Three Weeks in Paris (26 page)

The waiter arrived with the white asparagus; he took a few moments serving it and drizzling the vinaigrette dressing before finally stepping away from the table.

Alexa ate several spears and then sat back in the chair; she drank some of her water.

Tom looked up from his plate, and frowned. “Is something wrong? You’re not eating.”

“I’m not really hungry.”

“I know … neither am I.”

They stared at each other, exchanging an intimate look full of yearning, fully aware of what they really wanted.

Tom said, “We cannot leave now … not until the entire meal has been served. If we do go, I won’t ever be able to come here again.” He sighed, reached for her hand. “I’ll be persona non grata.”

“I understand. And after all this time, what’s another hour? I’ll try and eat a little of each course, and you should, if you can.”

“You are right.… ” He picked up a spear of asparagus. “And this is delicious, you know.”

Following suit, Alexa also ate a few more spears, and by the time the langoustine was served, they had both adopted a more relaxed demeanor, were less tense with each other, at least on the surface.

At one moment, picking up his goblet of red wine, Tom toasted her. “Here’s to you, Alexa. Welcome back.”

“I’m glad to be back,” she said, touching her glass to his. She wondered if he was welcoming her back to Paris or back into his life, and she was not sure. She took a sip of wine, said, “Smooth as silk, this Petrus of yours.”

He laughed, looked pleased.

Alexa toyed with the lamb on her plate, took a forkful, ate a bite, then put the fork down. Looking across at him, she said, “You mentioned your problems just now. Do you think … I mean, well, have you worked them out finally?”

“I believe I have, Alexa, yes,” he replied, took a long swallow of the wine, and leaned back in the chair. His face had changed slightly in that brief moment, and the laughter of a second ago had vanished. “It’s taken me a long time to settle things in my mind,” he said in a sober tone, “to come to terms with everything, but I now have.”

“I’m glad. It must make you feel better.”

“It does. I do have my moments, when I’m … sad, but for the most part I’m much better than I ever was. I slayed the demons.”

“How did you manage to do that?” she asked, and then cringed inside when she saw his face. “I’m sorry,” she added quickly. “I don’t want to pry. I’m just glad you feel better.”

“If I can’t talk to you about it, then I don’t know who I can. I did it on my own, no psychiatrists, no tranquilizers to get me through. I just faced up to what had happened, and most important, I managed to stop feeling guilty.”

“That must have been very difficult, Tom.”

“It was, but I had enormous incentive. I wanted to be the Tom Conners I was before Juliette and Marie-Laure died. When I told you there was no future for you with me, and you left Paris, I sort of fell apart. I began drinking. A lot.” He glanced at the glass of wine on the table. “And not that mother’s milk either. Hard liquor. Vodka mostly,
because it tastes of nothing. That’s all I did in my free time, I sat at home and drank. For six months. But suddenly one day I hated what I had become and I stopped. I also did something else.”

“What was that?”

“I decided to do some research.”

“
Research
? About what?”

“Terrorism. My wife and child were murdered by terrorists on a warm, sunny day in Athens. Like everyone else in that square that day, they were innocent. I wanted to know
who
and
why
, and so I spent a whole year reading, talking to experts, learning about Muslim fundamentalism, the meaning of Islamic
jihad
, Hezbollah and how it worked, Abu Nidal, Carlos the Jackal, and other terrorists. I was very conscientious, Alexa. Actually, I filled seven notebooks with information. And about four months ago I suddenly realized I was finally free of guilt … it had simply fled.
I
hadn’t killed my wife and child by being late that day. They had been blown to smithereens by those brutal cowards who fight a guerrilla war in the name of Islam.”

Alexa was very quiet for a moment or two, and then she reached out, touched his hand. “Did you ever find out which group blew up the bus of Americans that day?”

“I have a good idea, and so do various governments. But what good does that do?” He sighed. “The main thing is, I managed to rid myself of guilt, and I’ve felt so much more like a normal person ever since.”

“I really am so happy for you, Tom, happy that you have been able to ease your pain. There were times when I didn’t know how to help you, when you were in such … anguish—” Alexa broke off as the waiter came to the table and began to clear away their plates.

Once they were alone, Tom leaned forward and said quietly, “I’m afraid their chocolate dessert will arrive at any moment. Can you handle more food?”

She laughed. “I’ll cut it up and push it around my plate. That should do the trick.”

“You may find yourself eating it.”

“I doubt that.”

“There you go again, doubting what I say. Just like the bees.”

“The bees?” She wrinkled her nose, looking perplexed, and then she began to laugh. “Oh, my God, yes. The
bees.
”

He chuckled with her.

“Listen to me, Tom Conners! No one else would have believed you either! What person in their right mind would believe that bees were kept on the roof of the Paris Opera House, and that their honey was put in jars and sold. No one, that’s who!”

“
True.
”

“But you were so dear when you bought me the jars of honey just to prove it.”

He looked into her eyes, squeezed her hand, and asked, “Do you want coffee? Or anything else, Alex?”

“No, thanks, Tom.”

“Will you come home with me?”

“You know I will. Where else could I possibly want to go?”

THEY STOOD IN THE FOYER OF TOM’S APARTMENT, ALONE
at last as they had longed to be for the last few hours, but curiously silent now as they stared at each other intently.

Although they had laughed in the restaurant, been more at ease with each other, the tension between them had returned once they were sitting on the backseat of the Mercedes in their separate corners.

Acutely conscious of each other, they had hardly spoken a word as Hubert had driven the car through the evening traffic, heading in the direction of the Faubourg Saint-Germain, where Tom lived.

Now the electricity between them was a palpable thing once more, and they both moved forward at precisely the same moment, coming together in the middle of the floor, almost stumbling into each other’s arms.

Tom gathered Alexa close, and she held on to him tightly, her body instantly welded to his. He bent down, began to kiss her fervently, and she matched his ardor, responded with equal intensity and passion.

Alexa was shaking internally, her long-pent-up desire for Tom flooding her entire body, and her heart clattered
in unison with his. Tom slid his hand down her back and onto her buttocks, pressed her even closer, molded her body to his, and she felt the hardness of his growing passion through her thin linen dress. Suddenly she was suffused with warmth. Her bag and her shawl fell from her hands, but she ignored them as he led her away from the foyer and into the bedroom, his arms still wrapped around her.

It was obvious he did not want to let go of her, and he pulled her down onto the bed with him, began to kiss her once more. His hand went to her breast and he stroked it, played with her nipple, which began to harden under the fabric. A small groan escaped her throat; her hands went up into his thick, dark hair and she felt his scalp with her fingertips. They were lost in their raging desire for each other, wanting only to possess and be possessed.

Tom’s kisses stopped abruptly, and he pushed himself up on one elbow, looked down into her face, his own congested with raw emotion. He started to say something, and then stopped, not wanting to break the spell or cool the heat of their rampant feelings.

Gazing back at him, Alexa recognized the longing and desire in his eyes, was swamped by that vivid blue gaze, and she was as overwhelmed by him, and her feelings for him, as she had been from the first moment they met. Her throat tightened. Nothing had changed, she knew that now. She felt undone, helpless, and so in love with him, nothing else, no one else, mattered. Very simply, there was no other man for her. Only he made her feel like this.

Tom touched her mouth with one finger, leaned into her, said softly, “Take your clothes off, darling.”

She slid off the bed, did as he asked, quickly shedding everything, and then moved back onto the bed again.

Tom did the same, undressed with swiftness, and she watched him in the dim light of the bedroom, shivering
slightly as he came back to her. He was so tall, long-legged, broad-shouldered, the most handsome and masculine man she had ever known, and his desire for her was now very apparent. She longed for Tom to take her to him.

Tom lay down next to her, covered her body with his own, held her in his arms. Against her hair, he said, “I’ve never stopped wanting you, and only
you
, Alex.”

“Oh, Tom darling, Tom,” she whispered, and touched his cheek with one hand. “And it’s only
you
I want—”

He stopped her words with his kisses, his mouth firm yet gentle on hers. He parted her lips, let his tongue graze hers, and then rest still. As one of his hands moved down to smooth and fondle her round breast, he brought his mouth to it, smothered it with kisses.

Wanting to touch and kiss every inch of her, his mouth moved on, fluttered across her stomach, her inner thigh, and all of those erotic, secret parts of her. Slowly his kisses became more languorous until finally his lips settled on the feminine core of her, and lingered there.

Alexa stiffened and gasped, and went on gasping as he made love to her in this most sensual and intimate way, as he had done from the outset of their relationship. Loving her like this gave him as much pleasure as it did her; he was pleased and gratified when he brought her to climax and she spasmed, called his name, and told him how much she loved him.

Her excitement fed his own arousal. Tom knew only too well that he had never felt like this with any other woman, not before her, or during her recent absence from his life. Suddenly, he thought he was going to explode, and unable to hold back any longer, he moved on top of her. He needed to be inside her, to possess her totally, to make her his own.

Tom pushed himself up, braced his arms on each side of her, and looked down into Alexa’s light-green eyes. Her
emotions were explicit on her face, and as his gaze lingered for a moment longer, his heart clenched. He knew all of a sudden what she truly meant to him. He also knew what a fool he had been to ever let her go.

As he entered her, she cried his name again, and he told her finally, and with absolute certainty, that he loved her, that she was the love of his life.

————

THEY LAY AMID
rumpled pillows and tangled sheets, resting quietly in the soft, dim light of his bedroom.

The impact of seeing each other again had been devastating to them both, and they had fallen into their own thoughts.

For Alexa, their passionate lovemaking on this bed for the past hour and a half was merely a confirmation of what she already knew, had known deep down inside herself for the last few years. She loved Tom, always had, always would, and nothing could ever change that fact.

Endeavoring to move on, because he had been unable to make a commitment to her, she had strived for a successful career, a good life, and eventually she had even enjoyed a relationship with another man … Jack Wilton. The thought of Jack made her heart sink. She was going to have to tell him she couldn’t marry him; she hated the thought of hurting him. But even though there might not be a future with Tom, she could not marry Jack or anyone else. Her heart belonged to this man cradling her in his arms, one leg thrown over her body, his hands clasping hers, as if he were afraid she was going to escape his tenacious grip.

He loved her; she had always known he did. And he desired her sexually. They were intense in bed and out of it; they were compatible. Yet he couldn’t take that final step. At least, not in the past. Now he might. He had told her
he no longer felt guilt about the tragic deaths of his wife and child. And yet she wondered … had he really conquered it?

As far as she was concerned, marriage didn’t matter anymore, she just wanted to be with him. “Living in sin” it was called. But she didn’t see it that way. If you loved each other, it wasn’t a sin. Marrying a man you didn’t love, and spending the rest of your life with him, well, that was surely living in sin, wasn’t it?

Alexa closed her eyes, imagining the child she had wanted. Correction.
His child
. But if that was not possible, it didn’t really matter. Tom was all that mattered to her, and being with him for the rest of her life.

As he lay next to her, Tom was contemplating the dichotomy in his nature. How he loved her, this woman in his arms, with all his heart; sexually he craved her constantly, wanted to be joined to her. They were hot together, and perfectly matched; her passion, ardor, and sensuality in bed had echoed his since their first night together years ago. She truly satisfied him and he knew he satisfied her.

Yet despite all this, he was afraid to make the relationship permanent, afraid he might somehow hurt her in the long run.…

But if he lost her again, where would he be? He groaned inwardly. When he thought of all the mindless, meaningless sex he’d had in her absence, he was appalled at himself.

He had told her the truth when he said he had vanquished the survivor guilt. Sixteen years he had lived with that, and he thanked God every day that he was free of it at long last.

When Tom considered the research he had done into global terrorism, and what he had found out, he inevitably shriveled inside at the enormity of it all. The knowledge of
terrorism in the future that he now possessed was a burden. He knew too much. It weighed him down, and what he had learned filled him with despair. Apprehension about the years ahead never waned. But there was nothing he could do but go about his daily life, hoping for the best, praying that goodness would outweigh evil ultimately.