Page 90 of Daughters of Paris

‘No. I’ve never been the sort of man who likes to sow my seeds then leave. I have to care for a woman before I go to bed with her.’

Fleur narrowed her eyes. ‘That’s not what the men at your workshop said. They told me women are your hobby.’

He grinned. ‘They don’t know half as much about me as they think they do. Let me go and have a word with the owner.’

He left Fleur and walked over to the sleeping man, prodded him awake and had a rapid conversation while Fleur digested the information. Laurent planned to spend the night here. He intended Fleur would spend it with him. She pursed her lips, wondering if this had been his intention all along. The wine. The hand-holding. The solicitous questions. Had they all been leading up to this? She should be furious at the thought he was planning to seduce her and the presumption she would go along with it, but all she could feel was rising excitement.

Laurent returned smiling. ‘Yes, we can have a room for the night. There is only one bed, but I can sleep on the sofa.’

Fleur narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms, doing her best to look forbidding. He halted in front of her, looking uncertain.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Are you planning to seduce me?’

‘Not in the slightest!’ He looked genuinely taken aback.

‘You aren’t? Oh.’ Humiliated at being so wrong, a prickle of heat began to climb up Fleur’s neck. He had to care for a woman. He had told her so only minutes before.

He slipped back into his chair. ‘Oh, I very much want to, however, I’m not planning to do it.’

‘Why not?’

Laurent gave her a sideways look. The blue eyes appraised her far too closely.

‘A number of reasons, not least a concept called honour. I don’t believe that seduction should involve situations where neither partner can back out. Finish your drink. I promise you’re completely safe in my company.’

He drained his glass and waited while Fleur did likewise. This time he didn’t offer his hand when he stood. When they had sat, Fleur had spotted Laurent push the bag containing the final three packages under his chair. He did not take it with him. Clearly one of the other patrons would take in when they left. She considered asking who it was, but he probably wouldn’t tell her. In any case, she was too embarrassed to speak after her awkward accusation.

They walked side by side through the bar and to the same staircase they had emerged from, this time turning up rather than down. Laurent led her to a room at the end of a passageway, which contained a narrow double bed and a washstand with a wooden chair in front of it. No sofa. They stared at each other, understanding clearly without the need for words. Laurent cleared his throat and kicked off his shoes.

‘I’ve slept on enough floors in my time. One more won’t hurt.’

They took turns washing in the sink and Laurent gallantly paid a visit to the lavatory down the corridor while Fleur removed split-skirt, cardigan, and blouse. She was about to move the knapsack off the bed when a thought struck her. She pulled the parachute out. Metres of smooth, soft fabric with a bright sheen to it in the lamplight. She was holding it at arm’s length when Laurent returned.

‘Are you performing the dance of the seven veils?’

‘I don’t know what that is. What should I do with this?’

Laurent leaned against the door and scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘Usually it gets burned to hide the evidence, but that seems a waste. How good are you at sewing? You could make yourself some blouses or slips.’

His eyes flickered over her and belatedly Fleur realised she was clad only in a bra, panties and stockings. Ah well, it seemed too late to worry about that now.

‘I’m not very good at sewing but Colette is,’ Fleur said, her imagination creating flowing gowns and nightgowns. ‘I’m sure she could make something for us both.’

Laurent strolled across the room, a glint in his eye that made the muscles in Fleur’s thighs tighten. ‘I’d love to see you clothed in the finest Macclesfield silk.’

‘Is that what it is called?’ Fleur ran her hand over the cloth.

‘It’s where it’s made. A little town in England.’

‘You’ve been to England. Have you ever been to Macclesfield?’ she asked.

‘I haven’t. Perhaps when all this is over I should go and pay my respects.’ Laurent took the silk from her, lay on his back on the floor and threw it over himself as a makeshift blanket. It billowed then settled over him. Fleur could see the contours of his large frame swathed in the silk, reminding her of a figure on an ancient tomb.

Fleur climbed into the bed and pulled the counterpane up under her arms. ‘I was always jealous of Colette going to England.’

‘Then maybe I’ll take you with me,’ Laurent remarked. ‘Goodnight, Fleur.’

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