Falling in Paris (Encounters #3) Read online

  It was a sad day when the doors closed forever. However, those closed doors opened new ones on the internet, allowing me to start an online book business of my own. I had made so many contacts over the years, that I quickly acquired a large clientele of antique store, bookshops, and private book collectors. With a passport in hand, my computer bag over one shoulder, and an extra-large piece of rolling luggage pulled behind me, I set off for foreign and domestic lands. Paris being my overall favorite destination. Anytime I was called to the city, I was thrilled to work there, while living my dream.

  Clicking open the last mail folder on my computer, a request for a book titled Romancing the Cobblestone appeared on my screen. Hmmm… What was so appealing about cobblestones? Large pebbles? What made them so charming? So romantic? So alluring? I couldn’t see how looking at a sidewalk, a street, a narrow alleyway paved with several large pebbles could be enchanting, and, yet, so dangerous—especially when high heels were involved. I laughed to myself, until I saw the price the book commanded. Hitting the search button, I found that there was only a limited amount printed; a couple had recently popped up around Paris. Seeking more information, I ventured on perusing all of my usual resources, but all I hit was one stonewall after another, finding sites that were marked confidential.

  Knowing I was getting nowhere, I hopped into the shower to get ready for a sun-filled adventure. Standing in front of a full-length mirror, I assessed my ensemble: brown herringbone tweed pencil skirt, white blouse, black leather waistcoat and four-inch, black leather, high-heeled, ankle boots. Tucking my almost-black, shoulder-length bob behind my ears, I placed a brown tweed, flat cap on my head, and fastened three polished-gold chain L’OR bracelets around my wrist. “All set,” I said to my reflection. Grabbing my black messenger bag, I put it over my head so the strap was across my chest, and headed out the door.

  Excited to be out on the streets of Montmartre, I practically skipped down all five flights of narrow stairs to exit my building. I adored the area of Paris right below the spectacular Sacré Cœur. I loved the sights, the sounds, the architecture, the people, and the cobblestone sidewalks and streets. I loved that I could feel spirits swirling around me, especially when I frequented old author haunts. I loved to think about them sitting around, smoking and drinking absinthes while discussing their latest writings. Perhaps discussing their fellow contemporary authors and/or historical authors and philosophers of the past. Oh, to be a fly on the wall in such a place, back in their time, I thought as I took a deep breath, letting my mind slip away to years past. That was also when my nose captured a whiff of freshly baked bread, and my stomach grumbled.

  Realizing I hadn’t eaten, I was ready to partake in some lunch, and promptly followed the delicious smell to a little café. A cluster of bistro tables and chairs in front of a maroon and white striped awning looked inviting. Luckily for me, there was one table left and I quickly plopped my behind down on one of the rattan seats. Smiling, I motioned toward a handsome, elderly waiter as soon as he finished delivering yummy smelling plates to my fellow café neighbors. I told him, in my best classroom French, that I desired a glass of white wine, crusty bread, and a menu. To my delight, he smiled back and immediately produced a menu from under his arm.

  The day was getting better by the moment. Could anything be more perfect? I thought not as I studied the daily specials while waiting for my libation. When the kind gentleman arrived with my glass of wine along with warm crusty bread, I ordered the fish of the day, served over a bed of green vegetables. I was sure it would be wonderful as every aroma wafting around my nose smelled divine, not to mention, every dish looked heavenly.

  Finishing my lovely, delectable meal, I paid and abandoned my seat. Feeling fabulous, with a satisfied belly, I decided to stroll around—taking in my surroundings with no goal in mind. I decided that I would see where my feet took me, and if they stumbled upon a new shop of treasures, all the better. Wandering in and out of a few stores, I browsed their wares, but nothing unusual tickled my fancy. Heading out into the Artist’s Square of Montmartre, I couldn’t believe my good fortune. Books! Better yet, books with tattered covers that called out to me. I hurried toward an attractive woman with a table set up amongst a sea of street painters.

  Engaging in conversation with her, I found out that she owned a collectible shop just down the way. She said the sunshine had inspired her to sell her books in the square. She sold a multitude of items, including rare books. Her table proved to be dangerous, overflowing with treasures. I hadn’t planned on purchasing any books that day, so I was ill prepared. My heels were too high and I had not brought along my, ever faithful, fold-up nylon rolling cart or my big market bag, but I couldn’t resist. There was no stopping my book obsession.

  Slipping my most valued find into my black bag, I had the charming shop owner, Francesca, pile the stack of books in my arms. She suggested that I return to her store the next day with my cart to collect the books, but I assured her that I could handle them, and set off. Heading home, walking up Rue de l’Aubreuvoir—only a couple blocks from my apartment—my boot heel got caught in between two cobblestones and disaster struck. My books went flying as I flew forward. My knees collapsed to the ground, followed by my hands trying to brace myself, attempting to stop my face from making contact with the hard stones.

  Sprawled out, I heard a deep voice say something in French and then I felt a firm grip pulling me to my feet. Embarrassed, I kept my head down as I brushed dirt from my clothing, trying to regain my composure, and mumbled a thank you. Watching the male figure collect my books with his back to me, I rambled on. I’m not certain what I was saying, but when he stood upright, and turned to face me, my lips froze as I stood staring at an amazingly handsome face. I was mortified that a completely gorgeous man had found me in such an awkward position. When he inquired if I spoke French I gestured with my thumb and index finger—I was having a hard time trying to form two simple words, “un peu.”

  Understanding the words I uttered, perfect English escaped his beautiful lips. “Are you okay? Anything broke? Twisted? Can you walk? Do you live close by? Or are you staying close by, a hotel?” he rambled. Dumbfounded, I continued to stare at him, and shook my head yes or no to all of his questioning. “I will walk you home… carry your books,” he said, showing me that he had my books in his arms.

  Looking at them, my cheeks heated all over again thinking of my tumble, and I wanted to get away from him as quickly as possible. Away from the humiliation. “I can manage. Thank you. My apartment is just up the street.”

  Stepping out of my reach, he held the books closer to his chest. “I insist, Miss?”

  Licking my lips as my mouth felt so dry, I answered in a lower than normal voice, “Avril.”

  “Avril,” he repeated my name. His French accent liquefied my insides, and I nearly took another tumble. “Be careful, these cobblestones are so dangerous. My name is Émile. I would shake your hand but…” He nodded his head toward his muscular arms housing my treasures.

  I let out a low laugh. “Merci, Émile,” I said, and then we walked in silence as I led the way. I wanted to turn my head, to sneak a glance at him, but thought I should watch where I was going to avoid any more embarrassing slips.

  Arriving at my apartment building, I unlocked the front door and winced as we began our climb up the five flights of stairs. “I can carry you up and then come back for your books,” Émile offered.

  Shaking my head, I continued up, holding tightly to the railing. “No, no. I’ll manage.”

  Unlocking my ornate multi-paneled front door, he followed me inside my brightly lit, open concept apartment. Removing my bag from around my neck, I tossed it on a comfy, overstuffed, floral, Louis XV, gold-framed settee in the sitting area. Moving across the room to a dining table located near a kitchenette, I joined Émile as he was setting my books on a table already filled with a few other books. “Merci.”

  Turning toward me, he looked down, and I followed his gaz
e to my bleeding knees. “Sit,” he said pulling a chair out from under the dining table. I complied with his command, immediately, like a perfect pet. He proceeded to remove his tailored tweed jacket, folded it over the back of a chair, and rolled up his crisp white sleeves. “Tell me where you have towels and some soap.”

  Pointing straight ahead, I uttered a mere four words, “Bath; down the hall,” and watched as he disappeared in the direction I had so brilliantly indicated. What was wrong with me? It was not like he was the only gorgeous man I had ever laid eyes upon. Oh, but he was stunning and he was in my apartment, alone. Before my mind could wander to naughty adventures, he returned with the items he went in search of. After placing them on the table, he walked into the kitchenette area and opened cabinets until he found a basin which he filled with warm water from the tap.

  Setting the bowl on the table carefully next to me, away from the books, he pulled out another chair. Placing it directly in front of me, he sat, and lifted my legs onto his lap. As I watched him assessing the damage, a strange look appeared on his face, and I realized he was staring at my chest longer than proper. Glancing down, I saw that my white blouse was gaping open and my white, lace, demi-bra was visible. It must’ve come unbuttoned when I fell. I reached up and slipped the buttons back through their intended loops.

  With my lady bits now covered, he began to wipe my knees with a small, soft cloth he had dipped in the warm, soapy water. His touch was gentle, but I couldn’t help but flinch. “I’m sorry, but there are little pebbles in your cuts. You don’t want your cuts to get infected.” He never looked up; all I could see was the top of his head. Dark, thick waves, my fingers itched to slide through each strand. And his scent, it smelled like a musky, patchouli with a hint of citrus. I wanted to tug him closer. My heart was pounding so hard. Could he hear it?

  So lost in my lustful thoughts, I hadn’t realized he had finished cleaning my wounds until I heard him say, “There.” Standing, he gathered the bowl and towels while he looked down at my books briefly before moving toward the kitchenette. I studied his curved backside as he emptied the bowl into the sink, neatly folded the towels, and set them on the counter. He had nice long legs, an excellent ass, a narrow waist, and broad shoulders. I quickly turned my head as he began to turn around.

  When Émile returned to my side, he looked more intently at the books arranged on my table. “I love books,” I said as he quietly touched a few of the hardbacks. “I devour them,” I added with a small laugh.

  Not looking at me, his voice seemed on autopilot. “I should be going.”

  Looking at his fit body as he opened one of the books, I wished I had something more than tea and coffee, maybe some wine or an aphrodisiac. Mmm… ties to attach him to my bed. Ooh my! I snapped out of my sexy trance, hearing the closing of a book. “Would you like some tea or coffee?”

  Setting the first book down, he picked up another book, thumbed through it, and quickly replaced it on the table. “I have an appointment.”

  I didn’t want him to leave. I hoped I could see more of him… I mean, I hoped I could see him again. “Maybe another time. Thank you, again, for rescuing me.”

  Not looking at me, “Yes… sure,” he said rolling down his sleeves and pulling his jacket on. He suddenly seemed to be in a hurry as he walked to the door. “Keep those cuts clean,” he added as he opened the door, and then he was gone.

  As the door closed, I muttered, “What the hell?” Then, as I turned toward the table filled with books, I roared with laughter. “He must think I’m studying to be a nun.”

  Chapter Three

  Émile

  I had to get out of Avril’s apartment before I pushed her skirt up around her waist, ripped off her panties, and buried my face in the midst of her sweet arousal. Her scent was divine—I could only imagine how it would delight my tongue. I walked along the streets trying to cool down, trying to forget about the desirable woman I had just run away from. That woman was all wrong for me, but I couldn’t shake her from my mind. Her every feature kept tumbling back into my brain as I tried unsuccessfully to rid her from my thoughts.

  Her ebony hair was so shiny, I wanted to grab a hold of it and pull her closer to my face. I needed a better view of those lavender eyes of hers, they burned into me. I had never seen eyes that color, ever. They were vivid lavender like a field in the French countryside. Closing my eyes, I imagined her nude, lying amongst blooming lavender. Shaking my head, I opened my eyes and I recalled her lips—they were full and puffy and painted a deep, dark blood-red. What would it be like to nibble on them? Would they taste like wild cherries? What would they feel like wrapped around me? And her skin, how I wanted to skim my fingers over her smooth, ivory complexion. I imagined her skin would feel like satin. Mmm… satin. I wondered if she had satin sheets. And then, I remembered her pebbled nipples visible through her lace bra, and the hint of matching panties as she was sprawled out amongst her books on the cobblestone street.

  Books. The books alerted me. Though I sensed she was having similar thoughts about me as I softly tended to her scrapes, the book titles screamed, “She’s not for you!”

  She wore lace lingerie, but it was sweet and white… very white. Perhaps, virginal white? She didn’t look virginal. She was undeniably sexy. I swear I heard a moan escape her throat when I moved the cloth up the length of her leg. “Stop thinking of what you want to believe,” I told myself. The books, remember the books: How to Commit Yourself to God, Taking Your Vows Seriously, Religious Rites. There were at least ten more books with similar titles. A woman studying to be a nun was definitely not a woman for me.

  No matter how I tried, I couldn’t get Avril out of my mind. I saw ghosts of her everywhere I looked, especially in my bookshop. Every book reminded me of her, and I was surrounded. Even in my slumber, she was present. I had tossed and turned for the last two nights, dreaming of her laid out nude before me, causing me to wake at sunrise in a sweat. I had to get her out of my head. I was happy I had a long list of things to do, and thankfully, most of them took me out of the bookstore.

  Deciding to skip the bookshop altogether, I turned on my cell phone and texted Nique that I would arrive sometime in the late afternoon, promising I would close for her. Then, I made a beeline for one of the many neighborhood cafés I like to frequent. Grabbing a local newspaper, I sat at one of the outdoor tables for a light breakfast. Just as I was finished having my morning coffee and croissant, I remembered that there were a few good flea markets happening around the city. Not to mention, an old favorite weekend book mart that always had a great selection of rare and unusual books. Hmmm, I thought, I just might come across one of the cobblestone books that I heard kept mysteriously popping up around Paris. That prompted me to pay my bill, pop back to my apartment, secure my folding cart, and head for the stalls.

  Nearing the venue, I remembered the first time my grandfather took me around to old, used book stores and flea markets—I must’ve been about five years old. It was a Sunday morning and, as usual, I was sitting in a corner of the bookshop that held a small selection of books designated for children. The family bookstore wasn’t located on the most kid appropriate street of Paris. Surrounded by sex shops, not many parents brought their children into Pigalle to shop for juvenile books. I believe my grandfather arranged this section for my benefit, and I loved him for it. He knew if I was in the store that was where he would find me. On that particular morning, he thrust a navy, wool coat in my direction and said, “Time to get your nose out of those books, Émile-Zola. You need to go on a real book adventure.” My grandfather always called me by my first two given names.

  That day, as we visited different book venues, I was amazed how everyone knew my grandfather; I thought he was famous. Some women flirted with him unmercifully while others sneered and gave him dirty looks. I’ve been told by Francesca that he was a real heartbreaker. She said she knew from the minute she met him that he was one never to be taken seriously, if you wanted to keep any part of yo
ur heart intact. He was a big, strong, handsome man with jet black hair and piercing, bright blue eyes. He was always winking, laughing, and telling stories. That day, on our book expedition, I watched how people listened to his every word. He told tales about the various book discussions and heated arguments that took place, throughout history, in the Capet et Sons bookshop. Some were stories his father had told him. My grandfather said he loved books from the moment my great grandmother gave birth to him. It was said that my grandfather cried and cried until his father began reading a book out loud, and instantly he would grow quiet, listening. They said his eyes opened wide and he seemed to hang onto every word. My grandfather always said, “Some babies liked lullabies, but not me, I loved hearing stories.”

  From that Sunday on, I became my grandfather’s sidekick, and I loved every minute of it, especially when we stumbled upon a new book finding source. It was three years later that we discovered our favorite place of all time to search for books on rue Brancion in the fifteenth arrondissement. Le Marché du Livre Ancien et d’occasion George Brassen is an open-air marketplace, housing many book vendors with tables and tables of books under a multi-peaked, metal pavilion. Treasures are often abundant throughout the wondrous, vast space on the weekends, including some rare and spectacular leather bound books with marvelous engravings and rich illustrations.

  Still to this day, one never knew what could be found in the book mart at Parc Georges Brassen. I was hoping for good things as I entered. The weather was wonderful; the crowd was thick, but jovial. I could hear the chatting of patrons, the sound of cars, street musicians on the street, and birds chirping as they flew through the park. A smell of rich roast coffee hung in the air. And then, in the distance, the most beautiful sight came into view. A woman sporting a wavy hairstyle, reminiscent of a 1920’s flapper. The vision wore a black and white skirt, black t-shirt, and red sweater that hugged her curves, I needed a closer look.