Hot Pursuits

Chapter 4

By the time they finished with the grapes in champagne cream and the after-dinner Grand Marnier, he felt as if he could swim the English Channel in genteel bubbly. Dinner came to just over two hundred US dollars, but Ross very adroitly put the tab on his company credit card and nixed her offer to contribute half of the tip for their three servers.

"Your share would come to forty-five bucks," he calculated, "and I'd hardly be a gentleman to even consider asking you."

"You would be surprised what some men consider a fair date. Equality of the sexes means just that."

"Ah, not with this guy. I might be a lot of things, but never cheap, especially with the company expense account. Since we mentioned the commodities market, I can submit it as a business dinner expense for tax purposes."

Adrienne laughed as she lit a cigarette. "Did we? I don't remember talking about commodities."

Ross frowned. Ever since the oysters, his brain had taken a pleasure cruise through alcoholic waves. "Hum, let's see. There's the electronics market, and we can't forget the light machinery and software systems."

"You deal in all of that?"

"Mostly electronics. France, like all the modern European markets, wants to keep up with the times."

She gave him a wry smile. "So, I guess we've talked business, and you can write this one off."

After they left the restaurant, Ross looked around for a cab. He thought perhaps she wanted to go home now, but Adrienne had other plans. Taking him by the arm, she started them on a stroll along the sidewalk. He hadn't really had a chance to comment on her outfit. She had arrived at the bistro before him and remained seated throughout dinner. Now, he definitely noticed her slim, heeled sandals, their rich plum color matching her halter dress. The silky fabric clung to each curve, and the front dipped just enough to display a hint of her cleavage. The silver necklace she wore with its small diamond teardrop winked in the lamplight, her skin a perfect backdrop, like bisque velvet.

Ringing her arm through his, she turned to him with wide, bright eyes. "There's a wonderful little nightclub just around the corner that features an incredible Russian guitar player. You have to hear him play."

His smile reflected his giddy, relaxed mood. "All right, lead the way."

The night spot offered a dark, romantic atmosphere, a cross between French provincial and folksy Balkan décor. After snatching a vacant table towards the back, Ross and Adrienne both wisely ordered coffee. The Russian guitarist proved an accomplished player, equally adept at modern scores and classical pieces. By the time he launched into an old Ukrainian ballad, he had the crowd clapping and tapping their feet. A few tipsy patrons even tried the famous Russian squat and kick dance, though most fell on their behinds.

An hour and a half later, Ross escorted his "date" out the door and hailed a taxi. The effects of the liquor and heavy dinner had done their duty to place him in a lethargic state, and he could barely keep his eyes open. Surprisingly, Adrienne still appeared alert and flushed with energy.

As soon as they caught a cab, she told the taxi driver to take them to the Rue Ravignan, nombre soixante trois.

"Ravignan Street," she translated, "number sixty-three."

Ross' attention perked up. He remembered the street from his walkabout the other day. In fact, he thought the address to be close by his own new digs. He smiled thoughtfully. Well, that certainly made things a bit more convenient.

When they arrived at the row of stately, older apartment buildings, Ross paid the cabbie and insisted on walking Adrienne up the steps to the front entrance. At the top, she turned to him and placed her hand on his shoulder.

"Thanks a million, Ross, for such a wonderful time. I really had fun, and the dinner was superb."

He smiled, although hoped his lips formed a polite crescent rather than a sloppy grin. "So, let's do it again. I plan to be here for awhile, and I certainly appreciate your tour guide efforts to educate an ugly American like myself."

Laughing, she nicked him lightly under the chin. "You're cute, remember? Cute guys are worth the effort." She suddenly sobered. "Let's see. My schedule is fairly tight right now, so why don't I call you?"

"You have my cell phone number," he murmured as Adrienne crept closer. Once she had him pinned against a stone pillar, she used her fingers to stroke his jawline and carefully tilt his head. Ross shivered with her exciting touch, each caress sending a lightning bolt of pleasure through him and zinging him to attention; but just as quickly, he became a mass of quivering, flaccid muscle when her lips met his. As the shock wore off, he responded to her kiss and savored the taste of her mouth with its flavors of rich liqueur, tobacco and espresso. His hands flayed helplessly until he finally placed them around her waist. She felt warm and soft, a sensation he hadn't experienced in quite awhile.

Emboldened now, Ross began to press further, deeper, longer. His lips licked and prodded while his hands did a tentative stroke along arms. Suddenly, Adrienne pulled back and reached over to grip the handle of the front door.

"Thanks," she whispered again, and then quickly breezed inside the building with the billow of her dress and a whiff of her scent following along. He savored the smell, her perfume a mix of florals, a scent that fit her nature, delicate and yet bold at the same time.

Ross blinked, and swore he had been in the middle of some strange dream, strange yet fascinating. One minute, a gorgeous woman had been kissing him, and the next she simply disappeared, leaving him cold and bereft and questioning his sanity. Yet, when he peered down, he noticed the erection she had caused. The dim light of the porch lamp picked up the bulge in his tan dress slacks as if to highlight his awkward attempt at intimacy-no, make that an awkward failure. Yet, the touch of Adrienne's lips remained a potent reminder that he still had a chance to reciprocate her generous offering.

Ross practically skipped his way around the corner and over to his own apartment building on Rue Saint Ives. When he entered the foyer, his landlady, Madame Souchet, stood by the door to her ground floor flat, dressed in an old housecoat, her salt peter hair up in curlers. She gave him a wide smile tinged with curiosity.

"Ah, Monsieur Ross, où avez-vous été ce soir?"

He had no idea what she just said, but he returned with a grin and a smattering of his French repertoire. "Oui, oui, madam! Très bonne, magnifique!"