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The woman was sobbing hysterically, and Alexander gathered her into his arms to try and console her. He hated himself for thinking it, but her curly hair gathered around his face, and she smelled of magnolias, and lavender; he couldn't help but be entranced by just the aroma of her, like a walk through a warm garden in the summer. The firm yet yielding feel of her in his arms—it was nothing like holding Whitney.
Whitney was skin and bones, subsisting on a diet of cigarettes, vodka, and the odd seaweed salad. Skinny girls had their own beauty, but Alexander had always gravitated to women like those in the paintings he loved: curvy, full of life, and soft. He felt like he could hold this girl forever, and he'd never even gotten a good look at her face.
When she pulled away from him, his shirt was soaked through with her tears, but he didn't even care. She balled her fists up like a child and rubbed them at her eyes, smearing her eye make-up, and making her look like a party girl from the 70s. Alexander wanted to laugh, but he held it back. And then, she started staring.
Perfect, he had thought. My cover is blown. Here comes the groveling and the simpering.
But she just stared at him, saying nothing. Finally, compelled to fill the painful silence, he started asking a million questions, some in French, all of which she answered no to. When he finally asked her what her name was, she stumbled adorably.
Paris, he thought. What a thoroughly adorable name. Paris. He avoided making what he knew had to be the obvious remark about her name matching that of the city.
And then, she spoke again—but, he thought he surely must have heard her incorrectly. What did she say?
Had she just asked him his name?
Did she really not know who he was?
5
The sound of glasses clattering, falling over the side of the table, and shattering all over the floor, drew every eye in the bar to the table in the back corner. There were almost no lights in Poison et Pain, the ridiculously trendy Paris watering hole—only the faint illumination provided by a handful of candles scattered across occupied tables. Yet, despite the dark, and despite the fact that absolutely no one could care which famous drunk was currently scowling at the back table of the Poison et Pain, Whitney Bishop-St.Claire of Estia was wearing an impossibly large pair of sunglasses. She had a stupidly expensive Hermes scarf wrapped around her head to hide her mountains of highlighted blonde hair. And no one was bothering to keep track of the fact that Whitney was now on her sixth straight vodka. But now that she had taken to just dropping the empty glasses on the floor like they were paper cups, people were paying attention.
It was almost midnight. Alexander was supposed to have met Whitney at that pretentious little bar two hours ago, after he had dinner with her parents, which according to her mother, he hadn’t shown up for either. With every half hour that ticked by, Whitney got a little angrier, and the angrier Whitney got, the drunker she got.
It wasn't like she asked Alexander for much; he just had to show up at the bar so they could be photographed together, and then he could go be boring at the hotel and she could go get hammered with the new friends she'd made scoring coke the night before. How complicated was that? Whitney thought scornfully.
She'd spent her entire day in Paris with her new best friends... whose names she couldn't quite remember at the moment. Paris was a fabulous place to make contacts for the future, when she was the Queen of Dalvana and Alexander was off doing whatever it was that he did to make the world a better place. If she would be forced to accompany him on diplomatic missions, no one said she had to put on an old-lady suit and shake hands with boring people and kiss ugly babies. Today's party girls and cocaine dealers were tomorrow's captains of industry and fashion designers, and they'd be the perfect high-society friends for photo ops. So what if she had to do a little blow off a stranger's stomach? It was all for the greater good.
Whitney waved a perfectly-manicured hand in the direction of the bar, signaling that she wanted another drink. She hoped that the bartender understood, because she wasn't sure she could verbalize her request at the moment. Just as Whitney pulled out her phone to send Alexander another pissed-off text, the six-foot-four bartender walked over with a new vodka. Distracted by his plebeian good looks, she dropped her phone back in her purse, pulled off her sunglasses and scarf, and smiled coyly up at him.
Maybe the rest of the night wouldn't be a total wash after all...
6
Paris couldn't stop staring at Alex; she felt like a total fool. But as they stood in that alley, his hands still gently resting on her shoulders, trying to keep her calm, she felt like her whole body was putty in his hands. What was it about this stranger that drew her in so deep, that made her feel so safe, and so at home? Finally, she shook her head, trying to break free from the cobwebs.
“Listen, thank you again, so much, for saving me from those guys. I feel like such an idiot, but I got lost, I have no idea where my hotel is, I don't speak French, I used the last of my money on this map that I don't understand and holy shit... I basically just gave you enough information to murder me and drop my body in the Seine. Wow. I am a giant idiot.” The words tumbled out quickly, mosh-mashed and jumbled.
Alex laughed, his dimples and perfect lips becoming even more irresistible.
“Well, I have to admit, that was a lot of information. But I promise, I have no intention of murdering you. I'd be happy to try and help you find your lodgings, however. First, please allow me to take you for a late dinner... If you have no money, you must be starving.”
Paris suddenly realized her stomach had been rumbling. She couldn't even remember the last time she'd eaten anything; it very well may have been on the flight in. Normally, she wouldn't accept meals from strange men, but she was in no position to say no.
“I'm going to say yes, but only because I could eat my own arm right now. And you have to promise you'll let me pay you back when I get to my things.”
Alex winked at her, and Paris felt her knees start to buckle.
“We'll just see about that. Now, why don't we start by getting off of this filthy street, hmm? You couldn't have chosen a worse place to be pick-pocketed.”
Paris hesitated slightly, wondering if she might be jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire. But surely if her rescuer had nefarious motives, he could have just had his way with her right then and there—no need to take her out to dinner and fatten her up first. Unless, of course, he was into that…
Paris’ mind was wandering. She looked up and saw Alex waiting for her response.
She smiled up at him, her wide lips parting softly, and she gently put her hand in his outstretched one as he led her out of the grime of the alley.
* * *
Paris couldn't believe the night she was having. One minute she was terrified, lost, alone, being robbed and possibly seconds from getting murdered in an alley in Paris. Now, she was standing inside a restaurant so posh, so awe-inspiringly grand, that she was kind-of surprised they'd even let her in. She was still in her tourist clothes: jeans, a plain gray t-shirt, and her Converse sneakers. Alex, however, looked positively magnificent. It wasn't until they were out of the darkness of the alley that Paris truly saw how exquisite he looked.
Even in what he probably considered dress-down clothes (a leather jacket, a soft cotton t-shirt, and slacks), he looked like a model. Before they'd walked up to the host podium, Alex had slipped on a pair of thick-rimmed glasses and flipped up his collar, half hiding his face, which rather than making him appear pretentious or like he was trying to “Clark Kent” someone, gave him a further air of sophistication. Paris almost felt silly standing next to him, like she would be found out at any moment as a fraud. But even as she questioned her right to be anywhere near the vision that was her knight in shining armor, she realized she still knew nothing about him, had no idea what is was that made him so... self-assured.
Paris stood back as Alex approached the host and began speaking to him in fluent French. There were dozens of pe
ople standing around, all obviously waiting for a table at the elegant little eatery. Paris was ready to bolt, already uncomfortable with all of the dirty looks they were getting from those who had been there a while, when Alex motioned to her to join him at the podium. With an awkward smile, Paris pushed her way through the crowd until she was at Alex's side.
“Bernard, I'd like you to meet my dear friend, Mademoiselle Paris Martell. She's visiting from America, and this is her first night in the City of Lights. She had a bit of a rough start, so I'd be most appreciative if you could make sure the rest of her night goes a little more smoothly?”
Bernard, the host, smiled so widely you could see every tooth in his mouth. With a quick clap of his hands, two waiters in blue tuxedos rushed the podium and took Alex and Paris' coats, then Paris' bag; for a second she was convinced they were going to pick her up and carry her to the table.
Bernard began speaking to Alex in French again, but this time, Alex looked annoyed, and he began gesturing to Bernard furiously, speaking in low whispers. Paris tried to make out what they were saying to each other, but between the French and the hushed tones, she had no idea what was going on. She was able to make out the word discretion, and she saw Alex reach into his pocket and then palm something that looked like cash to Bernard. Alex turned to her, finding her eyes, and gave her a huge, warm smile.
Before Paris had time to question him, Alex swooped in and led her to a private table in the very back of the restaurant. Paris could see the jealous and angry faces of all of the people waiting in the lobby, but for once, she didn’t allow herself to worry about what other people were thinking.
