Hot Pursuits

Chapter 2

"May I?" He flicked his lighter and held it to her cigarette. As soon as the tip caught the flame, he lowered his hand. "I'm surprised to see someone smoking. It seems everyone has kicked the habit nowadays or smokes those electronic cigarettes."

After taking a quick puff, she regarded him with cool passivity. "Mercí. I smoke because I enjoy it and be damned the health risks. If you eschew smoking, we do you carry a lighter?"

"To light the cigarettes of lovely ladies."

She spoke with a slight accent but he figured she affected it for her own reasons. "You're American, aren't you?" He indicated the other bistro chair at her table. She gave him a nonchalant shrug, and he took it as an invitation to join her.

"I thought my accent rather good," she told him, dropping the affectation. Her regular, anglicized voice came through now with a natural throaty resonance.

"It is, but I could detect just a hint of a dialect, strictly American in origin. I'd say New York or somewhere along the East Coast."

"Virginia," she admitted and reached for the ceramic ashtray on the table to crush out her cigarette, "but I've traveled a great deal, and lived here and there."

"So, do you live here now?"

His gaze strolled briefly along the boulevard beside them, filled with the hustle and bustle of traffic and pedestrians. They sat on the sidewalk patio of the cafe, a table for two.

"Yes, and no."

When their waiter approached, he asked if he could buy her another drink. She seemed to be enjoying an espresso with an aperitif glass of what appeared to be a dark liqueur. Ignoring his request, she spoke to the garçon in French for several seconds before glancing at her impromptu guest.

"What would you like?" she asked.

"A coffee would be fine, with some cream."

After repeating the order, she returned to him. Even though she wore dark sunglasses, he felt her gaze scrutinizing his face, taking him in, sizing him up to see if he proved worthwhile enough to continue with this conversation.

"I take it," she began, "that you're in Paris for a vacation, or perhaps as an exchange student who wants to soak up some culture."

He tried a congenial smile. "Neither, actually. I'm here on business. Why did you think otherwise?"

"You seem too young to engage in international business."

"I'm twenty-five," he admitted, "and a graduate of Rutgers business school. My father owns a commodities brokerage and I'm here to solidify a deal-and yes, I work for daddy. It's a business relationship that suits me."

"Bully for you." Laughing, she extracted another slim, brown cigarette from the pack on the table. Galois, an old, established and expensive brand.

As he reached over to light it, the waiter arrived with his coffee and a small pitcher of cream. She, it seemed, hadn't reordered.

Settling back in his seat, he spoke again as he stirred a bit of cream in his cup. "Now, let me guess what you do for a living. You're a fashion model, terribly in demand because you have such a beautiful, exotic look about you."

She laughed. "Hardly! I'm forty-two years old and I decorate people's houses for a living-apartments and villas, and a castle or two."

"Ah, an interior designer with impressive credentials. Allow me to say, you don't look over forty. In fact, I pegged you for around thirty two or three."

"Mercí, but please don't try to flatter or peg me again. I hate flattery, even if it is meant sincerely."

He raised his coffee cup. "I'll try to remember that; but at least allow me to introduce myself. I'm Ross, Ross Breslin."

"Very nice to meet you, Mr. Breslin." She took in a long drag of her Galois and then snubbed it out. Her drinks remained untouched.

"Just Ross, please. It's nice to meet a fellow countryman, or is it person? Either way, I feel lucky to have met you. May I ask of it's Ms. or Mrs.?"

"I simply go by Adrienne Devareaux." Reaching for her clutch purse, the woman named Adrienne Devareaux took out several euros, and then traded them for the cigarette pack on the table.

He started to protest, but she held up a slim hand. "No, allow me, please. I'm sorry, but I have an appointment. I hope you have a nice visit, Ross. I take it this is your first time in Paris."

"Yes, and I'm staying at the Hôtel Meurice, Room 214. I'd like to take you to lunch or dinner so I can pick your brain. That is, find out how to discover the real Paris, and stay away from the tourist traps. I'd also like to take you somewhere nice to eat, since I have an expense account. So you can say I want to wine and dine you for a reason; though rest assured, there's nothing nefarious about my intentions."

"Oh, that's a shame." She smiled, this time with a touch of warmth. "So, you want a friendly tour guide. Let me think about it, Ross. I'll call you tomorrow morning, ce n'est pas? The Hôtel Meurice."

"Room 214, on the Rue de Rivoli."

When Adrienne rose, Ross did, too. She placed her purse under her right arm and started for the street. He called after her, "and I'll be waiting for your call with bated breath!"

"At least use mouthwash first!" She waved to him and then turned to hail a cab.

Ross sat back and tried to enjoy the rest of his coffee, still strong despite the added cream. Something about Adrienne Devareaux had intrigued him since he first laid eyes on her when he rounded the corner and spotted her sitting right here. She had a lovely face, heart-shaped with high cheekbones and a generous mouth, the lips slim and wide and colored with a mauve lipstick; and though he hadn't seen her eyes, he speculated they came in a hazel, with flecks of emerald and gold, eyes that definitely complimented the sienna hue of her hair with its flares of auburn.

Of course, when she stood, he couldn't help but stare at her long legs, the curvaceous hips encased in a straight skirt, and the full breasts that strained against her tight knit top. Her clothes probably came with a decent price tag, yet he judged the attire to be somewhere between off-the-rack and designer original. When she hailed a cab and slid into the back seat, Ross observed her long, shapely legs and her open-toed slip-ons with a short heel. Her tastes, too, encompassed the spectrum of simple yet elegant, alluring yet sensible. Better yet, she seemed intelligent and had a sense of humor beneath that cool exterior.

When the garçon returned with a coffee pot, he nixed a refill. Instead, he retrieved Adrienne's aperitif glass and sampled the liquid, crème de cassis, a currant liqueur, from the taste of it. Ross poured a little in his coffee. It certainly added a sweet note to the strong brew, and he likened it to what he knew of Paris so far: a luscious, chic, tempting treat on the surface while strong, dark and aggressive beneath.

Glancing at his watch, he realized that the afternoon remained on the cusp of early, certainly too premature to eat supper by Parisian standards, and too late to take in a museum or art gallery. He would have a long night ahead. His job placed him in the center of the most exciting, intriguing city in the world and yet he seemed destined to spend another evening alone in his hotel room.

As Ross began a slow pace down the avenue, he wondered if Adrienne lived close by in this part of the city called Montmartre. A number of apartment buildings lined the next street over; and for the hell of it, he wandered in that direction, hands in his jeans' pockets, a wistful smile on his lips. An hour later, he hadn't discovered Adrienne Devareax's address, but found a furnished flat, payable by the week. His new landlady spoke and understood English well enough to communicate, and that suited him just fine, his goal to stay in Paris for at least a month. Instead of paying almost two hundred U.S. dollars a night at the hotel, he planned to save the company a few bucks by exchanging his accommodations for a mere hundred euros or about seventy dollars a week, linens included. So the bed came out of the wall and the kitchen and bath looked like they hadn't been updated since post-WWII. As long as he had a somewhat clean place to crash, Ross would be a happy camper.