Page 17 of Sinful Escape

With everyone back on board and accounted for, Roman kicked the bus into gear, and we merged into the Paris-bound traffic.

Using the microphone, I gave my guests details about their accommodation for the night. “C’est la Vie Hostel is an interesting building. It was originally a power station but was decommissioned after it suffered extensive damage during World War Two. For over six decades it lay dormant, until a smart investor bought it for a pittance and converted it into a hostel.”

We arrived at a quarter to six, well within schedule. By the time Roman had unloaded the luggage, and I’d checked everyone into their rooms for their two-night stay, it was nearly seven o’clock.

With arrangements made to meet everyone at Haute Voltage on the ninth floor, I made my way up to my room. Being just over half a mile from the Eiffel Tower ensured all one hundred and fifty rooms were nearly always full. When I stayed here, if possible, I requested the same room. The room itself wasn’t special, but the view beyond the curtains certainly was. Striding to the window, I pulled the drapes aside and peered down the narrow, paved street. I sighed with contentment as the glorious sight greeted me.

Halfway along the street was Château de Vin et d'antiquités, my favorite restaurant in Paris.

But that wasn’t the main attraction. The light blue Vespa parked next to the streetlamp was. It confirmed Pierre, the restaurant owner, was working tonight. Pierre seemed to understand my need to be left in peace to read my book while I ate his delicious meals. Warmth flooded through me at the thought of getting some time out later.

After a quick shower, I tugged on my favorite denim shorts and a baggy black button-up shirt that concealed my breasts sufficiently. My shoe choice was always about comfort, and as I lived out of a suitcase for twenty days of each month, I only had two pairs to choose from. I slipped on my ruby red Del Rey sneakers and laced them.

In the elevator, I studied my reflection in the mirror. My freckles were out in force. Hundreds of tiny dots that were color-matched to my red hair. I’d given up trying to conceal them years ago. Rather than another attempt to tame my unruly mop, I did the opposite. I tipped my head upside down, drove my fingers into the mass of curls and gave them a good tussle. Upright again, I cringed. The wild look I’d been going for was more like rabid jungle woman.

Blaring music vibrated through the doors before I’d even reached the ninth floor. The DJ brought the crowds, making the rooftop bar a poor choice on a Saturday night for announcements, but Haute Voltage was selected for its convenience and price, given our group discount, and not its ambiance.

Tugging bangs from my eyes, I exited the elevator and pushed through the heavy glass doors. The hostel’s architects had done an amazing job of marrying the existing rustic qualities of the building with modern facilities. Not that many of the rooftop revelers would appreciate it. Cheap alcohol, not unique architecture, was the drawcard.

Our group congregated in a roped-off area at the front of the terrace. Roman walked back from the bar carrying two jugs of beer. Spying two more jugs still on the counter, I collected the drinks and headed for our designated space.

The boisterous banter confirmed the tourists were thrilled to be there. And rightly so. The first night of every tour was exciting, but standing on a rooftop in Paris, with an uninterrupted view of the Eiffel Tower in the near distance, was about as good as it got. To enhance the experience, the warm July evening was the perfect temperature and the setting sun had painted a dazzling potpourri of purples and pinks across the scattering of clouds.

I’d prefer to just stand at the glass balcony and absorb the magnificent view. But I had a job to do. Clutching a glass of wine, I worked my way through the crowd, making a point to chat with all my tourists.

Roman and the American boys were in deep discussion, probably about football or something equally trivial.

I stepped into a conversation between Claudette, the Swede, and the platinum blonde sisters. They’d all changed into pretty, flowing summer dresses with thin shoulder straps. It was a style I could never wear.

The women were comparing the journeys that’d led them to this very rooftop. All three of them had saved for two years before booking this trip.

I admired people who set goals and stuck to them. I’d pretty much bounced through life without any aspirations. Maybe that was how I’d ended up single at twenty-nine without one asset to my name.

Roman eased up next to me. “Mi scusi signore. I need to borrow Daisy for a minute.”

“Why? What’s wrong?” I tried to catch his eyes as he hustled me away.

“Nothing. Just come with me.” With his hand on my shoulder, he guided me from the DJ’s thumping music to the far corner of the roped-off section. From our vantage point, we could survey our group, along with the DJ and the crowded bar.

Trying to act casual about being in the corner with the hottest guy on the rooftop, I glanced up at him. “What’s up?” I sipped the cheap wine and wished it was colder. And more delicious. The French made spectacular wine; this chardonnay, however, tasted like lemon cordial that’d been stored in a plastic bottle for a decade.

Roman looked down at me, frowning. “Nothing is up. I just wondered what the plan is. Is this our only rooftop bar?”

I cocked my head. “What do you mean, only rooftop bar?”

“Well, do we take them on a pub crawl or go to some clubs? What’s the plan?”

I spread my hands to the crowd. “This is the plan. We buy one round of drinks, then send them on their way to explore Paris.”

He scrunched up his nose. “Huh? So, you don’t go out with everyone?”

“No. I don’t.”

“What? Not ever?”

“No.”

“What about the drivers? Do they go out?”

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