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

forever held together by the stone from which Rodin tried to set them free.

“Have I succeeded in teaching you how to have fun yet?” Gabriel asks.

A frisson of awareness skitters through my body.

“I’m having a wonderful time,” I say. “Of course, Rodin’s work is tremendous, but it’s such a treat to see the inside of the house. I could almost imagine what life was like when Abraham Peyrenc de Moras lived here with his wife.”

Gabriel tells me the house was long considered the most spectacular in the neighborhood because it was freestanding—it didn’t share walls with other homes, as is the case with so many homes in Paris. It was also unusual because it had one of the most beautiful gardens in the city, which remains today in all its seven-acre splendor.

“Isn’t looking at an ancient manoir too much like work for you?” Gabriel asks.

“I never met a big house I didn’t love. This is no more work for me than it must be for you to escort a client to the Musée Rodin. Did you find it less enjoyable with me in tow?”

I turn and face him.

“Oh, that’s right. Today, you are a client.” His gaze smolders. “However, since Emile Levesque was your original point of contact, when he returns, I will send you back to his capable hands. Voila! You will no longer be my client and that will leave my hands free to serve you in other ways.”

I laugh at his forwardness, giving him the benefit of the doubt that something must’ve gotten lost in translation.

“What exactly are you thinking of doing with those capable hands?”

He raises his left brow knowingly. His gaze falls to the V neckline of my dress and lingers. I’m suddenly feeling quite out of my depth.

“What I meant is I have served you in a professional capacity. When Levesque returns, I will be at your service as a… friend.” Gabriel looks at his watch. “In fact, Levesque is probably back in town by now. I guess that means I am no longer on duty.”

I waver at the new tenor of our conversation. If I let it, it could drift into very personal territory.

I’m not sure I want that.

But I’m not sure that I don’t.

Gabriel is so attractive on so many different levels—physically, emotionally, intellectually. It’s like the trifecta of sexy.

My mouth goes dry, and I wish I could paw through my purse for a piece of gum.

This guy is French and older, which translates to experienced. What in the world does he want with someone like me?

Okay, never mind. I know what he wants, but I’m not sure if I’m up for the emotional roller coaster of a hookup right now.

Aiden pops into my mind and I feel weirdly guilty. We haven’t even been on a date, beyond the blind date that really wasn’t a blind date.

He should not figure into this… whatever this is with Gabriel. A no-strings-attached chance to have fun? A short-lived Paris fling with my attorney with benefits?

The start of something bigger?

It’s been such a long time since the last time… since Charlie… and I know how that ended.

Maybe I’m overthinking something good.

God, here I go. I need to stop. I need to go with the flow.

“But you’re a named partner. Doesn’t that still make me your client in the grand scheme of things?”

He reaches out and sweeps a lock of my hair off my cheek, tucks it behind my ear. I can smell his earthiness and the phantom scent of nicotine on his fingers, even though he has never smoked in front of me. My cheek tingles where he touched it.

“It means you are Levesque’s client and you are my friend. No? Are you not my friend, Hannah? Because I think we could be very good friends.”

His voice is low and sexy, and I melt a little more inside. I can’t make my brain come up with a witty reply to keep this banter going.

That’s my curse. Queen of the comeback, I am not. Give me a few hours and I can craft the perfect thing to say, but sadly a late comeback is a dead comeback.

“Would you allow me to cook dinner for you tonight, Hannah? One friend cooking for the other?”

I can’t abandon Marla tonight. It was one thing to leave her at the apartment bossing around the cleaning crew, but it’s quite another to desert her on our second night in Paris when we should be strategizing our next moves.

“Look, I had a nice time with you today,” he says. “I have enjoyed talking to you. You are as interesting as you are beautiful and I want the conversation to continue. That is all. Please know my intentions are pure. Think about it.”

He doesn’t bring it up again as we stroll around the gardens. Nor does he mention it on the ride back to the apartment.

When I get out of the car, he follows me. He pulls a pen and a leather-bound notepad from the breast pocket of his coat, writes something, and hands me the paper. “I would be happy to send a car for you tonight, but I don’t want to pressure you. This is my address. I would love to cook for you. I will prepare a meal for two and hope for the best. If you do not show, I will understand.” He shrugs. “I will have leftovers for tomorrow night. And another sad night of eating all alone.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” I say, glancing at the paper, on which he has scrawled an address and the time—7:00 p.m. His handwriting is neat and bold. It matches his personality perfectly.

“It is true. I love to cook, but I hate to cook for myself because I hate to eat alone.”

“No pressure, huh?” I smile.

He shakes his head. “Absolutely no pressure. I am simply telling you the truth. I will not push you, but it bears repeating that I have had such a lovely time with you today, Hannah, and I do