What If It's Love?: A Contemporary Romance Set in Paris (Bistro La Bohème Book 1) (11 page)

Jeanne beamed. “It sure is. Could be our next trip, by the way. My
parents won’t be able to host the whole gang, but they’ll ensure a constant
supply of the best croissants and pastries in town. They’re bakers.”

Amanda stretched her lips in what was supposed to stand for a polite
smile. “That sounds wonderful.” She turned to Lena. “And what is it that your
father does for a living, Lena?”

“IT services,” Lena said, looking wary.

“How exciting! The Russians are famous for their IT skills, aren’t they?
All those super hackers one hears about . . . Does he run
hacking services, too?”

Lena ignored Amanda’s question, turning her head to gaze at the sea.

“Hey, why don’t we go clubbing tonight?” Mat said. “I spotted a cool
place downtown. I think we should check it out.”

“I’m not sure—” Lena started.

“Great idea! I haven’t danced in ages, what with all the thesis writing
and exams. I’m definitely in,” Amanda said.

“I never say no to clubbing,” Pepe declared.

Jeanne nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

“Will you come?” Rob touched Lena’s arm. “It’ll be fun. You can’t visit
Nice and not sample its nightlife.”

Lena glanced at Rob, then at Amanda, and then at Rob again. “Why not.”

He beamed.

By the time they’d made it to the nightclub, it was almost midnight. The
place was undeniably trendy. It had the exact kind of lighting, upholstery and
sound a self-respecting Riviera club would be expected to have. The decibel
level made it difficult to have a conversation, but then again, you didn’t go
to a nightclub for a conversation.

Rob wedged himself between other clubbers crowding space in front of the
bar. “What are you having?” he shouted to his friends.

Once the drinks were bought and downed, Amanda was the first to jump on
the elevated dance floor. She began to move in the same competent way she did
everything else. She was good, she was hot, and she knew it. The dancers around
her stepped back a little so that she could have enough room to execute her
sophisticated sequences. After a few minutes, she turned to Rob and hooked her
index at him. He joined her. They had practiced their routine at enough parties
over the past two years to be the best double act on any dance floor.

One after the other, Mat, Jeanne, and Pepe climbed on the stage and began
to dance. Pepe also sang along, in spite of Jeanne’s throat-cutting gestures.
Lena was the last one to get on the dance floor. She began to move with the
rhythm, and suddenly Rob could no longer focus on anything or anyone but her.

As Lena danced, her silk top shifted in a fluid movement hugging one
curve at a time. Her dancing was self-conscious yet strangely free. And it
completely mesmerized Rob. She danced unexpectedly well, in perfect synch with
the rhythm, as if it was her body setting it. The way she moved wasn’t
extravagant or studied. Her movements were reserved, their amplitude small, but
they were just so . . . spot-on. Each tiny sway of her hips,
each lightest shake of her shoulders was painfully exquisite to him.

When the music changed to Latin, Rob realized he had stopped dancing and
stood there gazing at Lena. This kind of behavior was uncharacteristic of him.
He told himself he had no business staring at her like that. He reminded
himself that Amanda needed him for their salsa routine. But he simply couldn’t
take his eyes off Lena.

He swallowed hard. There was no denying his reaction to this woman.

I want her
.

He turned away, marched over to Amanda, and took her hand to lead her in
a perfectly coordinated salsa.

Wanting Lena was the last thing he needed right now.

* * *

The trip back to Paris on Sunday afternoon was uneventful. It contrasted
starkly with the boisterous few hours they’d spent on the train to Nice two
days earlier. They didn’t talk much, preferring the company of their books,
tablets, and the landscape speeding by. Even Pepe was quiet with only lips
moving as he listened to his music.

After the train arrived in Paris and they said their good-byes, Lena
rushed home. She should have been happy and relaxed after that little escapade.
Instead, she was in turmoil. There was the lingering hurt over Rob’s “omission,”
a feeling that something significant had happened on the rooftop terrace, and
anger against Amanda. And jealousy. Amanda and Rob went back a long way. They
knew and understood each other so well. They danced together as if they’d done
it for a living.

They had shared a room for two nights.

Once inside her apartment, Lena took a long shower and then started the
kettle to make tea. While she waited for it to boil, she resolved that as from
tomorrow she’d stay away from
La Bohème
and spend her time doing all the
cool things she’d put on her three lists.

As the kettle went off, so did the entrance buzzer.

She went to the intercom by the door. “Hello?”

“Hi, it’s Rob. I have your eyeglasses. Can you buzz me in?”

She just stood there, unable to wrap her mind around the situation. “But . . .
Did I leave them on the train?”

“Yep. I noticed them just before I got off, and by then you were already
gone. I thought you might need them tonight, so I just . . .” He
trailed off. “I was in the neighborhood anyway . . . Can I come
up?”

“Yes, yes, of course!” She shook off her bafflement. “Third floor, left
of the elevator.”

Two minutes later Rob walked in, as sexy and gorgeous as ever. Lena
suddenly felt self-conscious about her tangled damp hair, her jersey tank top,
checkered boxers, and rubber flip-flops.

Oh, well—too late to do anything about it now
.

He handed her the glasses. “As I said, I was in the neighborhood.”

“Thank you.” She motioned him to the kitchen. “I was making myself some
herbal tea . . . if you like that sort of stuff. Otherwise, I’ve
got regular tea, coffee, soda . . .”

“A soda will be fine, thanks.”

She gave him a glass and a can of soda from the fridge, and turned away
to make tea. As she dropped the teabag into the mug, she heard him take a few
steps toward her, then place the soda and the glass on the countertop. Slowly,
she poured scalding water into her mug and put the kettle down. Rob was now so
close she could feel his warm breath on her bare shoulder.

And then he wrapped his arms around her waist and pressed his chest
against her back.

She stood motionless, as her heart raced and her
vision clouded. A swarm of delicious sensations overwhelmed her—his
head-turning masculine scent, the gentleness of his strong arms, the comfort of
his chest against her back. She told herself she had to stop him, right then,
before he went too far. But she knew at some visceral level, in every nerve
ending under her skin, that there was no force on the face of the earth that
could make her stop him now.

Rob’s mind had gone completely blank when he followed his crazy impulse
and put his arms around Lena. But when Lena froze, he began to panic. He had no
idea how she would react to this. Seconds stretched into an eternity. And then
she leaned back into his embrace, ever so slightly, but enough to tell him what
he needed to know. He wanted to roar with joy. He wanted to see her face. He
wanted to remain in that moment forever.

Then she turned around and looked into his eyes. She was radiant. It was
one of those charmed instances when everything, absolutely everything was
perfect. This universe, this city, this specific spot in the kitchen, and this
precise instance in time. And so he cupped her face with his hands and kissed
her. Tenderly at first and then passionately, claiming her mouth, sampling the
warm softness of her lips, and sweeping his tongue between them.

She responded with ardor, saying yes with her kisses, with her hands
stroking the back of his head and with her body pressing into his. Rob was
walking on air. He craved Lena, and she left no doubt she wanted him back.

But through his arousal and bliss he heard an admonishing voice.
You
don’t deserve her trust. You don’t deserve this pleasure.
And all at once,
he felt like a fraud, like a thief who had acquired something precious through
deceit.

He needed her to know the truth.

Lena was light-headed and drowsy when Rob broke the kiss.

“I have to tell you something . . . before we go any
further,” he said.

She felt like she was falling.
There you go, there’s the catch. It was
too good to be true.
“So tell me.”

“I’m . . . I get paid to spy on you.”

She blinked. “By my father?”

“No, by his competitor. He pays me to listen in to your conversations
with your dad and pass on anything of interest.”

Lena couldn’t speak. Her stomach knotted and she had to concentrate hard
to hold back the tears. She looked at Rob’s hand on her shoulder and then
glared at him. He released his grip.

“I’m not proud of what I’ve been doing. But please believe me that our
friendship and . . . and
this
, it’s genuine.”

She was silent, staring out the window. His words hardly registered. Her
mind was too busy replaying the same phrase, like a broken record.
Too good
to be true.
Too good to be true.

Robe spoke again. “I got to know you over the past couple of months, and
I really, really like you. I wouldn’t want to hurt you, Lena.”

Her gaze remained fixed on the window. He
liked
her. How sweet.
Everyone
liked
her—her mom, her dad, her ex best friend, her ex-boyfriend . . .
Now Rob. And yet they all ended up hurting her, through neglect or betrayal,
even if they didn’t mean to.

He moved into her field of vision. “If it’s any comfort, I’ve been careful
not to cause your dad any real harm.”

Does he expect me to thank him for that?

“Lena, I’m so sorry for having spied on you. And I’m even sorrier for
having lied to you.” He let out a heavy sigh. “I had no idea you’d be this
kind, intelligent, lovely person . . . You were supposed to be a
spoiled brat.”

She gave him the coldest stare she could manage. She wanted to hiss,
I’m
sorry I didn’t live up to your expectations.
But she was afraid she’d break
down and cry the moment she opened her mouth.

“Which, of course, is a crappy excuse . . .” He gave her a
helpless look.

She walked to the door and opened it. “Please leave.”

Rob gave her a sad, defeated look. He stepped over the threshold, then
paused. “Lena, please, will you give me a chance? I want to be with you. Can
you at least think about it?”

He turned around and ran down the stairs. She shut the door and leaned
against it, listening to the sound of his footsteps fading away. When she
couldn’t hear him anymore, she slid to the floor and stopped fighting her
tears.

Oh, I’m so far from heaven!

You—in my reach, so warm.

God, please don’t judge—you haven’t

Been here in female form.

Marina Tsvetaeva

It was late morning when Lena returned from the grocery shop around the
corner. She was unpacking her bags when she heard a knock on the door.
Rob
,
she thought. She made a move toward the door and stopped. A few seconds later,
she took another step forward, stopped, turned around, and went back to the
kitchen.

The knocking became more insistent “Lena, open up, it’s me! I know you
are there—I saw you walk in!” Jeanne said in her familiar throaty voice.

“Coming!” Lena rushed to the door, taking deep breaths and wiping her
damp palms on her jeans. She couldn’t tell if the feeling that washed over her
was relief or disappointment.

Jeanne walked in and looked around, nodding approvingly. “So, this is the
den where you’re hiding when you’re not at
La Bohème
 . . .
Cute.”

Lena’s joy at seeing Jeanne was mixed with guilt. “I’ve been doing a lot
of sight-seeing recently,” she said.

“Of course. Sight-seeing.” Jeanne rolled her eyes. Then her expression
changed to that of an exasperated parent. “Oh, come on, Lena. My coffee break
is only ten minutes, so I don’t have time for small talk. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m perfectly fine.”

“I haven’t seen you in days. Make that a week. I’m worried about you!
What’s going on in your life that keeps you from
La Bohème
?”

Lena racked her brain for a plausible explanation. “I’ve also been
translating a lot. I concentrate better in here. Or in the library.”

“Is that so? I thought you concentrated just fine at the bistro.”

Lena folded her arms over her chest, refusing to elaborate.

“And I have proof,” Jeanne said. “When you’re at the bistro, have you
noticed how one of the waiters turns up by your side every twenty minutes or so
to ask if you need anything?”

“I guess—why?”

Jeanne tapped the side of her head. “Each time we do that, you always
order something—usually another tea or coffee or mineral water. The
problem is that if no one reminds you, you get so engrossed you forget to
reorder. I doubt you’d notice if I’d grown a second head.”

Lena smiled. “I’m sure I’d notice your second head.”

“You should see yourself staring into space, then typing like a madwoman,
and drinking from an empty cup.”

“I don’t do that!” Lena grinned.

“Which one? Staring into space or forgetting you’ve finished your coffee?
It’s bad business for the bistro, you know—a customer who occupies a
table for hours with the same drink.”

Lena threw her hands up. “You lost me, Jeanne. First you’re upset I haven’t
come into
La Bohème
for a few days, and now you’re telling me I’m bad
business.”

“That’s not what I said. You’re excellent business, when we give you a
little push. Besides, you return for dinner and you tip.”

Lena lifted her chin. “That’s more like it.”