Page 112 of Sinful Escape

He sat on the seat and turned to me holding his helmet forward. My breath caught. My eyes drifted from one glorious aspect to the next. Pierre, looking devilishly handsome with his slicked-back hair and tight black jeans. The light blue Vespa and the surrounding scenery, complete with twinkling lights. I was in a living postcard. Everything about this moment was special. It was like I’d been caught up in one of those romance movies that I hated, but I was beginning to understand why people loved them.

“You can hold onto me.” Pierre patted his nonexistent belly.

I was about to do something that I’d wanted to do since the first time I’d arrived in Paris. The butterflies in my stomach twisted and danced. Excitement and anxiety filled the same space in my brain as I tugged his helmet over my frizzy hair.

My thumping heart hit disco mode as I hooked my bag over my shoulder, eased myself onto the Vespa seat, and wrapped my arms around Pierre.

The Vespa rumbled to life, and we scooted away from the curb. Each turn in the road gave me an opportunity to admire the flex and bulge of Pierre’s rippling muscles beneath his shirt.

I hadn’t felt this much exhilaration with my clothes on in years.

Actually, make that ever.

We passed restaurant after restaurant, all bustling with people. We passed shops, glittering with colorful lights and emitting ridiculously loud music. And we passed dozens of lovers who strolled along, arm in arm. We drove for miles and miles, weaving through the busy Paris streets, and I loved every single minute of it.

After a while, the streets narrowed, and the cars became less congested. It was a magical evening. The temperature was a comfortable twenty or so degrees, and the setting sun colored the clouds indigo and peach.

Pierre turned into a cobblestone street that was too narrow for cars. Row after row of apartments lined the alley, and Vespas parked near every doorway proved they were the vehicle of choice. Balconies jutted out from the apartments above us, all adorned with pretty potted plants and tiny wrought-iron table settings.

Halfway along, Pierre eased the scooter to a halt outside a turquoise door which was flanked with a couple of potted bougainvillea’s that blanketed the wall with leaf-laden vines and lush fuchsia flowers.

I climbed off the back of the Vespa, removed his helmet, and he took it from me. I attempted to drive my fingers through my hair. It was pointless; the knots were plentiful and stubborn.

Pierre smiled. “Did you enjoy the ride?”

“I did.”

“Bonne soirée, Pierre.” A voice above us had Pierre looking up.

“Bonjour, Mrs. Bauchenne.”

He rolled his eyes at me and leaned in. “Nothing gets past the old spinster. Quick, get inside before she starts her usual inquisition.”

He keyed the lock and pushed the door inward. A set of stairs filled the entrance, and a mess of shoes and umbrellas were a jumbled collection on the floor.

Pierre reached for my case and indicated for me to go first. His narrow steps creaked beneath my Del Reys as I admired the beautifully decorated walls with 1930s vintage wallpaper. Moody floral blooms on a captivating navy background gave the impression of an overflowing garden. The wallpaper alone set the scene for what I’m sure was going to be a richly decorated apartment.

“You’ll have to excuse my tiny apartment. After four ex-wives . . .”

He didn’t finish his sentence, but he didn’t need to. I’d grown up listening to Mother’s numerous partners complaining about downsizing after costly divorces.

The top of the stairs opened up to one room containing his bedroom, kitchen, and seating area. There was only one other door that I assumed led to the restroom. Every piece of furniture looked to be antique, including the stunning four-poster bed draped in sheer fabric and the Victorian-style six-arm brass chandelier dangling from the ceiling. The pink chenille curtains, trimmed with floral embroidery, caught my eye. They were ugly and not manly at all and didn’t suit the rest of the apartment. Maybe one of his ex-wives had chosen them, and he hadn’t had time to replace them.

Pierre eased in beside me and placed his arm around my waist. “Would you like to see my view?”

“I’d love to.”

He placed my case on the floor next to the bed, led me across the room, and pulled apart the heavy curtains. Two floor-to-ceiling glass-paned doors were behind the drapes. He opened the doors and together, we stepped onto a tiny balcony.

My breath caught as I placed my hands on the railing. It didn’t matter how ugly Pierre’s curtains were—the scene beyond them was priceless. Millions of lights dotted thousands of buildings like glitter. In the far distance, the very tip of the Eiffel Tower rose above everything in a grand display of prominence.

“Oh, Pierre, this is magnificent.”

“You’re magnificent.” He eased his arms around my waist, inching them beneath my breasts, and placed his chin on my shoulder.

Relaxing into his embrace, I breathed in his delicious scent. I wanted to absorb it all, to remember every single tiny aspect of this very moment.

It was strangely quiet on the balcony as if the whole world had retreated inside. I was both utterly content and buzzing with energy. A strange feeling fluttered through my body. It was overwhelming yet wonderful.

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