Fling in Paris
Fling in Paris
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
FLING IN PARIS
By
Mia Loveless
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY:
Mia Loveless on Smashwords
Fling in Paris
Copyright © 2012 by Mia Loveless
*****
Fling in Paris
*****
Chapter 1
The airplane taxied down the runway at Pearson International Airport, revving its engines. Sherry closed her eyes and prayed for a safe overnight flight as the pilot launched the craft and its 189 passengers into the air. Although she had traveled extensively as a training coordinator with OS international, she still has a fear of flying. It was silly, she knew, but there was nothing to be done about it but grin and bear it.
Once they were safely in the air, she opened her purse and took out the manila envelope nestled inside. With tears in her eyes, she slid her nail beneath the flap and pulled out a sheaf of papers.
"Is it bad news?" asked the gray-haired woman sitting beside her.
"Yeah,” Sherry whispered, wiping a tear from her face with the back of her hand. “It’s my divorce papers.”
"Oh, honey.” The elderly lady patted Sherry’s arm sympathetically. “I've been there a couple of times, so I know how you must be feeling. You'll get over it with time.”
Sherry only nodded, staring numbly at the back of the seat in front of her. Maybe she would, but right now it seemed impossible that she would ever feel anything but grief and pain.
“Why are you going to Paris?"
"I need a distraction from the problems in my life.” Sherry sighed. “I took a training job at the new branch for the company I work for."
"Work is one way to forget about problems."
"What's the other way?" Sherry asked, somewhat curious. There was another way out of this hellhole known as divorce?
"Find yourself a nice man to help you forget about your soon to be ex-husband."
"I don't think I'm ready to move on. I still love my husband." More tears gathered at the corners of her eyes, and she blinked them back, uncomfortable with the idea of crying in front of a stranger.
"We have turned off the fasten your seat belt signs,” the pilot announced from the intercom. “You are free to move around the cabin."
“Well, guess I should take advantage of the time and go use the bathroom.” The elderly lady unfastened her seatbelt and carefully got to her feet. “When you’re my age, it doesn’t pay to try and hold it in.” She winked.
Sherry watched her go, then put the divorce papers back in her purse. "May as well try to get some rest now,” she sighed, pulling a sleep mask over her eyes and leaning back in her chair. Exhausted from stress and grief, she slid into sleep.
Several hours later, she awoke to the sound of the flight attendant announcing their imminent arrival over the intercom. Sitting up, she removed the sleep mask from her eyes and placed it in her purse—no point in sleeping any longer. Her eyes were gritty, the edges of a headache prodding at her temples; unfortunately, the flight had not been very restful for her.
"We'll be landing soon,” the pilot announced, and Sherry’s stomach clenched with the familiar discomfort that usually accompanied a landing. Gritting her teeth, she waited it out, trying her best to keep her eyes staring straight ahead and away from the window.
When they finally hit the ground, the breath she’d been holding whooshed out of her at the jolt. “The weather is 22 degrees Celsius, 72 degrees Fahrenheit with clear skies, the time is 8:40 local time,” the pilot announced cheerfully after they’d come to a stop outside the terminal. “Thanks for flying Air Canada, and we hope you have a great day!”
Quickly, she unbuckled her seatbelt and joined the crowd that surged toward the exit. The sooner she got off this plane, the better. Boy, but she really did hate flying.
"Thank you for choosing Air Canada.” The flight attendant standing at the exit smiled at Sherry, who nodded briefly before moving past her.
Relief surged through her as she walked over to baggage claim to wait for her luggage, which she retrieved in short order and rolled out to the front of the airport. Scanning the crowd, she quickly spotted the man she was looking for— as the instructions said, he was dressed in a chauffeur uniform and holding up a sign with her name on it. She headed over to him, dragging her luggage hastily behind her.
"Hi, I'm Sherry.” She introduced herself to the chauffeur; he smiled and said something polite before leading her over to the black Mercedes-Benz parked to the curb. Within seconds, her luggage was loaded and she was cruising on her way to the hotel in relative comfort.
Once checked into the five-star hotel the company had booked for her, she allowed herself a nice bath and a change of clothes before flopping down onto the mattress and indulging in a nice, long nap. She was out for several hours before being awakened by her ringing cellphone.
“Welcome to Paris,” a familiar voice, lightly musical with its French accent, greeted Sherry when she rolled over and answered it.
"Bonjour Marie," Sherry answered huskily.
"Did I wake you?"
"Yeah, I was napping. Jetlag, you know. I'm glad you called because otherwise I might have slept through the entire night.”
Marie chuckled. "Well, it’s good you are rested because we are going out tonight."
"But I can't--"
"I'm not taking no for an answer,” Marie interrupted. “I'll come pick you up from the hotel at seven, so be ready. Oh, and be sure you’re wearing something appropriate for a night out—I don’t want to see you in sweats when I show up. Au revoir!"
Sherry tried to protest, but the silent dial tone in her ear told her that it was fruitless. She smiled, thinking Marie hadn't changed at all.
*****
The line at the Rex Club stretched well around the block as they waited to get inside. Paris was alive at night, the city lit up with a blaze of lights, the air filled with music, social chatter, and that hint of romance that gave Paris its reputation as The City of Love. A light breeze tugged strands of curly brown hair away from Sherry’s face, sending a light shiver down her spine.
"I think I should have worn a jacket,” Sherry muttered, rubbing her bare arms briskly.
"It's not that cold.” Marie snorted, her eyes traveling down the length of Sherry’s body. “Although perhaps you should have worn something less revealing,"
"What wrong with my dress? I thought you said I should wear something appropriate?" Sherry teased, though she agreed the tight, purple halter-top dress that skimmed mere inches from her crotch was revealing.
"You were the one who said you were cold. It's a short dress.”
"I feel like being a flirt tonight." Sherry shrugged a bare shoulder, and they dropped the subject.
Thankfully for them, the line moved quickly. In no time they were at the entrance, and the bouncer opened
the door for them. Marie smiled and thanked him before stepping inside the club. When Sherry saw the inside, she felt like she had been transported back to the seventies—the lights were dimmed, but she could still see the bright disco decorations, funky retro seating, and two large dance floors packed with people.
"Let's get drinks from the bar," Marie shouted over the din.
Bopping her head to the jamiroqaui song bouncing through the speakers, Sherry followed Marie toward the bar. She had decided that if she was going to be dragged out for a night on the town, she may as well be cheerful. It would do her no good to mull around being depressed when she’d taken this trip to get her mind off the divorce. A night out with her best friend was just what she needed.
"Hi, Marie. What can I get for you?” the bartender asked, leaning over the counter and giving Marie a friendly smile.
"Hi, Michele.” Marie smiled back. “I'll take a screwdriver and a sex on the beach for my friend."
Their drinks were served up in short order, and they paid for them before moving to find a table. Marie chose a blue table with red chairs close to the dance floor.
"Do you come here a lot?" Sherry asked before she took a sip of her drink. The mixture of peach, orange and cranberry settled pleasantly on her tongue, while the vodka slid down her throat and into her stomach, leaving a pleasantly warm trail in its wake. Marie always did have good taste when it came to mixed drinks.
"Yes, all the time,” Marie answered as she sampled her screwdriver. “How was the flight?"
"It was fine." Sherry shrugged. “No turbulence.”
“I see.” Marie studied her with knowing blue eyes. "And how are you doing?"
"I'm a little sad and angry with Nick.” Sherry sighed and looked down into her glass. The colorful liquid swirled invitingly, and she took another drink. “I know it’s wrong, but even though he cheated and left me for another woman, I would take him back. I love him." Tears threatened to spill down her cheeks, and she blinked them back. She wasn’t going to start sniveling in the middle of the club.
Marie squeezed her hand. "You have to be strong. There are plenty of men out there that would love to have a beautiful woman like you."
"If you say so.” Sherry laughed shakily. “Marie, I didn't sign the divorce papers."
"Why not?"
“Well.” She paused. “I keep thinking that if I give him time, he’ll come back to me."
Marie frowned. "He left you for another woman, Sherry. He’s not worth your thoughts.” She squeezed her hand again, then picked up her screwdriver for another drink. “For tonight, at least, forget about him and have some fun. Paris is the city for lovers, after all. Maybe you’ll find someone who appreciates you." She winked.
A man approached the table then, and both ladies looked up—and up. He towered over them, his whip-thin frame casually dressed in a dark V-neck sweater and slacks. Blue eyes twinkled cheerfully at Marie beneath shaggy blond bangs framing his long face—it was obvious that to Marie, at least, this man was no stranger.
The guy kissed Marie on the cheek, and she returned the gesture. "Bonjour, comment ca va?"
Marie smiled. "Bien, merci. What are you doing here? Pouvez-vous parler anglais mon ami ne parle pas français?"
Sherry remembered enough French to understand Marie had told Jean Paul to speak English.
"Hello, Sherry,” Jean Paul immediately switched to English, an apologetic expression on his face. “And how are you? I've heard so much about you from Marie that I feel like I know you.” He laughed gaily, and Sherry found herself joining in.
"I feel the same way,” she admitted. “Marie is always talking about you too. It’s nice to finally meet you in the flesh."
"I hope its all good things she tells you.” Jean Paul winked. “Do you ladies mine if I sit down with you for a bit?"
"No, have a seat," Marie invited, beaming at him. Jean Paul made himself comfortable, and soon he and Marie were involved in a deep conversation. Sherry listened for a while, but soon found herself bored as there wasn’t much she could contribute.
Not wanting to fall asleep at the table, she excused herself politely, and went out to the dance floor to get her blood moving again.
A good reggae beat was playing, and Sherry quickly worked herself into it, her troubles sliding away as she was lost to the music. She’d always loved to dance, and once upon a time she used to come to the clubs just so that she could work off her stress on the dance floor. It was good to do it again.
As she moved to the beat, she was oblivious to the man watching her with avid interest from the bar. She moved sinuously, like a harem girl, with those decadent curves squeezed into that lusciously short dress. There were other women out there dressed in a similar fashion, but for some reason he couldn’t take his eyes off this one. Oh well, he thought, shrugging and taking a drink from his glass. There was no harm in looking.
When the dance ended and she moved back toward the tables, he found himself disappointed. To hell with just looking, he thought, and drained his glass before following her.
"How was the dance?" Marie’s eyes shone in the dim light, approval stamped all over her face, though Sherry wasn’t sure why.
"Crowded.” She plopped back into her seat, and swallowed the remainder of her drink. Jean Paul had to leave?" She frowned, looking around for Marie’s handsome companion, who was nowhere to be found.
"Yeah, I told him we can hang out some other time.” Marie’s eyes twinkled, and her lips curved into an amused smile. “It looks like you impressed someone while you were out on the dance floor."
"What?" Sherry blinked.
"There is a man heading to our table." Marie’s smile widened. “And it appears he has eyes only for you.”
Sherry casually turned her head, and locked eyes with the total stud that was, indeed, crossing the distance from the bar to their table. His eyes, the color of new grass, were set in a classically handsome face, with an aquiline nose, strong chin, and killer cheekbones, all poured over with bronzed skin, and framed with a wealth of thick, black hair that just brushed his shoulders.
He finally reached the table, and Sherry was dumbstruck by how much more handsome he appeared up close. Her eyes skimmed over the broad shoulders, the lean waist, the long legs, all muscular, dressed casually in jeans and a black shirt with a black blazer on top, and she almost missed the fact that he was speaking to her. She listened closer and realized that the words were in French.
"Sorry, I only speak English."
He smiled, then switched to English. "Hi. I saw you on the dance floor earlier, and decided I should come over here. Would you like to dance?"
"Yes." How could she possibly refuse? Standing, she took his outstretched hand and allowed him to lead her out onto the dance floor.
She was definitely more luscious in person, he thought appreciatively as he pulled her into his arms as the dance began. Hazel eyes stared up at him out of a heart-shaped face, and her caramel skin gleamed in the dim light. The deep V neck of her dress showed off large, perky breasts, and as she began moving to the beat they brushed up against his chest, along with the rest of her body. He grew hard instantly.
As the music started to pick up speed, she turned so that her back was facing him, her curvy ass pressed up against him and he bit back a groan. Gradually, she picked up the pace, the dance pulling her away from him. He allowed it for a little while, then curled his fingers around her hips and pulled her close, wanting to feel that body up against his again.
"My name is Rob, by the way,” he whispered in her ear, and she noticed for the first time the hint of an Italian accent in his deep, rich voice. Having had a thing for Italian men for a very long time, she found it unbearably sexy.
"Oh.” She licked her lips, which had gone dry all of a sudden at the feel of his lips pressed against her ear. “I'm Sherry." It was a lame response, but with him in close proximity and the music blaring around them, it was hard to think of anything else to say. She decided not t
o worry about it, and threw herself back into the dance.
Shaking her head, she stretched her hands above her head and started circling her hips. Rob pressed his chest against her back, her ass against his crotch, and she could feel that he was aroused. She should have been horrified, but instead shivered pleasantly, her nipples hardening beneath her dress, the flesh between her thighs aching lightly. She closed her eyes, losing herself to the beat, unable to help but think about how good it felt to press her body up against a man who actually wanted her.
The song came to a close, and Rob gently turned Sherry to face him. They stared up at each other for a long moment.
"Can I buy you a drink, Sherry?" he finally asked her.
"Sure.” Sherry licked her lips again—she sure could use something to wet her throat.
Standing at the bar, Rob ordered Sherry a whiskey sour and a white Russian for himself, and then took a moment to study her again. Her caramel skin was flushed, and her full lips glistened wetly from when she’d darted that pink tongue out to lick them earlier. He was fascinated by that tongue, those lips. Hell, he was fascinated by the whole package. He wanted more of her. But he sensed that despite her abandon out on the dance floor, she did not want to move too quickly.
"Where are you from?" he asked as their drinks arrived, choosing to draw her into small talk instead so he could loosen her up.
"I'm from the United States, but I live in Canada.” She picked up her whiskey and took a long drink. When she put the glass down the healthy flush in her cheeks had deepened, and her hazel eyes gleamed merrily. “Let me guess, you are from Italy."
"I am.” He smiled. “How did you know?"
"Your accent," she said laughing, and downed the rest of her drink in one swallow. “Thanks for the drink. Rob, but I’ve got to get going now.” She slid off the bar stool and placed her empty glass on the counter.