Sweet Filthy Boy - Lauren Christina (читать книги без TXT) 📗
I laugh, pushing him away slightly and kissing him one more time squarely on the lips before saying, “I want to meet your friends. You can undress me later.”
“Then tell me a story about Madame Allard, because that’s the only way I’m going to quickly lose this erection.”
MARIE AND CHRISTOPHE’S building is only a few blocks away from where we emerge from the metro and when it comes into view I stop and stare. Ansel’s apartment manages to be both small and airy. There’s nothing over-the-top or pretentious about any of it: it’s an older building, and as easygoing and comfortable as he is. This place . . . is not.
The facade is stone, and while it has an aged look about it—easily blending with the surrounding construction—it’s clearly been renovated, and at no small cost. The apartments on the bottom floor are each anchored by a set of wide steps, capped with red doors and gleaming brass knockers. The second and third floor apartments boast arched windows leading to individual balconies with ornate ironwork of tiny metal blossoms erupting from intricate molded vines.
Trees line the busy street, and beneath the welcome shadow they provide I take a moment to gather myself and prepare for a room of strangers and conversations I probably won’t understand. Ansel presses his palm to my lower back, whispering, “Ready?”
Weeks ago the very idea of doing this—without Lola or Harlow to carry the conversation if I lost Ansel in the crowd and went mute—would have made me shudder in horror. I don’t know what it will be like upstairs, but if the roaring laughter coming from the window is any indication, the party is already in full swing, even this early in the evening. I just hope everyone up there is as nice as Ansel promises me they will be. I catch a glimpse of our reflection and startle slightly. I look at myself every morning, but it’s different in the windows of this place somehow. My hair is longer, bangs swept to the side instead of cutting a straight line across my forehead. I’ve gained a little weight and feel less boyish, more like a woman. My skirt is from a small shop near Montmartre, my face is bare of all but the slightest hint of makeup, but still glowing. It’s fitting that I look different; I feel different. And beside me, Ansel towers above, his arm protectively curled around my waist, and I see in the reflection when he bends to catch my attention. “Hey.”
“I was looking at that cute couple.” I nod to the window.
After studying us for a long, quiet beat, he plants a sweet kiss on my lips. “Come on, Cerise.”
Marie answers the door with a happy yelp, and pulls us into the melee, kissing my cheeks before passing me off to Christophe’s open arms.
“It is Ansel’s Mia!” he yells in English to everyone, and a roomful of people turn and look at me with wide, curious eyes as Ansel hands the bottle of wine to Marie.
“Hi.” I raise my hand, waving lamely, sinking into Ansel as his arm finds my waist again.
“We are so glad to finally meet you!” she says, kissing each of my cheeks again. “You are even more beautiful than your photo.” My eyes widen and Marie laughs, curling her arm through mine and pulling me farther into the apartment, away from my husband, who is nearly immediately swallowed by a circle of his friends. He lifts his chin, watching as Marie leads me down the hall.
“I’ll be fine,” I yell over my shoulder, even if it’s only half true. I really didn’t expect to be separated from him only seconds after walking in the door.
Inside, it’s every bit as elaborate as I had guessed it would be from the street. The walls are papered in muted gold damask and from where I stand I can see two marble fireplaces, each framed with delicate molding. Bookcases bursting with books and small, beautiful vases border one wall; the opposite is lined with floor-to-ceiling windows, all overlooking a lush courtyard. Despite the amount of stuff inside, the apartment is charming and large enough that even with the number of people currently milling about, there’s plenty of space to mingle with some degree of privacy.
We pass a small library, wander down a hall lined with people drinking and talking, who all seem to quiet as I pass—maybe I’m being paranoid but I really don’t think so—and into a wide, brilliant white kitchen.
“I will take you back out there, but they are like wolves. Excited to see him, excited to meet you. Let them accost him first.” Marie pours me a generous glass of wine before curling my hand around it, laughing. “How do you say . . . ‘strength in a glass’?”
“Liquid courage?” I offer.
“Yes!” She snaps her fingers and kisses my cheek again. “There are many nice people here and they all love your husband so they will love you. Look around, I will introduce you to everyone in just a minute!”
She jogs off when the doorbell rings again and, after waiting a beat to see if it’s Ansel who has walked into the kitchen—it isn’t—I turn to look out the tall, narrow kitchen windows with a stunning view of Montmartre.
“I bet that view never gets old.”
I turn to find a beautiful, redheaded woman looking out the adjoining set of French doors. She’s maybe a few years older than I am, and her accent is heavy, so thick it takes me several beats to translate what she’s said.
“It’s gorgeous,” I agree.
“You’re American?” When I nod, she asks, “You live here? Or are visiting?”
“I live here,” I answer, and then pause. “Well . . . for now. It’s sort of complicated.”
“And married,” she says, pointing to my ring.
“I am.” Absently, I twist the gold band around my finger. If she didn’t hear Christophe’s boisterous announcement when we entered only five minutes ago, it strikes me as a little weird that this is one of the first things she says.
“What is his name?”
“Ansel,” I say. “Ansel Guillaume.”
“I know him!” she exclaims, smiling widely. “I have known him for many years.” Leaning in conspiratorially, she adds, “Very handsome and the most charming man.”
Pride mingles with unease in my chest. The woman seems nice enough, but a little pushy. It feels as though we’ve skipped a smoother entree into conversation. “He is.”
“So you are here as a student? Or for work?” she asks, sipping from her glass of red wine.
“I’m just here visiting this summer,” I explain, relaxing a little. My shyness can come off as aloof, I reason. Maybe people often misinterpret her intensity as aggression. “I start school in the fall.”
“Then you are leaving soon,” she says, frowning.
“Yes . . . still trying to figure out the timing.”
“And what about your husband? His job is very important, no? He cannot just leave Paris and go with you?” Her expression shows nothing but polite interest, but her stream of questions has me back on edge. When I don’t answer for a long beat, she presses. “Haven’t you talked about any of this?”
“Um . . .” I begin, but I have no idea how to respond. Her blue eyes are wide and penetrating, and behind them I see something larger there. Hurt. Restrained anger. I look past her and see that there are a few people in the kitchen now, and they are all watching us: fascinated, eyes wide in sympathy, as if observing a car crash in slow motion.
I turn back to her, growing anxiously suspicious. “Sorry . . . I don’t think I got your name.”
“I didn’t give it to you,” she says, with a small tilt of her head. “Maybe I am misleading you by pretending I’m not familiar with your situation. You see, I know Ansel very, very well.”
Understanding clicks like a lock in my mind.
“Are you Minuit?”
Her smile is elated, in an eerily wicked way. “Minuit! Yes, perfect, I’m Minuit.”
“I assumed you had black hair. I don’t know why,” I mumble, more to myself than anything. I have the sense of being balanced on a teeter-totter: I’m still not sure whether I’ll land on my feet in this conversation. I want to turn and look desperately around for Ansel, or Marie, but Minuit is watching me like a hawk, seeming to feed on my discomfort.
