“Saved by the bell,” she said with an attempt at lightness. “At least now I won’t have to improvise when Elise starts digging for details.”
The phone pinged in her hand, signaling the arrival of a text message.
“That’s the blurb Alexis wants to run with the pictures from Cartier. I’ll pull it up with the photos so you can review them.”
“No need.” Dev pushed off the sofa, stuffed in his shirt and buckled his belt. “I trust you on this one.”
“I’ll make sure there are no naked body parts showing,” she promised solemnly.
“You do that, and I’ll make sure we’re not interrupted next time.”
“Next time?”
He dropped a quick kiss on her nose and grabbed his discarded suit coat.
“Oui, ma chérie,” he said in his truly execrable French. “Next time.”
Dev had a breakfast meeting with his people, who’d flown in the night before. That gave Sarah the morning to herself. A shame, really, because the day promised glorious sunshine and much warmer temperatures. Perfect for strolling the Left Bank with that special someone.
Which is what most of Paris seemed to be doing, she saw after coffee and a croissant at her favorite patisserie. The sight of so many couples, young, old and in between, rekindled some of the raw emotions Dev had generated last night.
In the bright light of day, Sarah couldn’t believe she’d invited him to make love to her. Okay, she’d practically demanded it. Even now, as she meandered over the Pont de l’Archevêché, she felt her breasts tingle at the memory of his hands and mouth on them.
She stopped midway across the bridge. Pont de l’Archevêché translated to the Archbishop’s Bridge in English, most likely because it formed a main means of transit for the clerics of Notre Dame. The cathedral’s square towers rose on the right. Bookseller stalls and cafés crowded the broad avenue on the left. The Seine flowed dark and silky below. What intrigued her, though, were the padlocks of all shapes and sizes hooked through the bridge’s waist-high, iron-mesh scrollwork. Some locks had tags attached, some were decorated with bright ribbons, some included small charms.
She’d noticed other bridges sporting locks, although none as heavily adorned as this one. They’d puzzled her but she hadn’t really wondered about their significance. It became apparent a few moments after she spotted a pair of tourists purchasing a padlock from an enterprising lock seller at the far end of the bridge. The couple searched for an empty spot on the fancy grillwork to attach their purchase. Then they threw the key into the Seine and shared a long, passionate kiss.
When they walked off arm in arm, Sarah approached the lock seller. He was perched on an upturned wooden crate beside a pegboard displaying his wares. His hair sprouted like milky-white dandelion tufts from under his rusty-black beret. A cigarette hung from his lower lip.
“I’ve been away for a while,” she said in her fluent Parisian. “When did this business with the locks begin?”
“Three years? Five? Who can remember?” His shoulders lifted in the quintessential Gallic shrug. “At first the locks appeared only at night, and they would be cut off each day. Now they are everywhere.”
“So it seems.”
Mistaking her for a native, he winked and shared his personal opinion of his enterprise. “The tourists, they eat this silly stuff up. As if they can lock in the feelings they have right now, today, and throw away the key. We French know better, yes?”
His cigarette bobbed. His gestures grew extravagant as he expounded his philosophy.
“To love is to take risks. To be free, not caged. To walk away if what you feel brings hurt to you or to your lover. Who would stay, or want to stay, where there is pain?”
The question was obviously rhetorical, so Sarah merely spread her hands and answered with a shrug.
* * *
She was still thinking about the encounter when she met Madame Girault for lunch later that day. She related the lock seller’s philosophy to Elise, who belted out a raucous laugh that turned heads throughout the restaurant.
“My darling Sarah, I must beg to disagree!”
With her blond hair drawn into a tight bun that emphasized her high cheekbones and angular chin, Elise looked more like the Black Swan of her portrait. Her sly smile only heightened the resemblance.
“Locks and, yes, a little pain can add a delicious touch to an affair,” she said, her eyes dancing. “And speaking of which...”
Her mouth took a sardonic tilt as a dark-haired man some twenty-five or thirty years her junior rose from his table and approached theirs.
“Ah, Elise, only one woman in all Paris has a laugh like yours. How are you, my love?”
“Very well. And you, Henri? Are you still dancing attendance on that rich widow I saw you with at the theater?”
“Sadly, she returned to Argentina before I extracted full payment for services rendered.” His dark eyes drifted to Sarah. “But enough of such mundane matters. You must introduce me to your so-lovely companion.”
“No, I must not. She’s in Paris with her fiancé and has no need of your special skills.” Elise flapped a hand and shooed him off. “Be a good boy and go away.”
“If you insist...”
He gave a mocking half bow and returned to his table, only to sign the check and leave a few moments later. A fleeting look of regret crossed Elise’s face as he wove his way toward the exit. Sighing, she fingered her glass.
“He was so inventive in bed, that one. So very inventive. But always in need of money. When I tired of emptying my purse for him, he threatened to sell pictures of me in certain, shall we say, exotic positions.”
Sarah winced, but couldn’t say anything. Any mention of the paparazzi and sensational photographs struck too close to home.
“Jean-Jacques sent men to convince him that would not be wise,” Elise confided. “The poor boy was in a cast for weeks afterward.”
The offhand comment doused the enjoyment Sarah had taken in Elise’s company up to that point. Madame Girault’s concept of love suddenly seemed more tawdry than amusing. Deliberately, Sarah changed the subject.
“I wonder how the negotiations are going? Dev said he thought they were close to a deal.”
Clearly disinterested, Elise shrugged and snapped her fingers to summon their waiter.
* * *
Halfway across Paris, Dev had to force himself to focus on the columns of figures in the newly restructured agreement. It didn’t help that his seat at the conference table offered a panoramic view of the pedestrians-only esplanade and iconic Grande Arche that dominated Paris’s financial district. Workers by the hundreds were seated on the steps below the Grande Arche, their faces lifted to the sun while they enjoyed their lunch break.
One couple appeared to be enjoying more than the sun. Dev watched them share a touch, a laugh, a kiss. Abruptly, he pushed away from the table.
“Sorry,” he said to the dozen or so startled faces that turned in his direction. “I need to make a call.”
Jean-Jacques Girault scooted his chair away from the table, as well. “Let’s all take a break.