Plata by Ivy Mason Page B

her body, and the memory caused a flash of heat all through her.
    “You are?” she said with a smile, surprised at her own coyness.
    He blushed and looked down at his hands. “I don’t even know your name. Your real name.”
    “Madison.” She jokingly extended a greeting hand across the table.
    Pierre took it and pressed it gently against his lips. She felt the raspy beginning of whiskers.
    “Enchanté,” he said quietly.
    Madison relished the feel of his touch.
    “Pierre…?” She kept her voice low to keep others from hearing. “Why on earth would a guy like you be so enamored by a stripper?”
    He looked at her with genuine surprise. “First,” he said. “I don’t know what you mean by ‘a guy like me’. For all you know I spend all my time in those places.”
    “No,” she quipped. “You and I both know that you don’t.”
    He smiled. “Second, you are not a stripper.”
    She furrowed her brow. “You’ve seen me yourself, Pierre. You know what I do.”
    “Only you know why you are working at that place,” he said gently. “But it is certainly not who you are.”
    Without warning, Madison felt tears burning in her eyes. She shook her head. “No,” she breathed. “It’s not.”
    Pierre looked at her sadly, but without pity. “Come walk with me.”
    He stood up and held out his hand. Madison wiped at her eyes with a wan smile. Walking had always been her favorite way to spend time with someone. When she was still in high school, she and her mom would take long, leisurely walks through their neighborhood and along the bike path that paralleled the mountain range. She loved the idea of moving in unison, taking in the same sights, stopping to observe the same things. It was one of her favorite things to do.
    Madison took Pierre’s hand and stood up. A waiter came past and Pierre handed him a bill to pay for her coffee. They went downstairs together, and Madison realized that they were turning heads as they went. The handsome couple. Without a word, they drifted into the book section and began scanning the titles on display. It made Madison smile, this nerdy bookishness they shared. Being with him was easy. It felt to her as if they’d known each other forever.
    They walked through the Condesa, past restaurants and cafés, talking. It wasn’t like the conversations she’d had with men since starting college. The coy dance.The back and forth. Whoever gives up the most information loses. She hated those games. Instead, Pierre was honest, forthcoming, and amazingly humble.
    As they meandered the dusty walkways of the Parque Mexico, he told her about growing up in a poor neighborhood in Paris. He’d loved school, but the kids were so rough he spent more time fighting than studying. To help his family pay rent, he learned to fix bicycles for the neighbors, and later taught himself everything there was to know about motorcycles. He went from having a small shop in his garage where he fixed up motorcycles and sold them, to a multinational motorcycle empire.
    “Do you ride?” she asked, trying to picture Pierre dressed in leather and gunning down the highway on a motorcycle. She just couldn’t see it.
    “Not for ages,” he said. “When I was a kid I was reckless. Frankly, I am lucky to be here at all. But now…I don’t know. I guess I have lost my taste for it.”
    “You play it safe now?” Madison teased.
    Pierre stopped. They’d reached the sad little duck pond, which was surrounded with chicken wire. But the sun glinted on the water and the dusty leaves of the ficus trees reflected on its surface. For a moment it looked almost beautiful. He watched it, his eyes squinting against the light.
    “I got tired of fast things. Everything fast. Fast bikes. Fast money. Fast women.” He turned to look at Madison with sigh. “When you live like that, you miss everything that matters.”
    He brushed a loose strand of hair from her face, his surprisingly calloused fingers grazing the soft skin of