Lost in Paris by Elizabeth Thompson (ebook smartphone .txt) 📕

how I remember her, too. I think I got in trouble just about every time I was around her. Mean ol’ woman.”

“She wasn’t mean,” I say as I try to reconcile the austere woman who freaked out over me using one of her envelopes with the woman in the sensual paintings—the woman who owned this apartment—but it’s hard to do.

“Okay, maybe she was a little mean,” I concede.

“Well, yeah,” Marla says. “Why else would you keep an apartment like this a secret from your family? We could have been vacationing here all these years. Callie and I could’ve stayed here when we came to Paris that summer.”

We’re startled by a knock at the door.

Marla’s eyes widen and she whispers, “Do you think that lady across the hall called the police?”

“If she thought she saw something suspicious, I hope she did,” I say in a full voice as I head toward the door.

“No! Stop!” Marla hisses. “Don’t answer it.”

“Why not? We’re not doing anything wrong. It’s not like we broke in. We own the place and we have a lawyer on speed dial.”

She blinks at me, seemingly at a loss for words. Because I’m right.

“We should’ve introduced ourselves to the neighbor. The sooner we let her know we own the apartment, the better. Besides, it might be the guy from the hardware store delivering your vacuum,” I call over my shoulder.

There’s no peek hole on the door, so I have no choice but to answer it without knowing who is on the other side. I remove the white mask and adjust my posture, holding my chin at a level that I hope projects more confidence than I feel inside, despite my sure words to my mother.

When I open the door, rather than the police or a band of vigilante neighbors, I find a very handsome man dressed in a suit and tie under an open black topcoat.

“Bonjour—uh, good morning.” His smile hits me like a thousand-watt bulb. For a moment, I’m at a loss for words as I drink in his tall frame and dark George Clooney–esque good looks. A musky, manly smell mingles with stale cigarettes and expensive cologne, but the way his brown eyes crinkle at the corners and his one incisor tilts rakishly sideways make up for the vague body odor.

“I am Gabriel Cerny.” He smiles again, as if I’m supposed to know him. His English is excellent but laced with enough of a French accent to make my toes curl in my sneakers.

And then I remember how I’m dressed, with the ridiculous hot-pink bandanna in my hair and the safety goggles covering my eyes. As I yank them off, I realize I’m not wearing makeup because of the cleaning mission. Shit.

“Emile Levesque’s colleague?” he prompts. “I have come in his place to offer assistance this morning?”

“Yes, of course; come in, please.” I open the door wider, step back, and motion for him to enter. Then I realize that his fancy coat will be a dust magnet. “I’m afraid the place is a little messy. You might ruin your coat. Is that cashmere?”

I resist the urge to reach out and touch it.

He purses his lips and offers a noncommittal shrug that is so very French as he peers in the doorway to assess the place.

He makes a guttural disapproving sound and stays put. “Yes, I see. It is quite dirty. And you are?”

For a split second I misunderstand and think that he’s saying I am quite dirty. Then I realize he’s asking my name.

“Oh! I’m so sorry; I am Hannah Bond.”

“And I’m Marla.”

My mother has sidled up next to me to offer her hand. “Bond. Marla Bond.” She is in full-on flirt mode. I wonder what happened to the woman who, a moment ago, was standing in the bedroom looking crushed as she gazed at nude paintings of her grandmother.

When Gabriel Cerny takes her hand, I notice he’s not wearing a wedding ring and I wonder how long it will be before Marla ends up in his bed.

“Nice to meet you, Mademoiselles Bond.”

Marla titters. I notice she looks pretty, having had the foresight to remove her gear and fluff her hair before making her entrance. She’s like a rose amidst urban decay.

I guess Gabriel Cerny is somewhere between Marla’s age and my own. I’m sure he finds Marla the more attractive of the two of us. I don’t even know why that popped into my head, but I send the thought packing as fast as it entered.

Gabriel steps back into the hall. Marla and I follow him.

“It can’t be healthy for you to be in that apartment among all that filth,” he says. “I shall have my assistant secure a cleaning service for you. I’m sure we can find one by this afternoon to take care of the work for you. A professional crew will have this place tidied up in no time.”

“No, thank you,” I say. “It’s nice of you to offer, but we’ve already purchased cleaning supplies. Even a vacuum, which should be delivered any minute.”

He studies me with eyes that look dubious and amused. Then he blows out a pffft. “This is no job for beautiful ladies. You should be out enjoying this magnificent day. It’s warmer outside today, but tomorrow, it is supposed to turn bitterly cold. You must seize the moment while you can.”

I have no idea what sort of high-maintenance divas he’s pegged us for, but I am perfectly happy rolling up my sleeves and getting my hands dirty. Well, maybe not perfectly happy, but you gotta do what you gotta do, and the apartment won’t clean itself.

“Isn’t he darling, Hannah?” Marla is gushing full-on now. “Bless your heart for worrying about us, honey,” she says. “I would love it if you would call in a cleaning crew for us.”

This is her steel-magnolia-in-distress persona.

“Oui. Right away.” Gabriel Cerny is shaking his head as he stares down at the cell phone he has produced from his coat pocket.

Then he’s talking into the receiver