Page 33 of The Paris Trip

When he’d taken over the family business in Francis’s stead, Leo had left Jean in his managerial position at the café. His cousin was eccentric, to say the least, and occasionally annoying, but he had a sound mind for business and enjoyed turning a profit. In these difficult times, profit was hard to come by. So Jean remained at the café and Leo ate there once or twice a week, less to keep an eye on the place and more to escape the claustrophobic atmosphere of the château.

He loved his grandmother and his Nonna deeply, and held Bernadette in great affection, of course. But with Liselle at home too, he often had the sensation of walking on eggshells, trying not to provoke a scene. She could be difficult and unpredictable, though sometimes sunny and generous too, and then abruptly vile.

The plain truth was, Liselle was a complicated and contrary person, and his life felt calmer when she wasn’t around.

He and Maeve wandered along to Jean’s bar after eight o’clock. He had half suspected she might back out. That would have been frustrating. Ever since last night, he’d become increasingly obsessed with the idea of painting her, and he knew he wouldn’t feel easy until he’d made a proper attempt to get something down on canvas.

As they approached the café, Maeve gasped, ‘Oh, it’s lovely… How beautiful.’

Jean, with one of his eccentric touches, had placed large tubs of foliage outside the café, and set up strings of coloured lights among the leaves, so that it was permanent Christmas for the customers, the red, white and blue lights flashing merrily away as they drank and dined. Inside, the wall was also an aquarium, where fish darted and shimmered among thick green weeds and miniature shipwrecks.

Leo opened the door for her, ‘I usually eat inside in the evenings. Unless you’d prefer an outside table?’

She rubbed her arms, glancing about at the busy outdoor tables. The evening was cool, and she was wearing a sleeveless summer dress that Bernadette had lent her. ‘No, inside is perfect.’

‘You can borrow my jacket if you’re cold.’

She smiled at that but shook her head. ‘Thank you, I’m fine.’

Jean emerged from the back of the café on seeing them, his smile broad. He was wearing a white, open-necked shirt with a black velvet choker about his throat, a large fake pearl dangling from it. More eccentric dressing, Leo guessed. But it seemed to draw the customers.

‘Wonderful, wonderful,’ Jean cried softly, kissing them both several times on each cheek, while other customers turned to stare at them. ‘I’m so glad you could make it, Mademoiselle. I’ve arranged a corner alcove table for you and Leo. Maximum privacy.’ And he gave Leo an exaggerated wink, who bristled.

What the hell was his cousin trying to insinuate? He wanted Maeve to think of this as a business arrangement, not a seduction. But at least Jean seemed to catch his frown, for his smile disappeared, as did he a few seconds later, muttering, ‘I’ll fetch the menus, shall I?’

Leo waited while Maeve slid into the booth, and then followed her. ‘I apologise for my cousin. He’s not very sensible.’

‘I think Jean’s rather sweet. Funny, you know.’

‘No, I don’t know.’ He grimaced, realising he must sound like a jerk, and added diplomatically, ‘Don’t get me wrong. I like Jean. And he runs this place extremely well. But he’s not a subtle person.’

‘Maybe I'm not, either,’ Maeve said tartly.

He studied her thoughtfully for a moment. ‘Actually, I’d say the opposite. You’re not brash, at any rate.’

She had been gazing about the noisy café with interest, but now frowned round at him, leaning forward to ask above the hubbub, ‘Sorry… what? Did you say I have a rash?’

‘No, I said you weren’t brash.’ He frowned, instantly wondering if he’d mispronounced the word. He spoke English fluently but it had been a long while since he’d spoken it regularly with anyone.

‘Oh, I see. No, I’m not brash. And I don’t have a rash either.’ Maeve raised her brows but sat back again. She seemed distracted, looking down, apparently fascinated by the pattern on her summer dress.

Was she nervous?

Did she too think this was a ‘date,’ perhaps?

Leo was about to dismiss the idea as ludicrous when he realised she might have a point. He could have spoken to her anywhere, after all. Instead, he had chosen to take her out to this intimate little bar where they played soft jazz and the lighting was kept permanently low…

Maybe it was a date.

Maybe he was the one who was behaving unpredictably this time.

Frustration churned inside him.

He still couldn’t understand why this mousy little Englishwoman attracted him so much. Because Liselle had been unkind but unerringly correct in her assessment of Maeve, who was indeed quite ordinary-looking.

Leo studied her covertly. Her hair was the darker side of fair rather than blonde, the colour of old straw. She wore it in a neat bob too, well-regimented strands dropping to just above her shoulders and rather too perfectly framing her face, which was also not striking in any way. It was the kind of no-nonsense style he associated with schoolteachers from his youth, and indeed she had told them she was a teacher, as he recalled. Her eyes were blue, but not an electric or deep blue, more like the soft, generic blue on a faded willow-pattern plate.

And she wore no make-up to highlight her eyes or lips. Her mouth was on the generous side though, and his gaze did keep dropping to it. She had a habit of licking her lips when nervous, and he was uncomfortably aware that he found that sexually provocative.

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