Falling in Paris (Encounters #3) Read online

  Falling in

  Paris

  FIFI FLOWERS

  Champagne Girl Studio

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above author of this book.

  Copyright © 2016 Fifi Flowers

  Kindle Edition

  Cover Design by Susan of Wicked Women Design

  Formatting by BB eBooks

  Edited by Jacquelyn Ayres

  Published by Champagne Girl Studios

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  www.FifiFlowers.com

  WARNING: This book contains sexually explicit material and is intended for adult readers only.

  Other Books by Fifi Flowers

  – All Standalone Books –

  A Window to Love, (Book 1, Windows Series)

  Awakening to You Trilogy: Complete Book

  Just A Number, (Book 1, Downtown Series)

  Drawn to a Cowboy, (Book 1, Brothers Duet)

  Reclining Nude in Chicago, (Book 1, Encounters Series)

  Taming the Curator, (Book 2, Encounters Series)

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Epilogue

  Short Story: Romancing the Cobblestone

  Other Books by Fifi Flowers

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Fifi Flowers Book News

  Chapter One

  Émile

  Ready to take on another workday in my beloved book world, little did I know what the day would have in store for me. Nothing felt out of the ordinary as I rode down the elevator five floors like I did every day, or as I exited out the back door of my Haussmann-style apartment. It’s the same building that I have lived in since birth, which houses our family owned business on the ground level. As usual, I walked carefully across the cobblestoned courtyard to avoid stumbling on its often slick surface, thanks to the Paris morning dew. Rounding the corner onto the Boulevard de Clichy, down the street from the famous Moulin Rouge, Pigalle was quiet as it typically is in the early hours before the tourists invaded. There was still no evidence of a change in the air as I made my way to the public entrance to my book store. Though… there was a unique hint of lavender.

  My grandfather, whom I also refer to as my mentor, had instructed me as a boy to always respect, trust, and appreciate the shop clerks working for you. He said it is very important that you never make your employees feel uncomfortable in any way. Though, it was easiest—especially on rainy days—to enter the bookshop through a back private entrance; it was rude. Entering from the back made your workers feel as if you were trying to catch them off guard. To gain their loyalty, you should always walk through the front door and bid them all a good day. Following in my grandfather’s footsteps, that was exactly what I did daily.

  Stepping through the front door of Librairie Capet et Fils (Capet and Sons Bookstore), a low chime alerted my arrival, and I promptly announced, “Bonjour.”

  Before I could completely close the door, I was abruptly greeted by my tiny, bouncy, twenty-something-year-old, spitfire assistant/salesperson, “Hey EmZ!” Looking at my assistant dressed in black leather army boots, burgundy tights, black satin tap-shorts, and a mustard-yellow, turtleneck sweater with zebra cuffs, you would automatically label her flakey… flighty… but she was amazingly efficient, and she made my job a breeze. Not to mention, she always brought a giant smile to my face.

  She had been delighting me since she was a sweet little girl. At one time, the entire block, where my bookshop is located, was owned by a Capet. This colorful girl was my second or third cousin from a great uncle’s side of the family. Born Monique Angelica Capet, we all called her Nique (pronounced Neek), for as long as I could remember. Our family was one of the founding families of Paris. She grew up around the corner and visited the bookshop often. Once she was old enough to talk, I believe her first words were “read again.” It was no surprise to me when she inquired about working in the store. I hired her, of course, and she has been instrumental in expanding various aspects of the business. Her first improvement involved our romance section. She said that it was lacking steam and intensity. As I was not interested in that genre, I left it to her. I couldn’t imagine the bookstore without her around; her upbeat attitude was welcomed, even though I liked to act like she annoyed me.

  “Seriously,” escaped my lips as I looked into her twinkling, coal-black painted eyes. Then with a slight grin on my face, I asked, “Why do you call me that, Nique? You make me sound like a rap star.”

  Cocking her cute, little, vibrant purple head to the side, placing her index finger below her jewel-pierced lip, she replied with a grin, “Hmmm… that would be a good rapper name… However, you don’t look like a typical rapper dude.”

  She was correct that I looked nothing like a hip-hop musician. I was into vintage clothing, like Nique. However, my attire was more conservative and far less colorful. My usual dress included tweed trousers, a crisp white shirt, a tailored jacket, and depending on my mood, a waistcoat or suspenders. My clothing made me look more like a man from the past rather than a modern day man—I was definitely not a hipster.

  Shaking my head, while sorting through a bundle of envelopes sitting atop a high, deep, rich, cabernet stained, wood-paneled counter, I suggested, “Soooo… maybe you can call me Émile.”

  Nique retorted quickly with a more serious look on her youthful face, “It sounds a bit, I don’t know—disrespectful—for me to call you by your first name. And, you won’t let me call you Mr. Capet.”

  “You’re my cousin, Nique.”

  “Oui, but I work for you… you are my boss.”

  I knew it would be a losing battle to continue this conversation, so I decided to move on to other matters at hand. “Do you have updates for me?”

  “Oui,” she answered, turning and moving to her usual position behind the counter. Handing me some catalogs, she continued, “Yesterday’s sale report is on your desk, along with a carafe of fresh coffee with warmed cream already added…” Hearing her voice trail off as if she were finished, I turned away and then stopped dead in my tracks as she called after me, “Oh… EmZ…” as I was about to ascend the stairs to my office. Gazing at her with a raised eyebrow, she laughed and continued, “You have several emails. Some of them I answered, but I was not familiar with the names on a couple that were marked urgent. I left those for you. Let me know if you need anything.”

  “Merci, Nique,” I uttered with a grin as she went about her tasks for the day. I, in turn, climbed the tattered wooden steps to my office
, situated midway between the thirty-five foot copper-plated ceiling and the dark wood floor below. Reaching the open-railed landing which housed bookcases with sliding ladders that surrounded the entire front of the bookshop, I entered my office.

  Sitting behind my desk, waiting for my computer to come to life, I looked out through a fifteen-foot opening between the bookcases. I loved seeing a sea of bound books. I loved quiet days, when I could hear the sound of crisp book pages being turned. I loved the ever-present, musty smell, emitting from our large collection of first edition books; many signed. I loved to skim my hand along the book spines and imagine whose hands held each treasured read. I loved everything about the bookshop my family started in the late 1870s.

  Hearing my computer ping, I clicked on an email marked urgent and titled: Romancing the Cobblestone. Romance? Seriously? Was I looking for a romance novel? Taking a couple sips of my mocha flavored coffee, I read on. The book description implied romantic encounters mixed with the history of cobblestone throughout Europe. What was so romantic about cobblestones? Dangerous was the word I used when describing cobblestones.

  Hmmm… No more details were given, just a possible location where a copy could be found; a location I knew, oh so well. The store was owned by a special client and a dear friend to my family, namely my grandfather. After trying to contact her for the next couple hours to no avail, I decided to meet a friend for lunch at a café near said shop. A couple glasses of wine later, accompanied by a satisfying meal, and male bonding, I headed to the collectibles shop. Unfortunately, by the time I arrived, the book had already been sold. Although I didn’t get what I was after, I did get to catch up with the lovely owner.

  Making my way out of the shop, an extremely elegant woman greeted me with three alternating kisses to each of my cheeks. “Émile! What brings you here today?”

  Returning her kisses, I replied, “You, of course!” As Francesca laughed, I told her why I was in her shop. “Actually I was looking for some book about cobblestones. Lucette informed me you sold it earlier.”

  “Come sit with me,” she said directing me to a bench placed outside of her shop. Sitting next to her on the wood and black wrought iron bench, she continued, “It was such a nice day. I took several books down the block to sell amongst the painters. Such a joyous group to be surrounded by,” she said with a smile, staring off in the distance for a few beats. “Oh… where was I? Oh yes… yes… the cobblestone book. It arrived mysteriously to my shop a few weeks ago. I saw it sitting amongst a batch of other books. The reason it captured my attention was that it was sealed in a bag. It looked like another book was tucked inside of it. I asked Lucette about it and she had absolutely no idea, so she looked it up. There were no records of delivery or purchase of sale. You know I am not young anymore, Émile; I forget what I buy.”

  Reaching for her hand, I corrected her, “You are better with age, Francesca.”

  “You are enchanting and handsome and full of shit, my dear Émile. But, thank you.” She is beautiful; I was not lying. The woman was always picture perfect; model stature, strawberry-blonde, shoulder-length, flipped-up hair, peaches and cream complexion, dark brown doe-shaped eyes, painted eyebrows, and a beauty mark was always penciled close to her full lips, adorned with red lipstick.

  Snatching her hand from my grip, she playfully slapped my knee before returning to the tale of the cobblestone book. “After searching through our paperwork and finding no clues, Lucette popped on to the computer to look for information about the book. We did find that collectors were interested in it.”

  Grabbing my own chin, rubbing it with my thumb and index finger, I wondered aloud, “What is it about that book? I received an urgent request for it, and then while looking up information about it, I saw there were a couple other inquiries. Three people, willing to pay good monies for that book; I’m curious.”

  “Well, Lucette stumbled upon a site—not a book site, but a romance site—it’s a non-fiction history of cobblestone that winds around a romantic tale.”

  “I still don’t see the significance. There must be more to the book.”

  “Apparently, it was never meant to be seen by the public or published. A young Englishman wrote the story about a young French woman and it was a bit risqué… for that time period, anyway.”

  Raising an eyebrow, I smirked, “Now, you have my attention.”

  Francesca let out a hardy laugh. “Émile Zola Capet! You’re a naughty one—just like your grand-père.”

  I joined her, laughing, “If I remember correctly, you fancied my grandfather’s naughty ways. Though, he was a bit too old for you.”

  Slapping my knee again, she began to tell me more about the book that had me puzzled. “Anyhow… The young man took his story to a local Montmartre print shop to have it printed and bound to give to the young woman. After reading the well-written story, the printer took it upon himself to print a few copies and distributed them to a few customers, thinking he could help the young man become a published author. One of the printer’s customers was a well-known book editor and was interested in obtaining the rights to the book. When the young man returned to collect the bound book, he was informed that a book editor with his own publishing company wanted to speak to him. The young man was mortified his story had made it into the hands of anyone but his beloved. The young man immediately refused when he realized the editor was actually the father of the young woman—”

  “—oh merde!” I exclaimed, halting Francesca mid-speech. “Did the editor know the story was about his daughter?”

  “Not at first. But word got out, and the father was livid. He proclaimed his daughter was no better than a common whore; a true disgrace to their prominent family. It’s said she was shipped off somewhere and the family moved to the South of France.”

  Eager to know more, I asked, “What became of the writer?

  Sadness spread across Francesca’s beautiful face as she quietly answered, “Quite tragic—he killed himself.”

  “Shit. I see why that book is in demand. A book like that could command a hefty sum. Whom did you sell the book to? A local bookshop owner? A collector?” I asked, thinking maybe I could still get my hands on that copy of the book. It sounded like a book for an auction house deal.

  As she answered, I saw a glimmer in her eyes. “Actually, a lovely American girl purchased it from me, along with an assortment of books.”

  “I hope you were well compensated for it. Please tell me you didn’t just give it away, did you?”

  Smiling brightly as she rubbed her hands together, I knew she had given the book away. “Oh, Émile. You know money doesn’t matter to me.”

  Shaking my head, I informed her, “Good thing you’re sitting down, Francesca. My client was willing to pay ten thousand US dollars for that book.”

  “Oh my. I didn’t get that amount, but I’m satisfied. I had to give it to her. It’s not something I can explain, but something told me to give it to her. Besides, like I said, she bought several books from me, and she was so nice… so charming.”

  Outraged, I tried to remain calm and understanding, yet, a slightly irritated edge could be heard in my voice as I questioned her, “Nice? Charming? Do those characteristics determine how you charge your customers?”

  Francesca laughed at me while patting my cheek. “Oh, Émile, I bet you would think she was something, too.”

  Bewildered by her statement, I covered her hand with mine and smiled. “Still trying to find the perfect woman for me?” Removing her hand from my face, I planted a tender kiss on the back of her warm and frail hand while looking into her loving eyes. “You are the ideal woman for me.”

  Taking her hand from my grasp, she moved forward and hugged me. “Oh you sweet boy!” Then, pulling out of our embrace, she laughed and added, “I can’t take any more of your bullshit. Off you go. I need to send Lucette on her way and close up the shop.”

  Standing, we exchanged cheek kisses, said our goodbyes, and I decided to make my way up
to the Basilique du Sacré Cœur de Montmartre. I wasn’t ready to go home and that was most definitely one of the best places in the city to watch the sun go down. Not to mention, it was one of the places I felt closest to my grandfather. Seeing Francesca and talking about that book had me missing him terribly. Standing up on the hill, looking out over Paris, I could always hear his voice telling tales of our family’s long history as he pointed and waved his hands. Longing to feel his presence even more, I walked more briskly toward the church.

  Chapter Two

  Avril

  Late morning sun streamed through two sets of French doors along one wall of my apartment as I sat drinking café crème while working on my computer. Ahh, sunshine in Paris. It was truly something to celebrate. One more email, I thought, and then I would pop outside to roam the cobblestoned streets of Montmartre.

  I loved the city. I was so fortunate to obtain the use of an apartment from one of my book clients. I had fabulous customers, and an equally wonderful job, which I adored. It allowed me to be surrounded by the books I treasured. How many people could say that about their chosen profession? Since I was a child, I loved to visit the library. I always shied away from the narrated story-time. I preferred to look through the books, I was delighted with the pictures and the typeset words until I was old enough to read them myself. My overactive imagination danced on every page.

  The best part about finally learning to read in elementary school was book order day. When my book selections arrived once a month, I was so excited. I am a book nerd… or is the proper term bookworm? Either way, my head was always inside a book—any kind of book. Even textbooks dazzled me during my school days. While my fellow students skimmed and looked for answers and shortcuts to study, I devoured and consumed every brilliant word.

  My fascination with the written word propelled me into my first job in a bookshop, filled with new and previously owned books. It was a wonderful way to earn money. And the best part was that I, eventually, had enough funds to start my own library. But, I continued to work in the bookshop all through college. Then, when I graduated, the owner sent me on buying trips; first accompanied by him, and then on my own. I journeyed around the country, attending auctions, flea markets, conventions, and visiting rural bookshops, thrift shops, and antique stores. It was a dream-come-true-job until the owner passed away, leaving his family with no choice but to sell the store. I attempted to secure a loan, but I was unable to qualify.