Learning Curves 1 - French Cooking 101 (3 page)

So he had nothing else to do than to watch Ariane. She was right across the table from him, between Thomas and Charles, listening to cute stories about the mishaps of the young actor’s life. She watched Charles with a smile, and periodically, she looked in George’s direction.

Charles was right; Peter needed to find a way to be alone with her. Seven was a crowd!

Jena and Thomas would rush away as soon as they could—they wouldn’t be a problem. Charles would get the hint; he caught on real quick. The problem would be his sister and her teammate…or maybe not. He had offered to walk with her back to the hotel. That was a splendid idea. Now Peter just had to wait for the end of the meal.

❦

As they were about to start dessert, a tall guy in his late twenties or possibly early thirties walked in. He let himself in and just symbolically knocked on the door of the dining room. He asked, in broken English, if there was room for one more. Ariane jumped up and looked really happy to see him. Peter’s mood turned somber. The man was good looking and seemed right at home in Ariane’s place. Peter mentally kicked himself. He should have known she already had someone in her life.
 

Ariane took the arm of the newcomer and said, “Mais bien sûr, Jean-Michel, viens t’asseoir avec nous.” Ariane gave Jean-Michel her seat next to Charles, who flashed her a killer smile. The man looked about to burst with joy.
 

A light bulb switched on in Peter’s brain. Jean-Michel was Charles’s plus one. Good for him. No more feeling left out. Never in his life had he been so happy to be seated across from a gay couple.
 

Jena and Thomas took the new arrival as a cue to make a quick escape. They promised to be back at nine thirty a.m. sharp. Ariane walked them to the door. When she returned, she brought Jean-Michel a plate with a slice of pie and cutlery.
 

Jean-Michel took her hand in both of his and said, “You know the way to a man’s heart does go through his stomach.”

“Then I guess Charles is in luck because he’s the one who baked that pie,” said Ariane, winking at Charles. She walked around the table and took Jena’s seat next to Peter.

A few minutes later, Mary left with George for their planned evening promenade. Jean-Michel finished his pie, declared it delicious, and congratulated both the baker and the teacher. He offered to take Charles out for a drink and show him around Le Marais. He also offered to bring Ariane and Peter with them.

Ariane declined, saying that she had to prepare for tomorrow. Peter said he would stay and help her. After they left, Ariane looked around the kitchen and then at Peter leaning against the dining room door.
 

Pulling down the storefront window curtains, she said, “Actually there is nothing to do right now. I have a cleaning lady who comes in and gets everything cleaned and ready for the next session. I just thought they would rather be left alone…”

“I’m glad you did,” said Peter, “because I so want to be alone with you too.” He took a couple of steps closer to Ariane. He put one hand on the back of her neck and the other on the small of her back to draw her in. She looked up as her body nestled against his. Amazingly, she felt like a perfect fit. “I’ve been wanting to do this since the second I saw you.” He bent his head down to kiss her.

❦

WALKING OUT OF ARIANE’S COOKING school with George, Mary wasn’t sure how she felt. She had never been daring and direct with a man. She had never been a shrinking violet, either. Shy and proper were not her style. She was assertive in all aspects of life, but her coming on so strong was a first. Then again, what she felt when she first saw George was a first as well.

When she had walked in the room and seen him, her heart literally skipped a beat. A few minutes later, she noticed him staring at her and her heart did a little happy dance. The rhythm increased when Ariane paired them together to work. Mary was happy. She was getting a chance to get a closer look.
 

She had liked everything she saw. That was a real surprise since she didn’t favor dark and somber men. But then again, what she found most irresistible was his smile. Maybe because he didn’t flash it every thirty seconds as Charles did. Where Charles was champagne, all fresh, light, and bubbly, George was bourgogne, deep, rich, and a darker color with a strong bouquet. Mary knew her wine, and she liked them rounded and powerful. She was drinking him up.

George was all about power. She was fascinated by his large hands and arms and shoulders. They should belong to a lumberjack, not to a writer. What would those hands feel like on her skin? Would they be light as feathers, strong and possessive, or both in turn? She couldn’t wait to find out.

They turned left after leaving Ariane’s workshop and quickly faced a lovely church, Saint Pierre du Gros Caillou. Mary read the name out loud and asked, “Is something wrong with my French, or is the name of the church Saint Peter of the Large Stone?”

“Nothing wrong with your French. If you go in, which you should in the daytime when it’s open, you’ll be able to read about the history of the church. When it was built, a few years before the French revolution, this street was at the border of Paris. The large stone was the geographical landmark of the limit of the territory of the city. Beyond it was ‘la plaine de Grenelle’ where vegetables were grown for the Parisians.” George gestured toward the very built-up area south of them.

Mary enjoyed the way his face came to life when he spoke about history. Sliding her arm in his, she asked, “So where will you take me now?”

“I thought we could walk to the river bank, watch the barges pass by on the Seine.”

“Sounds good.”

They walked down avenue Bosquet, crossed the quai d’Orsay, and passed the entrance to the Paris Sewer Museum by the Alma bridge. They leaned into each other, elbows resting on top of the stone parapet. Underneath them was an empty two-lane street and then the river.

George said, “It’s very quiet because the Maire of Paris decided to make a promenade of the high-speed left-bank road. It used to be as busy as the FDR drive in Manhattan or South Lake Shore Drive in Chicago. Right now, the Parisians are not too happy about it because it has considerably slowed down traffic. Actually, they’re furious. Maybe they’ll love it in a few years. Who knows? When the Eiffel Tower was built, everyone said it was a disgrace to have such an industrial structure in the middle of the city, and now it’s the main landmark.”

“You love Paris. Do you plan to stay here for good?” asked Mary.
 

“I’m not sure. I could, but then again, I could live just about anywhere. That’s one of the perks of being a writer. Once you’ve done your research, you don’t need to be in a specific location. With the internet, sometimes you can do research without ever walking out of your home,” answered George. “What about you? From your accent, I would say New York? What do you do?”
   

“I live in Manhattan. I’m a midwife. So, in theory, I also have a job I can do anywhere in the world. However, it’s a very regulated profession now. The licensing requirement is probably a good thing, but it makes moving to a different country or even another state a real pain. The administration has us running like rats in a maze with paperwork.”

“Did you ever practice outside of New York?”

“Yes, I was really lucky to get a couple of chances to do so. Just out of school, I worked in South America, and then a few years later, I worked in Africa.”

“Wow, that must have been a challenge.”

“It was a fabulous experience. It was exciting and dangerous.” Noticing George’s raised eyebrows, Mary explained. “I was never in any physical danger. I didn’t go to war zones or anywhere life threatening. But sometimes I would find myself alone, in the middle of nowhere, with an emergency. I got to do things that, at home, only doctors are allowed to do.”

“You mean you performed medical acts over your pay grade?”

“Precisely.” Mary looked down at the river. “I really shouldn’t have, but I did it anyway. It was either that or watch the mother or the baby, or both, die.”

“That must have been quite a rush.” George put his large hand on her arm.

Mary faced him and smiled. “Yes, it was. I was lucky and it turned out right!”
 

George shifted and put his other hand under her chin, tilting her head up to face his. “Let’s see how right this will turn out.” He leaned over to tenderly press his lips against hers, waiting for a green light to explore further.
 

Mary slipped one hand on the back of his neck and pressed against him, meeting him with hungry need. Their lips parted. Mary crushed her breasts against his chest while both his hands found their way to the small of her back and then further down, pushing her into him. His erection pressed into her through their clothes, and she felt a surge of desire knock the breath out of her.

One hand remained on her butt while the other traveled under her top, gently caressing her back. Her hands sneaked in the back pockets of his jeans and kneaded and pressed on his muscular butt, as if they could possibly get any closer with their clothes still on.

After what seemed a delightful eternity, he pulled away and said, “Would you like to see my place? Do you want me to take you back to your hotel?”
 

“Let’s go to my room. It’s very close,” Mary answered breathlessly.

Holding hands, they walked by the river toward her hotel.

❦

ARIANE HAD HOPED THAT Peter would leave with Mary. She would have quietly closed the place, maybe put some stuff away to make cleaning up easier for Inès, her cleaning lady. She would have climbed the stairs to her bedroom and gone to bed, her favorite place. Dreamland would have been perfect. Most probably a fantasized version of Peter would have found his way into her dreams and been warmly welcomed.

But that was not to happen. Peter had stayed. He stood in front of her, and he was so very real. She shuddered. He told her that he wanted to be alone with her, and he came closer. Her heartbeat accelerated when he touched her and drew her to him. She raised her eyes to him and tilted her face up as he bent his head to kiss her.

Her heart stopped, and her core contracted.
Oh. My. God. I’ve died and gone to heaven
, she thought. With both her hands on the back of his head, she clung to him as if her life depended on holding him. She was never letting him go. His mouth belonged on hers. The moment was so magical it should never end. His right hand belonged on her back, holding her so tightly she could feel his arousal. His other hand belonged on her head, fisted in her hair and deliciously possessive.
 

She whimpered when his lips pulled away to travel to her cheek, the lobe of her ear, her neck, and her shoulder while the hand nested in her hair found its way to the buttons on her shirt and then to the fastening of her bra. He half-freed her heavy breasts from their white-lace cage.

Peter buried his face between her breasts. One hand remained on her hip while the other found its way under her skirt. Ever so slowly, it went up her inner thigh. Her knees went weak. Blood drummed in her ears, throbbed between her legs.

Her heart had not stopped—yet—but she had to remember to breathe. Air in. Air out. Air in. Air out… She had to breathe before her brain was totally deprived of oxygen… Brain, think! This couldn’t be happening. This crazy passionate embrace wasn’t her. Mustering all her willpower, she pushed him back and said, “Please, Peter, stop.”

Springing back, he pulled away slightly and asked, “What’s wrong? Don’t you want me?”

“Oh yes, I do. Very much. So much it’s scary. But I don’t do one-night stands or three-night stands. This isn’t who I am.”

“Ariane, please. You have no idea. I want you for more than that.” He shrugged and, looking in her eyes, explained, “You’re a miracle. I never thought I would want someone ever again. Please trust me.”
   

“I would very much like to… Actually, I do trust you. I know you mean what you’re saying.”

“So why stop?”

“Because early next week, you’ll be flying back to your country, and I’ll be staying here. So I can’t let you get any closer.” Ariane shook her head. “If I make love with you, I’ll give a part of myself to you, and I’ll be broken when you move on.”

“How do you know I’ll move on? I’m not a hit-and-run type of man. You don’t know me.”
 

“You’re right. That’s precisely the problem. I want you, but I don’t know you.”

Taking one step back and slowly moving his hand from her hip, he asked, “Are you sure you want to stop?”
 

“It’s not what I want”—she looked at the floor and buttoned her shirt—“not what I want at all. It’s what I need to do to protect myself.”
 

She had to push him away, get him out of her sight, because if she didn’t, she would give in or combust. He had to get out. Now. She was already having second thoughts. After all, he was already under her skin. No matter what happened or didn’t happen, she would be devastated when he left. She would also be devastated if he didn’t show up tomorrow morning. Why not take advantage of the moment? Why not enjoy it while she could?
 

Because it was better to deal with regrets than live with remorse. She had only known the man for half a day. He had the hots for her and her for him, and it was lust or infatuation. It couldn’t possibly be anything more than that. She wasn’t one to believe in love at first sight. That was the stuff of fairy tales and romance novels.
 

In real life, Cinderella did sometimes get to marry Prince Charming… but that only happened after he’d knocked her up at the ball and was gentleman enough to do the right thing. Even then, how many couples lasted?
 

The odds of finding someone one was suited to live with for an extended period of time were slim enough when one took one’s time, so why rush?