Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 65189 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65189 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Why not?
We crossed the Seine, the river glittering in the fading sunlight. To distract myself from my swirling thoughts, I began naming the landmarks I could see. There was Notre-Dame, its gothic spires reaching toward the heavens.
As we crossed the Pont Saint-Michel, I tried to remember all of the bridges of Paris, the way I had memorized them just for fun my freshman year of college. Pont Alexandre III with its ornate golden statues gleaming in the evening light was far to the west. I resolved to walk there tomorrow, to see the intricate Art Nouveau lamps that lined the bridge, their graceful curves a testament to Belle Époque elegance.
Pont de l’Alma, where a princess had died. Pont d’Iéna with a spectacular view of the Eiffel Tower looming above the right bank.
My favorite, just to the west of us now, the Pont Neuf, the oldest standing bridge across the Seine. I thought of the countless lovers who had strolled across its sturdy stone arches over the centuries. The thought that I might join them, the secret lover of Lucas Moreau, sent an unexpected thrill through me.
The limo slowed to a stop, and I realized we had arrived at our destination. My heart began to race as the driver opened my door. I stepped out onto the sidewalk, blinking in the warm evening light. The restaurant before me was unlike anything I’d ever seen. Its elegant façade was adorned with intricate wrought-iron balconies, overflowing with cascades of vibrant flowers. Golden light spilled from tall windows, hinting at opulence within.
As I approached the entrance, a doorman in an impeccably tailored uniform bowed slightly and opened the heavy oak door. The scent of delicate perfume and rich, unmistakably Parisian cuisine, redolent with garlic, wafted out, enveloping me. I stepped inside, my heels clicking softly on the gleaming marble floor.
The interior took my breath away. Crystal chandeliers dripped from coffered ceilings, their facets casting a soft, romantic glow over the dining room. Plush velvet banquettes lined the walls, interspersed with intimate alcoves draped in shimmering silk. Fresh roses adorned every table, their subtle fragrance mingling with the aromas of fine wine and gourmet dishes.
Before I could fully take in my surroundings, the maître d’ approached, a distinguished older gentleman with silver hair and kind eyes. To my surprise, he greeted me by name.
“Mademoiselle Morgan, welcome,” he said warmly. “We’ve been expecting you. If you’ll follow me, please.”
He led me through the dining room, past tables of elegantly dressed patrons who seemed to exude an air of wealth and sophistication. I felt acutely aware of my youth, the simplicity of my dress. As classic as the little black dress might be, according to Coco Chanel, it didn’t hold a candle to the elegance of the outfits worn by the older women I saw enjoying their aperitifs with distinguished-looking companions.
We passed all the way through the main dining room. The soft clink of fine china and crystal mingled with the low murmur of conversation. I couldn’t help noticing the curious glances from other diners. Did they recognize me as out of place, or were they simply wondering who I was to be led to what was clearly a special table?
We ascended a small flight of stairs to a mezzanine level overlooking the main floor. Here, the lighting was even more intimate, with candles flickering in ornate sconces along the walls. The maître d’ guided me toward a secluded alcove, partially hidden behind a lush arrangement of exotic flowers.
And there he was.
Lucas Moreau rose as we approached, his presence filling the small space. He was even more breathtaking in person than in his photos or on television. Tall and lean, with broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, he exuded an aura of easy confidence and power. His tailored suit, a deep navy that brought out the startling blue of his eyes, fit him perfectly.
“Alice,” he said, his voice a rich baritone that sent a shiver down my spine. “Welcome.”
He stepped toward me, and for a heart-stopping moment, I thought he was going to kiss me full on the lips. I froze, my eyes wide, as he leaned forward.
Lucas’ cologne—a subtle, masculine scent with notes of sandalwood and citrus—seemed to envelop me. His lips brushed my cheek in a feather-light kiss, the traditional French greeting of la bise. But as he pulled back, his breath ghosted over my ear, sending a shiver down my spine.
“Enchanté,” he murmured, his voice low and intimate.
I felt heat rush to my face, my cheeks blazing as I remembered with vivid clarity the photos on my Selecta profile. The provocative poses, my most intimate areas on display… and Lucas had seen them all. My eyes dropped to the floor, unable to meet his piercing gaze.
“My, what a lovely shade of pink,” Lucas observed, a hint of amusement in his tone. “You have quite the sensitive nature, don’t you, Alice?”