“You sound like my children.” Paris laughed, and she couldn't disagree with him. But having an affair with Jean-Pierre would be total self-indulgence, no matter how attractive she found him. And she did. Very.

“I think you ought to kidnap him, and chain him to your bedpost before he goes back to Paris,” Bix said warmly, and Paris laughed.

“Is that what you did with Steven?” she teased him.

“I didn't have to. He did that with me. Well, not really,” Bix admitted. “But we were very attracted to each other pretty quickly. You two looked like you were going to set the room on fire with those looks. I could hardly eat my lunch. I thought he was going to grab you and throw you on the table.” He would have liked to, but Paris had tried to maintain appearances, at least for Bix. “Are you seeing him tonight?”

“I might,” she said, and Bix looked as though he approved, and when he commented on it again before she left, she scolded him for being a libertine.

“Why not, darling? You only live once. And I'd hate to miss a night with him, if I had the chance.” But she knew perfectly well he wouldn't have traded anyone on the planet for Steven. They were crazy about each other.

As she drove up in front of her house that night, Jean-Pierre was sitting on the steps again, looking very relaxed, eating an apple, and reading a magazine. The van was in her driveway. And he looked up with pleasure the minute he saw her. She had known him at that point for exactly eight days, and she knew more about him than many people she had known for years. But it still didn't justify the attraction she felt for him. What was happening between them was all about chemistry and hormones and pheromones. It was totally out of their control, except that Paris was trying to do everything she could to keep a harness and muzzle on her feelings.

“I don't have much in the fridge,” she said as they walked into the house together. And before she could say another word, he took her handbag and briefcase from her and set them down. He closed the front door with his foot, and kissed her so passionately it took her breath away. She had to fight to catch her breath when he stopped. She had never been kissed like that in her entire life, not even by him the night before.

“I am going crazy, Paris,” he said desperately, and then kissed her again, and as he did, he took off her coat and dropped it on the floor, and then her blouse, and her bra, and she did nothing to stop him. She didn't want to. All she wanted was what he was doing. And as he continued undressing her, she began undressing him. She unbuttoned his shirt, undid his belt buckle, and unzipped his trousers. And within seconds, they were both standing naked, and glued to each other in the front hall. And without a word, he swept her into his powerful young arms, and carried her up the steps to her bedroom, as though he had done it a thousand times before. He deposited her on her bed, and looked at her for a long moment, and then gave a soft almost animal moan, as he began kissing her everywhere, and touching her, and making her writhe with pleasure, and she turned to return the favor to him. She put all of him that she could into her mouth, and his head arched back, and the beautiful young head with the spiky hair was thrown backward, as she did all she could to bring him pleasure, and then finally he got on the bed with her, and made love to her as she had never been made love to before. It was a tidal wave that neither could stop, and it seemed to go on for hours, and when she lay in his arms finally afterward, he ran a hand through her long silky hair and told her that he loved her. And although they barely knew each other, she believed him.

“Je t'aime,” he whispered hoarsely, and then began kissing her again. He couldn't keep his lips or his hands off of her, or keep his body away from her, and she couldn't keep hers away from him. It was many hours later when they finally fell asleep in each other's arms, and when they woke at sunrise, they made love again, but more quietly this time. It was a night Paris knew she would never forget, and that she would remember for the rest of her life. She was totally under the spell of Jean-Pierre.





Chapter 25




Fortunately the first days of Paris and Jean-Pierre's love affair began over a weekend, because they never got dressed or out of bed for nearly forty-eight hours. All she wanted was to be with him. They ordered pizza on Saturday, and made peanut butter sandwiches, which he said were disgusting and then ate two of them. All he wanted to satisfy him was Paris. They were luxuriating in her bathtub on Sunday night, when the phone rang and it was Meg.

Paris talked to her for a few minutes, and didn't tell her anything, and Jean-Pierre understood immediately, and didn't say a word while she was on the phone. And he did the same again when Wim called half an hour later.

She didn't ask Jean-Pierre what they were going to do, because they weren't going to do anything. He was going to be there as long as he was there, and they would enjoy it for what it was. A brief and blissfully torrid interlude. She had never done anything like it, but she didn't expect anything more. She wasn't going to try to make it into something it wasn't, or extort promises from him, or offer them. She asked no questions, expected no answers. Whatever time they shared with each other was a gift, however brief. She wanted nothing more. And she assumed that he didn't either.

But as she left for work on Monday morning, she asked him what he was going to do all day, and he looked vague.

“I must see a magazine. Someone tell me about it in Paris. I am curious what they do.”

“Will you be here tonight when I come home?”

“I try.” He smiled at her, and then kissed her. He still had his hotel room but hadn't been there in three days. They hadn't put on clothes since they'd come through the door on Friday. They'd been living in bathrobes and towels, and walking around naked much of the time. She had no sense of modesty with him, and they couldn't get enough of each other's bodies. Before she left, she handed him a set of spare keys, and showed him how to work the alarm. She had no qualms about letting him roam around her house when she wasn't there. She trusted him completely, not only with her house, but with herself. She felt totally at ease with him.

“Merci, mon amour,” he said, thanking her for the keys. “À tout à l'heure.” See you later, he said, as he blew her a kiss when she left, and he went out only minutes after she did.

“How was your weekend?” Bix asked as she came into the office, and she looked vague as she hung up her jacket.

“It was fine. How was yours?”

“Don't give me that,” he said, he knew her too well. “Is Jean-Pierre still here?”

“I think so,” she said innocently, and he saw nothing in her eyes this time. She was so tired, she could hardly keep them open.

And when she went home that night, he was there, and had already started cooking dinner for her. He had made a roast leg of lamb and string beans, bought cheese and a baguette. It was a delicious dinner, and she asked him about the magazine he'd gone to see as they ate.

“How was it?” she asked as they devoured the gigot. They were both starving, neither of them had had a decent meal in three days.

“Interesting,” he said. “It is very small, but they do very good work. It is new.”

“Are you going to do some work for them?” He nodded and looked at her, and over the bread and cheese he asked her an honest question.

“Paris, do you want me to stay, or go? Will it make too complicate for you if I stay for one month or two?”

She looked at him long and hard, and was honest with him. “I'd like you to stay.” She was stunned by her own words, but it was how she felt.

He beamed at her, he was ready to do whatever she wanted, for as long as he could. “Then I stay. My visa is for six months. But I go whenever you say.” It was a pact between them, and entirely comfortable for her. No one knew he was there, and their nights and weekends belonged to them.

Meg was too busy to come up from Los Angeles these days, and Wim had midterms and was busy with his friends. They had a month together, before Meg volunteered to come to spend a night with her before she left for Thanksgiving in the East. Jean-Pierre had long since given up his hotel room, but he told her he'd be happy to leave for the night when Meg came.

“That might be a good idea,” Paris agreed. She didn't want to shock her daughter unduly, and she had no idea what she was going to say, if anything.

Meg arrived on the Tuesday night before Thanksgiving, and Wim came over to spend the night as well. Paris loved having both of her children there, and she cooked them a delicious dinner, which was more than she'd done so far for Jean-Pierre. And both Wim and Meg were flying to New York in the morning. Richard was staying in Los Angeles with his daughter.

“Will you be okay for Thanksgiving, Mom?” Meg already knew she was going to Steven and Bix's for the holiday, but she worried about her getting lonely over the weekend. She didn't have a lot of friends in San Francisco yet, and Meg knew she wasn't seeing anyone, or so she thought.

“I'll be fine. I'm just glad you'll be here for Christmas. That's more important.” And it was only later, when she and Meg were both getting ready for bed, and Wim was downstairs, that Paris shared her secret, or part of it at least, with her. She rarely kept anything from her daughter. And what had gone on for the last five weeks was unusual for her in every way. She told her she was dating someone, and he was French. But she did not say that he was staying with her, and he was fifteen years younger. That was too much to confess at one gulp.

“What's he like?” Meg looked pleased for her, as she always was when things were going well for her mother.

“Adorable. He's a photographer. He's on assignment here for a few months.”

“That's too bad.” Meg looked disappointed. “How soon is he going back?”

“I don't know. We're having fun for now.” She sounded philosophical about it.

“Widowed or divorced?”

“Divorced. He has a ten-year-old son.” She didn't say that he was barely older than that himself.

“It's weird how all these older guys have young kids, isn't it?” Meg was thinking of her father, and her mother's new friend had obviously gotten a late start, she assumed. Paris made a vague mmming sound as she nodded and brushed her teeth. But she knew that sooner or later, if they met him, she would have to at least acknowledge the difference in their age. It didn't bother her or Jean-Pierre, he said it didn't matter to him at all, his ex-wife was older than he was too, though only five years, and not fifteen. But Paris had no idea how her children would react, and she was nervous about it.

She talked to Bix about it in the office the next day. She had felt dishonest not saying something to Meg, particularly after her comment about older guys getting a late start and having kids. There was nothing “older” about Jean-Pierre.

“I don't think anyone gives a damn these days,” Bix reassured her. “Older, younger, same age. Fifty-year-old women have twenty-five-year-old boyfriends. Seventy-year-old men marry thirty-year-olds and have babies. The world has changed. A lot of people don't even bother to get married to have kids these days. Single men and women adopt children. None of the old rules hold. I think you can do damn near anything you want. And you're not hurting anyone. I hope your children will be decent about it.” But Paris was still unsure.

Paris talked to them on Thanksgiving, they were at their father's. They were staying there, and Rachel answered the phone when she called. Paris just asked to speak to Meg, and didn't say anything to her. But she told Wim to wish his father a happy Thanksgiving. It was the only contact she had had with Peter in over a year, when they took Wim to school. They no longer even talked on the phone, they had no reason to, and it was easier for her this way.

Jean-Pierre was with her when she talked to them, and afterward they went to Bix and Steven's, and had a lovely Thanksgiving. It was Jean-Pierre's first, and he said he liked it. And they went to see two French movies and an American one that weekend. Jean-Pierre loved films.

And for the next month, they lived in their little bubble, like twins in the womb. Everything was protected and happy. She worked a million Christmas parties with Bix, or it felt that way at least, and Jean-Pierre was doing a lot of work for the new magazine. They couldn't believe their good fortune to have him, and he had to do a lot of explaining in Paris and New York as to why he had dropped out of sight for the past two months, and didn't know when he would return. He had until April, and then he either had to do something about getting a permanent resident's visa, which wouldn't be easy to obtain, or go home. But for the moment, everything was easy and simple in their world. And Paris had never been happier in her life. She invited Richard to join her and the children for Christmas, and realized that she had to say something to Wim and Meg, so Jean-Pierre could be there too, and she wanted him to be. She finally took the bull by the horns with Meg the week before they came. She wanted to give her at least a few days to digest it, but her hands were shaking before she made the call. Their approval and support were important to her, and she wondered if, in their eyes, she had gone too far.