The Devil's Own Chloe (Bistro La Bohème Series) (11 page)

Stepping
out of the cheese shop, Lena eyed the stately—albeit a little
worn—limestone building on the other side of rue Cadet.

My
new home.

Her
gaze lingered on the café,
Bistro La Bohème,
that occupied part of the
ground floor. It had all the requisite attributes of a Paris café: red awnings,
wicker chairs, and tiny round tables overflowing onto the sidewalk. Over the
past week, the bistro had become her stomping ground.

She
crossed the street, keyed in the code and pushed the green gate that creaked
open onto a cobbled courtyard. Across the way, she had to enter a second code
to gain access to a glass door before she stepped into the foyer. The building
smelled of old floorboards and something much less enchanting.

Trash
.

What
a change after her sterile student residence in Geneva!

A
few minutes later, Lena and her grocery bags were safely inside her apartment.
She went straight to the bedroom and collapsed on the bed, tired after her long
walk and grocery shopping. But it was “good tired.” She liked the 9th
arrondissement, or
le neuvième
, for its diversity. Quintessentially
French,
le neuvième
was also Jewish, Armenian, Greek, and Arabic. Its
arched
passages
cutting through handsome buildings were lined with
antique shops and secondhand bookstores. Its streets ran in wayward directions,
forming a web rather than a grid. She would do something celebratory, she
resolved, the day she managed to find her way around the 9th without a
map. 

Originally,
Lena was supposed to move into a high-end apartment complex in the posh 16th
arrondissement. But having spent the past seven years of her life in
Switzerland, she refused to live in a place that would remind her of its eerie
neatness.

Not
that she’d been unhappy in Switzerland. She’d had absolutely no reason to be.
She was the pampered heiress to an oligarch. Like many minigarchs
,
she’d
been sent to one of the best European boarding schools at the age of sixteen.
When she decided to continue her education at the University of Geneva, she got
her father’s full support. She’d been happy in Switzerland, Lena repeated to
herself, even as her mind flashed an image of her last picnic with Gerhard. The
one that put an end to their relationship.

“I’m
moving to Paris,” she had announced as soon as they sat on the campus lawn,
with their croissants and paper coffee cups.

“Oh,”
Gerhard had said.

As
she waited for him to say something more, she began to feel the dampness of the
grass through her jeans. She shifted to sit on her heels. An early morning
picnic in April, without a blanket to buffer the dew, had been a dumb idea.

As
the silence stretched, and the dark sky threatened to burst out sobbing any
minute, Lena wished they’d picked a spot by the wall.

So
that she could bang her head against it.

“Why
now? It’s only a couple of months until our graduation,” Gerhard said at
length.

“I
want to write my thesis there.”

“Isn’t
it easier to write it on campus?”

“It
is. But I’d rather do it in Paris.”

Come
on, get mad. At least annoyed. Anything
.

He
shrugged. “OK, then.”

Her
throat hurt. It was amazing she could still breathe given the size of the lump
that had formed there. She’d been stupid to think she could provoke him into an
emotional outburst. This was Gerhard—a paragon of self-control.

“After
I get the degree,” she said. “I’ll probably go back to Moscow. Or maybe stay in
Paris for a year. I haven’t decided yet.”

He
stared at her.

Ask
me to stay. Please. Just ask
.

“I
don’t like Paris,” he said. “It’s noisy and dirty. And polluted.”

She
gave him a long unblinking stare, and then shifted her gaze to the vast lawn.
So much for her brilliant idea to shake him up a little.

This
is it—the end.

“I’ll
visit you,” he said with the enthusiasm of a child in front of boiled broccoli.

“No
you won’t,” she said with a sad smile.

He
didn’t argue.

Over
the next week, she packed up, found a place in Paris, and left.

And
now look at her! How could she feel so
content
only two weeks after
breaking up with her boyfriend of two years? Must be this city, operating its
magic. Even the embryonic state of her thesis couldn’t bring her down.

Lena
looked forward to her dad’s usual seven o’clock call so that she could share
her high spirits with him.

When
he called, she had just arrived in the downstairs bistro.

“So,
how was your eighth day in Paris?” Anton asked.

“Fantastic.
But then again, how could it be otherwise?”

“I
wouldn’t be so smug if I were you. Haven’t you heard about these poor Japanese
tourists?” he asked.

“I
thought they were rather rich.”

“Poor
as in unfortunate. They arrive in Paris with such an idealized image that they
can’t handle its dirty streets, rude waiters, and aggressive pigeons. There’s a
special agency now that repatriates them to Japan before they completely lose
it and jump from the top of Notre Dame.”

Lena
laughed. “I may have arrived here from Switzerland, but let’s not forget I’m a
Muscovite. I’m sure I can handle dirty streets and rude waiters. As for the
pigeons, I already have an arrangement with the ones on my street.”

“I’m
all ears.”

“I
share my croissant with them, and in exchange they protect me from other
pigeons. You have nothing to worry about.”

“Yeah,
I wish the pigeons were my only worry, Lena.” Anton’s tone had grown too
serious for Lena’s liking. “You’re all alone in Paris, with no one to go to if
you need help.”

Oh
please, not again.
Next, he’d bring up her heart condition and how she couldn’t be too careful. He
made a huge deal out of her arrhythmia. Even when her cardiologist didn’t. All
the good doctor had asked her to do was avoid strenuous effort and saunas.

Anton
took an audible breath. “In Geneva, you had Marta and Ivan. They’re like
family. They know what to do, should you . . . feel unwell.”

“Dad,
I too know what to do, should I feel unwell.”

“Of
course, you do. But it’s not just that. Marta and Ivan had you over for dinner
every week, you enjoyed playing with their kids, they took care of you when you
had the flu.”

All
of it was true, and she didn’t know how to argue with that.

“I
don’t have anyone in Paris whom I could ask to watch over you like that,” he
said.

“I
don’t need—” she started.

“I’m
going to hire someone, Lena. Besides everything else, I’m worried about your
safety. There are people who may want to harm me and . . .”

Anton
didn’t finish the sentence, but Lena knew it was about his haunting fear that
someone might kidnap her for ransom. Or worse—hurt her as a way of
hurting him. She didn’t want to make light of his fears. But she also knew that
if she didn’t nip this idea in the bud, she would find herself encumbered with
a chaperon for the rest of her stay in Paris.

“Dad,
I wasn’t yet seventeen when you sent me off to Switzerland,” she said
patiently. “I’m twenty-three now and I’m capable of taking care of myself.”

“Hmm.”

Lena
chose to ignore that. “Besides, nobody knows I’m in Paris. To anyone outside
our closest circle I’m still in Geneva.”

Anton
didn’t argue with that, which was a good sign. Lena continued with as much
conviction as she could muster. “I’m perfectly safe here, don’t you see? I’m a
Miss Nobody. And if I ever get lonely, I can just jump on the train and go to
Marta and Ivan’s.”

Thankfully,
her mention of the family friends reminded Anton to give Lena their regards,
after which he told her about her grandparents’ Black Sea vacation. The
conversation ended on an upbeat note, and Lena hung up relieved.

“Ready
to order, mademoiselle?”

She
looked up. The waiter standing by her table was in his midtwenties and very
good-looking. Scratch that, he was jaw-droppingly handsome in that dark,
intense and yet wholesome way the ancient gods could be. And it wasn’t just his
face. He was tall—well, French-tall, not Dutch-tall—lean, and broad
shouldered. He was wearing the same café uniform all other waiters wore: a
stark white shirt, black pants, and a long black apron tied around his hips.
Lena mentally whistled at how it emphasized the exquisite narrowness of said
hips.

She
ordered her dish and a bottle of mineral water.

“No
wine? Are you expecting someone later or will you be dining by yourself?” the
black-aproned Adonis asked.

“It’s
none of your business, monsieur,” she said curtly.

His
question made her regret she didn’t have company tonight. It made her want to
tell him she was waiting for her boyfriend—no, her two boyfriends. She
itched to wipe that grin off his face and tell him to find another victim for
his snobbery.

She
composed herself, straightened her back, and said, looking past him, “Would you
kindly relay my order to the chef and then tend to your other customers?”

“So
much impertinence in one so young.” He shook his head admonishingly. “I’ll be
back with the water as soon as I possibly can. We’re very busy today, you see.”
He smiled.

Was
he provoking her? She decided she didn’t care, gave him a cursory nod, and
pulled out her iPad. She had a more important matter to consider than the
shoulder-to-hip ratio of male servers.

She
had to figure out what to write to her mom.

End
of Excerpt

Order
“What If It’s Love?” now!

Excerpt from
Amanda’s
Guide to Love

(Bistro
La Bohème Series)

Parisian
career woman Amanda Roussel lives in denial of her desperate loneliness.

Gypsy
gambler Kes Moreno knows he’s in trouble when he falls for Amanda after a
one-night stand.

Can
he convince the snarky belle they’re right for each other?

~~~

Chapter One

Rock Bottom

A
Woman’s Guide to Perfection

Guideline
# 1

The
Perfect Woman doesn’t do one-night stands.

Rationale
: One-night stands (ONS) are
always disappointing, often hazardous, and invariably awkward.

A word of caution
: If you are a frequent ONSer,
shut this book right now and give it to someone who may benefit from it. You will
never be a Perfect Woman.
Ever
.

Permissible exception
: A prolonged dry spell between
boyfriends or a highly stressful life event.

Damage control
: (a) make sure the sex is
safe, (b) make sure your person is safe, (c) leave or kick him or her out
before breakfast, (d) wash your body squeaky clean, (e) scrub the memory of the
episode from your brain.

Pitfalls to avoid:
(a) giving him or her your
phone number, (b) telling your best friend about it, (c) thinking that a
one-night stand could ever lead to a relationship.

~ ~ ~

Amanda
stared at the typed letter. Neatly strung words zoomed in and out of focus as
their meaning sank in.
Mademoiselle Roussel . . . I regret to
inform you . . . with immediate effect
.

She
swallowed hard and slipped the letter into her purse.

Most
of her colleagues would cheer at the news. They’d rush into each other’s
offices and say, “Did you hear? Viper Tongue got the sack! Serves her right.”
Some of them might send around an e-mail invite for a celebratory drink. Others
would just shrug and say good riddance.