I . . . it wasn’t working, in spite of all the reasons why it
should have worked. In spite of us being ‘perfect for each other’ as you once
told me.”

Lena covered her face with her hands.

“It’s OK. Everyone thought we were perfect
for each other.
I
thought we were perfect for each other. In fact, I
still do. We
are
perfect for each other, but only as friends.”

“I was stupid—stupid and blind,” she
said.

“You think you’re wiser now?” he asked, a
smile in the corner of his lips.

“I think I’m braver now.” Her expression was
earnest.

“So you won’t run away next time I stumble?”

“Why, are you planning to?”

“Of course not.” He traced the outline of her
mouth with his fingertips. “But it may happen. Nobody’s perfect—not even
your ex-husband, as it turned out. Are you now brave enough to stick around and
work things out?”

Lena sat up, tucking her legs under her, and
took Rob’s hand in hers. “I am.”

He gave her a long intense look, then smiled
and drew her closer to him.

After a little while, he continued his
unfinished story. “When I went to Amanda’s to break up with her, I was so
clumsy. I started by saying I had to tell her something. She jumped in and told
me she wanted to start a family.”

He grimaced and stared at the wall in front
of them. “That was when I told her we were through. It was the most difficult
conversation in my whole life.”

Lena felt sorry for him, but she couldn’t
help imagining herself in Amanda’s place. It must have been awful for her.

He turned to look into her eyes. “I hated
myself every second of that talk, and then some. I delivered all the clichés
people say in such cases. I told her she deserved better. I also told her I
wasn’t worthy of her. I might’ve even mumbled ‘it’s not you, it’s me’.”

“How did she react?”

“With dignity and composure. She was so cool.”
He smiled bitterly. “The best part—or shall I say, the least awful part—was
when she gave me that hard look and told me to go screw myself.”

“That
does
sound like Amanda. I mean
the message, not the particular choice of words.”

“Yep. That’s why I wish I could keep her friendship.
I love her frankness, her wit, her determination. I just could never love
her . . . the way I love you.”

He broke off, panic flickering in his eyes. “Can
we please rewind the last ten seconds? I didn’t mean to hit you with it yet. I
wanted to wait till you were ready.”

Lena felt like she was in one of her
daydreams. Only this time it was real and utterly unexpected. And glorious
beyond anything she’d ever experienced.

She brought his hand to her face and pressed
her cheek into his palm. “I love you, Rob. With all my heart.”

<<<<>>>> 

Excerpt from
Under My Skin

(Bistro La Bohème Book 2)

A
TALL WELL-DRESSED
guy entered the bistro, dripping rain and hotness. He
stopped by the door and surveyed the room.

Must be looking for Rob,
Jeanne thought. She tried to peel her
gaze off him and focus on the conversation around her. Easier said than done.
Aside from his general attractiveness, the stranger was full of contrasts that
mesmerized her.

He had long legs and narrow hips, yet his upper body was deliciously
brawny.
The poor fellow must have a hard time finding suits that fit
.
Speaking of suits, his was a sleek number cut from the finest, smoothest wool
to grace
La Bohème
on her watch. The trendy jacket overlaid the lines of
his V-shaped torso as if it were tailor-made. Which it probably was
.
On
top of all that, his friendly, clean-shaven face sported a masculine nose and a
firm jawline.

Just as the mysterious hunk turned to survey her side of the room, Rob
approached him and gave him a big hug.

“I’m so glad you made it! It wouldn’t have been a proper engagement party
without my best man.”

“It’s a matter of having one’s priorities straight,” the hunk said. “I
told the boss I was leaving at five thirty, whether we were finished or not.”

His crooked smile sent a couple of Jeanne’s internal organs into a happy
little somersault.

“That’s the spirit, man.” Rob grinned.

The guy winked. “Having Mom as my boss does have its perks. Where’s Lena,
by the way?”

“Fetching her folks. They should be here in half an hour.” Rob patted him
on the shoulder. “Now, why don’t you give me your wet jacket and get yourself a
drink. The party doesn’t officially begin until eight thirty, so you can chill
and talk to the people you know.”

The hunk removed his jacket, uncovering an expensive-looking
shirt—and a better view of his broad chest.

Jeanne swallowed. Was this guy real?

Rob took the wet garment from him and walked away. And then something
weird happened. The hottie remained by the door instead of walking toward the
guests or the bar. He looked around the room as if searching for
someone—his gaze lingering on the females until it met Jeanne’s. He
beamed and walked toward her, his eyes trained on her and full of warmth.

Does he know me? Do I know him?

It was downright impossible she would forget a stud of this caliber, even
if she had met him during her wild teens.

“Hi, Jeanne. Don’t you remember me?” he asked when he was close enough
for her to discern the hint of five-o’clock shadow on his chiseled jaw.

“I’m sorry . . . Are you sure we’ve met?”

“Every day for almost two years.”

Righto
. “Next you’ll tell me I used to go out with you,” she said
tilting her head to the side.

“Unfortunately, you didn’t.” The dreamboat sounded genuinely sorry. “But
it wasn’t for my lack of trying. I spent most of my money eating at this bistro
just so I could see you.”

She gave him a puzzled look. Who
was
he?

“OK, you really don’t remember me.” He bowed ceremoniously. “Mathieu
Gérard, also known as Mat. I’m a friend of Rob’s. We studied together here in Paris
a few years back.”

“Mat?” There was no way this guy was Mat. “You can’t be him. Mat
was . . . he was . . .”

“Nothing like me?” he prompted, the corners of his mouth twitching.

To put it mildly.

End
of Excerpt

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On Tsvetaeva

Marina Tsvetaeva (1892–1941) is one of the
greatest Russian lyrical poets of the twentieth century. Critic Annie Fitch
describes her work: “Tsvetaeva is such a warm poet, so unbridled in her
passion, so completely vulnerable in her love poetry  [...]. Tsvetaeva
throws her poetic brilliance on the altar of her heart’s experience with the
faith of a true romantic, a priestess of lived emotion. And she stayed true to
that faith to the tragic end of her life.” (Source:
Poetry Foundation
).

On poems and translations

All the poems included in this novel are by Marina
Tsvetaeva. The translations are mine.

My initial intention was to use existing
translations, but after checking out every volume I could get my hands on, I
had to review my approach. I had found the translated poems so thoroughly
altered
in form (i.e., rhyme and meter) that I could no longer recognize Tsvetaeva’s
unique voice. So I had no choice but to translate them myself from the
Russian-language originals.