What If It's Love?: A Contemporary Romance Set in Paris (Bistro La Bohème Book 1) (14 page)

Once inside the apartment, she turned to him,
her cheeks flushed and her lips a little swollen from kissing.

“Would you like a drink?”

He slowly shook his head, a tiny smile
flickering in his eyes, and Lena’s blush deepened to crimson red. She must have
understood his unspoken reply: He wasn’t thirsty for a drink—he was
thirsty for her.

Without a word, Lena took his hand again and
led him to the bedroom. After they entered, she lit two big candles placed on
either side of the bed. Shadows began to dance on the walls, and a light scent
of jasmine filled the room.

“I know it’s corny, but I don’t care,” she
said with a smile that blew Rob’s mind.

“Corny’s fine. I like corny.”

He pulled her to him and renewed the kiss.
His hands roamed her back then plunged into her hair. He delighted in its
satiny feel, its soft, silky smoothness against his fingertips. She gasped with
pleasure. His lips moved down to kiss her neck, and he began to undo the little
buttons on her blouse. He was clumsy with excitement. As soon as he managed to
open the top three, he bared one of her shoulders and rained small kisses on
it, then teased his tongue up along her graceful neck and back to her mouth. He
couldn’t get enough of her.

In his fantasies about this moment he always
went slowly, demonstrating his prowess, driving her to beg him to make love to
her. But as her tongue darted into his mouth with an eagerness that equaled his
own, he knew that slow wasn’t an option this time. Without breaking the kiss,
he undid the remaining buttons, removed Lena’s shirt and unfastened the clasp
of her bra. She slid her thumbs under his T-shirt and tugged it up and over his
head. The rest of their clothing flew off in a heated frenzy until they stood
in front of each other completely bare. For a few seconds Rob remained
motionless, gazing at Lena, mesmerized by the play of light and shadow on her
small firm breasts, her lithe thighs, and her flat tummy.

Then suddenly he could
wait no more. He took a step toward her, flattened his hands against her lower
back and pressed the entire length of his body against hers. She moaned softly
and threw her arms around his neck. He drew in her intoxicating fragrance and
eased her onto the bed.

* * *

Lena woke up and lay still for a moment, her
eyes closed. As the sunlight tickled her skin, she listened to Rob’s even
breathing. By the time they had finally fallen asleep after making love,
talking and making love again, it was almost dawn. Lena remembered words,
gestures, and movements from that magical candle-lit night. She was afraid that
if she opened her eyes now, the enchantment would be over.

When she finally did, what she saw took her
breath away. Rob was still asleep, lying on his stomach, his face turned away
from her. His arms were raised above his head, hugging the pillow. He had
uncovered himself in his sleep, and she could see him—all of him—in
his stark male beauty. A ray of sunshine had snuck into the bedroom through a narrow
gap between the curtains and landed squarely on Rob’s tight, muscled butt.
After she looked her fill, her gaze slid upward along his gorgeous torso to his
sinewy arms. And then she turned away. For if she didn’t, she was going to
press her body against his and wake him up.

When she turned back a few minutes later, Rob
was still lying on his stomach, but this time awake and looking at her.

“Good morning.” His husky morning voice was
incredibly sexy.

He shifted, placed his hand on Lena’s waist
and pulled her close. He smelled deliciously, dizzyingly masculine. She kissed
him on the collarbone and the neck, and then trailed her lips along his jawline
to his mouth. His lips were soft and warm, and his morning stubble grated a
little against her chin.

When she pulled away after a long, lush kiss,
Rob’s hand that had been holding her waist, went up to cup her cheek. “I don’t
know how I’m going to manage it, but I’ve got to go.”

Lena drew back a little. “OK.”

“I have a job interview at eleven, and I need
to get home to change into a suit. The interview is for a junior managerial
position. I probably don’t stand a chance, but I need to keep trying.”

“Go get them,” she said.

He placed his hand back on her waist and
trailed his fingertips along the curve of her hip. “I’ll need all my control to
make it through this day before I can be in bed with you again. Or on the
couch, a chair, the kitchen table—anything.”

Lena bit her lower lip. “Hmm. Let’s put a pin
on that last suggestion. The kitchen table sounds
 . . .
promising.”

She could hardly believe she’d spoken like
this to a man—without a hint of inhibition.

Within a second he was on top of her,
propping himself up on his elbows, his pupils dilated with desire.

“I’m going to be late for my interview.” He
bent down and suckled her nipple. “But it doesn’t matter.” He suckled her other
nipple. “Because if I don’t get inside you right now, I’ll die.”

* * *

As soon as he walked out of the small meeting room where interviews were
being held, Rob dialed Boris’s number.

“Rob, what have you got for me?” Boris greeted him in his businesslike
manner.

“I want to call our deal off.”

“Oh. You hit the jackpot?”

“I wish . . . I just can’t do it anymore.”

I promised her.

Rob stepped out of the shiny granite-floored lobby and filled his lungs
with warm summer air. It was a relief to put an end to his short-lived spying
career and be at peace with his conscience again. Even if, for now, he had no
clue where he could get the funds to pay the school fee. Unless, of course, he
did “hit the jackpot” by quickly landing a good job. But the chances of that
happening, given the current job market, were modest.

“Are you sure about this or are you trying to renegotiate the fee?” Boris
asked dryly.

“I’m sure. Besides, I don’t see how it’s a good deal for you. Lena and
her father rarely talk shop, and most of the info I give you is useless.”

“Most but not all,” Boris said. “Listen. Give me one more juicy morsel
like the one about Malakhov’s interest in Raduga, then quit. I’ll raise your
fee sixfold for a scoop like that.”

Rob couldn’t help doing the math. Six times his current fee, plus what he’d
made on the double shifts at
La Bohème,
would free him of debt.

“I’ll call you if I hear something,” he said.

As Lena emerged from behind the green gate,
she spotted Rob approaching the bistro. His grin indicated he had made it to
his interview. He’d gone there straight from her place, figuring it was better
to show up in an imperfect state than not to show up at all. So he had taken a
speedy shower, borrowed her razor to shave, and used his index finger to brush
his teeth. On his way out, he’d stopped by the bistro and swapped his T-shirt
for one of his starched server shirts.

Already briefed by Jeanne about the
reconciliation, Pepe showed them to a small table squeezed between two others. “I
am afraid we cannot offer you the private terrace out back at this time. It’s
currently occupied by the proprietor.”

“It’s OK,” Lena said while Rob glared at
Pepe.

After they finished their lunch and ordered
espressos, Jeanne joined them during her coffee break. Rob stood up and
adjusted the central parasol to make sure all three of them were protected from
the midday sun.

“Paris weather rocks,” Lena said, taking a
sip of her coffee. “It hardly ever rains.”

“The past couple of months have been an
anomaly, absolutely not representative of Parisian weather,” Jeanne said. “If
you’re lucky, it may last until early September and may even come back for a
week in late October.”

“Don’t you love Indian summer? Like in that
Joe Dassin song.” Lena hummed the melancholy tune, and wondered if Rob would
still be with her in October.

Better not think about it now
.

“Yes, yes, it’s very nice,” Jeanne said. “But
the norm in Paris is wet and chilly. Just like London or Brussels. Only for
some strange reason, Paris has a better rep. People imagine it as sunny or
brightly lit at night. But its true face is gray.”

“I’ve been to Paris several times before, and
the weather was nice every time,” Lena protested. She wouldn’t have the city of
her dreams trashed like that.

“When was it?” Jeanne asked. “What time of
year did you visit?”

“Well, summer, mostly . . .
and spring,” Lena had to admit.

“Told you. Wait till you see our real
weather. Till you experience the veritable Parisian drizzle—drives you out
of your mind.”

Lena turned to Rob, but he was busy talking
to Pepe who had come to collect the check. Still, Lena was determined to stand
her ground. “It’s just rain, Jeanne, we have that in Moscow, and in Geneva,
too. What’s so special about the Parisian drizzle?”

“Oh, it’s not just any drizzle, honey. It’s
this humidity hanging in the air in tiny little droplets, so tiny they
penetrate your skin and then your skull and get into your brain.”

Lena shuddered at the
image . . . then felt Rob’s hand on her knee. He was still
talking to Pepe, his face turned away from her, but his hand—concealed by
the table—got under the hem of her sundress and began to caress her
thigh.

“Rest assured. You’ll be able to make your
own opinion about the Parisian drizzle soon enough,” Jeanne said.

“You’re mean, you know? Even if I’m deluding
myself about how great Paris is, why
drizzle
on my parade? Can’t you
just let me bask in my dumb love a little longer?”

“Lena, dear, don’t listen to Jeanne,” Pepe
said. “She’s French, so she complains. That’s what the French do, always and in
any circumstance.”

“No, we don’t, you silly little—”
Jeanne started.

Pepe didn’t let her finish. “It’s not your
fault, Jeanne.” He turned to Lena and repeated for extra emphasis, “It’s not
her fault. It’s what they’re taught from their tenderest age.”

“Says who?” Rob asked, his hand scorching hot
against Lena’s thigh.

“Imagine this little baby.” Pepe made a fish
mouth and emitted a couple of high-pitched screams. “So this baby is really,
really happy. It just got its first squeeze of breast milk. Life is beautiful,
everything is perfect. And then it hears Mommy say, ‘Oh shit, I’m so bored’ or ‘Oh
shit, I feel like a cow’ or ‘Oh shit, this baby is so ugly’.”

Encouraged by the girls’ giggles, he
continued, “I’m telling you, Lena, complaining is a national sport—no, it’s
a national
value
—in this country. Didn’t you know? It’s what the
revolutionaries stormed the Bastille for. They wanted every citizen to have the
right to grumble.”

Pepe climbed on a chair, raised his clenched
fist in the air, and recited, “
Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité,
Complain.”

The patrons sitting within earshot of Pepe
cheered enthusiastically. He bowed and climbed down from the chair, looking
exceedingly pleased with his deconstruction of the French character. Jeanne
narrowed her eyes at him and mumbled something unintelligible.

Rob grinned, obviously too entertained—or
too distracted—to defend his compatriots.

Lena smiled, as a wave of pure, unadulterated
happiness washed over her.

* * *

By the time they stood to leave, Lena’s sole concern was to quickly get
someplace where Rob could finish what he had started at the bistro. Without
saying a word to each other, they headed straight back to her apartment.

A few hours of lovemaking later—including on the kitchen table—Lena
was too exhausted to go out again. Rob said he was happy to stay put. He needed
to check his e-mail and send his CV to a few more companies. Lena lent him her
laptop and settled on the couch with a book, but she couldn’t focus on reading.
Too many questions assaulted her mind. She wondered if Rob was going to stay
for the night, if he would be prepared to leave France for a job offer abroad,
if he’d managed to find the money he needed.

After staring at the same page for twenty minutes, she asked, “What are
the jobs you’re applying to?”

“All kinds. I’m afraid I’m not in a position to pick my industry or
location. I’ll be happy if I can negotiate the starting salary.”

There, she had at least one of her answers.
Better not dwell on it too
much.

She smiled brightly. “What if the job you were interviewed for this
morning worked out? You said the interview went pretty well.”

“I hope so.” Rob turned to Lena. “And what about you? Any change since a
month ago?”

“My supervisor in Geneva encourages me to apply for a PhD program, which
means at least three more years of study. I don’t mind the study as much as the
purpose of doing a PhD. It would be to stay in the academia.”

Rob quirked an eyebrow. “Doesn’t sound too bad to me.”

“Well, it’s certainly better than working for my dad in the IT field,
which would either drive me crazy or bore me silly. Most probably both.”

“But?”

“But . . . I guess what I’d really like to do with my life
is translating literary works. I love it and I think I’m good at it. I’ve
decided to do just that during my “gap year” in Paris. I’ll translate as much
as I can—prose and poetry, from Russian to French and vice versa.”