Midnight in Montmartre: A French Kiss Sweet Romance (2 page)

They laughed for a good minute. His laughter was infectious, and Mia couldn't stop once she started.

"Are you new to Paris?" he asked when he got a hold of himself.

"Fresh off the plane," she said.

"So you don't speak French."

"I can attempt a few consonants and syllables." She switched to the language in an attempt to say “Hello, it's a beautiful night," which prompted another chuckle from Luc.

Mia eyed the Frenchman with increasing interest. He was not only handsome but also had a good sense of humor and was obviously courageous. He was ready to defend her from assault, not knowing whether the mugger had a weapon on him. Not only that, she liked his friendly blue eyes, and his smile was full of light. It warmed her on such a cold rainy night.

She might have saved herself, but he had saved her from a disastrous first night in Paris.

"How are you liking Paris so far?" he asked. "You know, aside from almost being mugged and assaulted."

"It's been magical so far," she said, looking back at the Sacré-Coeur. "And the experience might've been ruined, except, as luck would have it, you came along."

"Luck," he mused. "I don't know if I believe in luck. I believe we make our own luck, good or bad, with our choices and our decisions. I'm not much for chance or fate."

"Since you're French, are you an existentialist?"

"No." He pointed toward the sky. "I'm not convinced the beauty of the universe is accidental. I'm a romantic. I doubt beauty is a cosmic accident. Whether cosmic beauty or..." He looked at her, then quickly looked away. "Or human beauty."

She blushed as his eyes met hers again. He was still getting pelted by the downpour. If they were in a movie, they would be dancing in the rain. Since they had just met, she resisted the temptation to ask him. After all, she didn't want to scare him off with her crazy and spontaneous ideas, but she had the feeling that if she did ask, he would go along with it.

She stepped closer and raised the umbrella over him. He looked down at her, tilting his head closer, his lips merely inches away as his eyes closed. There was undeniable heat between them. She held her breath. She closed her eyes, bracing for the kiss...

"I almost forgot about the mugger. We should call the police." He staggered backward, out from under the umbrella and back into the rain. He shook his head, frowning, and pulled out his phone from his pants pocket.

"Right," Mia said, dazed. "But is there a point? He's long gone."

"Well, he might not mug anyone for a while. At least not American women." He gave another amused smile as he made a call on his phone. "But we should report him, just in case. Paris is beautiful, but it's like any other city after dark. You have to be careful."

"Yes," Mia said, then muttered, "Life does have a nasty way of intruding into dreams."

Luc didn't hear her because he was speaking rapid-fire French into the phone. When the call ended, he offered to give her a ride home.

Still reeling from his rejection, Mia mumbled a protest. "That's okay, I'm only about four blocks away."

"Who knows what could be in store for you in those four blocks? I insist. Come on." Luc opened up the seat of his scooter and pulled out a second helmet for Mia.

She relented. It was late, and she didn't really want to walk home drenched from head to toe. She gave him the address, and before she knew it, they were in front of her apartment building.

"Thanks." She gave the helmet back to him.

She wanted to say more, but their easygoing rapport from before was gone. They were both acting awkward now, with strained smiles and shy eye contact.

"No problem." He smiled at her again, but the affection in his eyes was replaced with unease. He opened his mouth as if he was going to say something, but he closed it again in silence. His whole body seemed to stiffen, and he gripped the handles on his scooter with more force than he needed to.

"
Bonne soirée,
" he said. "Stay safe."

When he rode away into the night, she wondered at his awkward departure. There had definitely been a spark between them, and she was sure that he had been leaning down to kiss her. At the last second, he had drawn back. Why?

Maybe he had a girlfriend. He might even be married. She had not looked at his hand to see if he wore a ring.

She sighed. Perhaps Luc was right about luck. It didn't just drop into your lap. You could make it happen, or you didn't. Luc didn't. Too bad, because in a way, he reminded her of a young Bogie.

L
uc took
a few deep breaths against the cool wind as he sped down onto Rue Pierre Fontaine.

What was he doing almost kissing a complete stranger? And an American at that. Yes, a cute American, but he had acted so out of character. One minute they were laughing about the wallet misunderstanding, and the next minute he was under her umbrella, wanting to taste her lips.

It was as if she'd cast a spell on him.

"She did have a certain pizzazz about her," he said to himself.

Pizzazz
.

It was not a word he used often when conversing with native English speakers. Come to think of it, this was the only time he'd ever used it. It was a word difficult to translate into French. He'd been studying the English language for more than ten years, and he realized that as elegant and melodious as his native tongue was, French was limited in its vocabulary.

English was a hodgepodge language, stealing grammar and words and phrases from every culture as it saw fit. There was a wildness to it, chaotic and exciting. French, and Romance languages in general, had order: rules, structure, a right way and a wrong way. English appeared structured on the surface, but the language seemed to get harder and harder as he advanced in his studies. It was frustrating, given his intellect, but it was also why the language fascinated him to no end.

Yes,
pizzazz
described Mia perfectly. She had the quality in abundance—from his impression of her, anyway. They had only talked for less than half an hour; he didn't really know her. Then why did he feel so at ease with her, as if they'd been friends for ages?

He wondered if Beth had pizzazz. Beth Montaigne, the heiress to the Montaigne Lingerie stores across France. She was the one he was supposed to be in love with. Had he forgotten already?

He had just come from Beth's twenty-seventh birthday party at Le Carmen, an opulent cocktail bar in rococo glory with high ceilings, sculpted columns, and gilded mirrors juxtaposed with modern decor, such as red velvet sofas and golden birdcages hanging from the ceiling, including one big enough for two to sit in.

He'd hoped to spend some private time with Beth in an intimate space or even on the love seat inside the giant birdcage, but she'd spent the evening circulating around the room, leaving every hot-blooded straight man wanting more.

He couldn't blame her for being busy, as there were a lot of business-related guests at the party, and she had her duty, after all, as the face of her family's brand, to schmooze. But at one point in the evening, Luc had thought she spent too long talking and laughing with an Italian business mogul. The man was well dressed, with shiny, pointy shoes and the kind of greasy, black, slicked-back hair that Luc abhorred.

Beth was too good for him. She was too good for most men, since she was, in a word, perfect. With her long blond hair, porcelain skin, and blue-green eyes as bright as gems, she was an angel dropped from the skies. But not only was she beautiful, her intellect, business sense, and upbringing were superior to those of all the other women he knew. She even played the cello and spoke four languages. Above all, she was a nice person. Thoughtful, considerate, generous. She had founded one of her family's charities to fund surgeries for children born with cleft palates. There was simply an indecipherable glow about her. The problem was, everyone else saw it, too.

He'd been chasing after her since they had done their MBAs together. All the other men in the university chased after her, too. She had even dated some of them as Luc watched from the sidelines ruefully, although some of the men's pedigrees, he had to admit, did outshine his. She was a hot commodity, and those who braved rejection were rejected most of the time. Others were too intimidated to take the risk.

Luc, at least, had made some progress. He'd advanced from classmate to acquaintance to friend in her selective social circle. He didn't see her as often as he would've liked, but at least he saw her.

It wasn't the right time, he'd tell himself. Timing. That was the problem, right? Well, there was also the factor of money. Beth had been born into wealth. She had had access to the best of everything in the world since birth. She wouldn't want less in a man.

Luc had spent most of his twenties catching up to his peers. He’d had to work hard for everything. It wasn't as if he was poor, since his father was a successful financial consultant and worked at a top firm in Paris, but his upbringing had been more humble. He certainly had not grown up in bourgeois society, and he had studied his pants off to get into the school Beth attended without trouble, given that she'd had access to the best education all her life.

"Money is a wonderful servant but a terrible master," his father had once told Luc.

Luc had interpreted this advice as meaning he should keep as close an eye on his money as possible. He did so, never spending more than was necessary. Not that he was afraid to splurge on things like nice suits and a Rolex once he had the means. Those things were necessities that helped him rise to the next level the more successful he became. The point was that he considered each purchase carefully, asking himself if the item or service was going to benefit him beyond its retail value.

Beth had enough money to not even have to look at a price tag before purchasing anything. Whatever she wanted, she got. She could buy things that were in style for five seconds, and it wouldn't put a dent in her savings. Why would she want a man who couldn't do the same?

However, even though her personal finances weren't a concern, she did have a keen financial sense, and she loved to learn. While her friends went sailing on the French Riviera, she had her nose in a textbook, studying. She knew the business’s profit-and-loss statements backward and forward. When her gaze skimmed over the fiscal records, she could spot a financial anomaly in seconds. She had big plans for her family's companies.

That was one of the reasons he respected her. She was also well read, could debate anyone blue about philosophy, and knew more about art history than anyone he knew. Now she was running her family's new company, a sister brand to the lingerie empire that provided most of their fortune.

This was a girl he wanted to marry someday. As soon as his company had that big breakthrough, they would be on a more equal playing field. What woman would want to marry below her economic level? Such relationships usually didn't work out. The female friends he’d had in college would look down on any man without superior financial credentials.

His company was new, but it doubled its success every year. He could feel himself becoming the man that Beth would want. Already she was flirting with him a little more each time they met. He got the impression that she was at a stage in her life in which she was focused on her career, yet she was weighing her options on the side as to the best man she would eventually choose. Needless to say, she didn't lack for choices. Their social circles were full of guys who would gladly take her off the market.

While he had dated girls throughout his twenties, none of them held a candle to Beth. She was his final destination.

This was the year that his company would be at the top. He would finally make his move with Beth. He'd been dreaming about her for so long.

So what exactly was he doing flirting with an American in the rain in the middle of the night? A tough girl with frizzy hair, questionable fashion sense, and terrible French?

He shook his head, trying to get Mia's smile out of his mind.

Americans smiled too much.

Yet it was a lovely smile, and he couldn't help but smile now just thinking about it. And her laugh—too loud for French standards but infectious and unapologetic. Free. It had echoed down the quiet street like birdsong.

"Stop it," he said out loud as his Vespa made a turn onto the street of his apartment in the 2nd arrondissement. "I love Beth. I've loved her for years. I bumped into Mia and barely know her. Get a grip."

But he kept thinking about Mia all night. He didn't know what to make of it. What was it about her? Was it the rain and the moonlight? He was a big romantic.

Yes. That would explain it. The atmosphere had something to do with it. It was just a passing moment that they had shared. Two strangers crossing paths then going about their own ways.

There was no denying, however, that she had made him laugh harder than he had in a while.

M
ia snuggled
under the covers and tried to sleep. It was even worse with her eyes closed. She'd see Luc's soft lips and dreamy eyes lingering over hers, that image frozen in her mind, almost haunting her awake.

She turned on the TV. Juliette had cable, but after flipping through dozens of channels, she settled on
Gone with the Wind
dubbed in French. She'd seen the movie twice already and could follow the plot, if not the words coming out of the actors’ mouths. Vivien Leigh's character was a wily one, but Mia had always admired her resilience.

She must've drifted off with the TV on, because she woke up the next morning to a French morning talk show.

Mia had dreamt about Luc all night. In one of the scenes, they were in a field of flowers, where it looked more like Holland than France. He reached out to her with one hand, and she took it. He spun her once, and they were dancing. The sun bathed them in a golden glow as she pressed her head into his chest and they slow danced.

In the next scene they were frolicking as one could only frolic in a dream. He picked a dozen tulips and presented her with the bouquet. As she admired them, he bent down and kissed her.

It was such a lovely dream that when she woke up, she was irritated. Even more so when she remembered that the French stranger not only had not kissed her in real life, he’d left without exchanging contact information. She might never see him again. The thought felt like a punch in the gut.

"Enough of this crazy fantasy," she told herself. "I came to France to find my sister, not to get tied up in some love affair with some guy who doesn't even want me."

She didn't even know anything about him, so why was she obsessing? She shook her head, wondering if she should go back to sleep, but the alarm clock on her cell phone rang. It was a bad idea to sleep for too long if she wanted to get over the time change as soon as possible.

Ten minutes later, she was sipping a rich espresso from Juliette's futuristic-looking coffeemaker and looking out the window. It wasn't raining, but the clouds were puffy and seemed keen on lingering around the sun.

Somewhere out there in this big city was what she was looking for. She had to keep the faith, but it was hard to block out the doubts.

Mia didn't know what was the bigger fantasy: being with Luc, who clearly had no interest in her, or finding a woman who might not even be her sister.

She already missed her parents. She'd talked to them as soon as she landed the previous night. They didn't live in the same house in Seattle—she had her own apartment—but at least there she could see them whenever she wanted. Adopted or not, they would always be her parents. They loved her so much and she loved them right back.

Growing up as an adopted biracial child hadn’t been a major issue except for the odd insensitive remark. The thing that annoyed her the most, however, was when people touched her hair without asking her. Her hair was a hot topic for many people, prompting curiosity and questions about her background. Mia would explain to those who genuinely wanted to know, but she could feel some people's pity when she told them that she was adopted.

Naturally, she was curious about her roots, like everyone else. Who were her parents? Why did they give her up?

Now there was the chance that she had a sister. If she did, perhaps she'd get closer to the truth.

Mia munched on a croissant from the boulangerie downstairs. It was a little hard, since she’d bought it yesterday along with her baguette sandwich, but it gave her some energy. Flaky, buttery energy.

It also gave her some renewal of hope. There was plenty more fatty goodness where that came from. She was in France, a new country; anything was possible.

"You'll be fine," she told herself. "Just take it one step at a time."

The first step was to go down to the LUX ad agency that had produced the Fizz commercial. In Seattle, her emails to LUX had gone unanswered, and her calls were largely ignored, even when she got a French-speaking friend to speak for her. Nobody knew what she was talking about, and they weren't interested in helping her since she wasn't a big client.

There was only one thing left to do: march into the place and demand answers from someone in charge. Politely, of course, but firmly.

She studied the address of the agency on the map on her laptop. Since she didn't have a French phone plan yet, she couldn't use the GPS on her phone. This was where Juliette's map book came in handy.

The agency was located in the 4th arrondissement. It was walkable. Mia could see the other sights of Paris along the way.

When she stepped out onto the pavement, the gray clouds had left the sun alone for the time being, and the street was illuminated. Mia thought she would be perfectly happy spending the rest of her days in Paris simply walking. She was dressed in a green silk blouse, a mustard-yellow A-line skirt, and brown suede boots. The green of her blouse brought out the green in her hazel eyes. She was usually dressed in a funkier style, but she wanted to look professional for the visit.

The streets were so beautiful, with lush green trees lining the boulevard and sunlight highlighting the blue of the Haussmann buildings' rooftops.

She smiled and said "bonjour" to the pedestrians she passed. Some looked startled, but a few said hello back, and then there were those who looked at her strangely. A few of her friends in Seattle had warned her that the French weren't the friendliest of bunches, but that didn't stop her from being friendly herself. It would help for her to be friendly if she wanted to make friends in this city.

From her impression so far, Paris was as laid back as Seattle. New York and Chicago were noisy, bustling American cities. She was no expert on France, but the Americans had no patience even for microwaving their meals, while the French, it was rumored, took hours to eat dinner. Plus she loved walkable cities. She’d heard that Paris had big, luscious parks that she could spend hours in, and she looked forward to those experiences.

She passed an open market and couldn't help but spend a few minutes strolling through it. It reminded her of the farmers’ markets back in the States. The fruits and vegetables, flowers and fish, baguettes and baked goods were all in neat stalls. A vendor was shouting out what sounded like prices for his fruits. She poked through stalls with homemade cheeses and honey and jam. And there were lunch options. Paella, rotisserie chicken, crêpes...

It was only just past ten in the morning, but Mia bought a savory crêpe with ham and cheese. She didn't have curves for nothing. Of course she couldn't survive on buttery pastries and cheese all the time, but the pleasures of Paris were hard to resist, especially for a newcomer.

Her mind flashed back to the handsome French stranger from the night before. It would be nice to be walking with him, taking in the wonders of Paris together. They could visit the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, the Musée d’Orsay. He would smile that sweet smile and hold her hand...

"Stop it," she said out loud. Too loud; an older gentleman turned around and gave her an odd look. Mia was all teeth as she smiled back and shrugged to convey that she wasn't talking to him.

This Luc guy didn't even ask for your phone number
, she told herself silently this time.
He just rode off on that scooter of his, so get him out of your mind
.

After she polished off her crêpe, she consulted her map book again to get back on track to the agency. Without a map, she would've been lost. The Paris streets were not in a straightforward grid system like Seattle’s were. The streets intersected and disappeared, curved and led her astray. Even the arrondissements of the city unfolded in the shape of a snail.

She must've looked like such a tourist with her head in her map book, but no matter. She followed the streets carefully, and she was in front of the LUX agency's headquarters in no time.

It was a beautiful Haussmann building like the others she'd been walking past all day, boasting blue-gray roofs and a light facade the color of pale butter. The buildings of the city all seemed to be dressed in uniforms while allowing small, unique, and intricate details discernible to those who paid attention. Different architects had designed them, and some of them would sign their names on the building. Mia had read about it in one of her Paris travel guides. On one of her future walks, she'd look out for these details. The city was like a big treasure hunt.

The elevator was occupied, so she walked up the marble stairs lined with lush maroon carpeting. On the third floor, she pushed through the door marked with the company's logo.

The receptionist looked stern. She was talking on the phone, and when her eyes met Mia’s, her frown lines got deeper. Even the twisted curls of her blond hair looked hostile.

"
Bonjour,
" Mia said when the receptionist got off the phone. "
Je m'appelle Mia
—”

Her stilted French was interrupted by rapid-fire French. The sharp words seemed to graze her like bullets.

"You're speaking too fast for me," Mia said. "My French is not very good. Do you speak English?"

Another mad gust of French followed. When Mia signaled that she didn't understand, the receptionist pointed to a door the way a general might point to a target.

Mia obliged. Maybe she could find someone in there who spoke English. Why hadn’t she taken French at university instead of German? She had heard about the infamous French cold shoulder, but surely not everybody in the city would be this impatient.

She opened the door to what looked like a waiting room. Two women, both brunettes, looking as serious as the receptionist, didn't seem pleased at her entrance. One of them gave her an unimpressed once-over.

"
Bonjour
." Mia smiled brightly.

The other woman looked down at Mia's boots and rolled her eyes in response.

Mia looked down at them. There was nothing wrong with her boots. They were even designer. Discounted from Marshall's, sure, but designer nonetheless.

Mia had no choice but to sit across from them. Their frostiness could have frozen water into ice in that room.

Still, Mia believed that cold people were just itching to warm up. That was what her mother had always told her, and Mia always felt there was plenty of truth in that statement. The problem was, some people were colder than others.

The women kept sneaking glances at her boots. One of them, the more slender of the two, with small black eyes and a pinched nose, even whispered a few French syllables to the other woman. Mia looked at her boots again. They had a sixties vibe with the chunky heels, and the toes were a bit scuffed, but they were comfortable.

The French girls wore pearls, tasteful blazers, and pencil skirts, with stockings and three-inch heels. Did the people here wear uniforms, too? Mia wouldn't have been surprised.

How long did she have to wait exactly? The receptionist hadn’t even known what Mia was here for before sending her in. She doubted the other women would want to help her translate, if they even spoke English. Mia decided to try anyway. What were humiliation and rejection when she had a sister to find?

Mia cleared her throat to get their attention.
"Excusez-moi. Parlez-vous—”

"English!" It was the receptionist again. She barged in, pointed at Mia, then attempted to speak in English. "You. Go here. Please."

"Oh." Mia didn't know what was happening but decided to obey and go into the other room. At least the receptionist had said
please
.

"He speak English," the receptionist added.

"Okay." Mia cheered up. Finally, someone who would understand her. She could get things sorted out in no time.

The two women looked peeved that she was going ahead of them, but it wasn't as if it was her fault. Mia smiled and shrugged her shoulders at them, but they only responded with more of their icy glares.

They hated her. But she couldn't take it personally. They didn't know her. If they did and they still hated her, Mia would find that to be a problem.

She gave them a little wave before heading to the door the receptionist had pointed to.

When Mia walked into the pristine office, she saw
him
sitting at the desk in an impeccably tailored navy suit.

Luc Deneuve. The handsome stranger from last night.