rendezvous in Paris. How exciting and romantic those long weekends in a quaint auberge near Les Halles had been! But then it was all over. Since then, Anna had stuck to the Rive Gauche. But this was the start of a new life, a good time to shake off the ghostly traces of that old lost love.
Tomorrow, she’d see Barton. Today, she had decided before the plane’s wheels touched down, would require only a brief nap before doing what Paris was perfect for, strolling lazily through the streets.
She’d snatched several hours’ sleep in her comfy business-class flat-bed seat, primarily because she hadn’t looked at the magazines she’d downloaded onto her iPad until an hour before landing. Articles like “Is Your Skin a Billboard for Your Age?” and “Left Behind: When Your Man Trades You In for a Younger Woman” would have unsettled her. Today, even the ads were insults, with their fourteen-year-old models pouting in garments few grown women could afford.
She hoped Paris would be a breath of fresh air—and that she’d love Barton’s offer. While $25,000 was a godsend, it wouldn’t keep her afloat for long in Los Angeles.
After checking in, she wheeled her bag to a sleek, if anonymous, chamber with a view of the Eiffel Tower. Her choice would have been something more intimate than this luxury lodge with its hundreds of rooms. Then again, she wasn’t complaining about the incredible view, was she?
A long soak in the Roman bathtub followed by a nap left her feeling groggy but fresher when the alarm went off at four p.m. Barton was calling at five, and she wanted to sound alert. She’d already had a cup of tea, put on makeup, and pulled on stretch khakis and a linen shirt before the phone rang.
Five minutes later, she was out the door, having decided the late-May weather was perfect for a stroll along the Seine, an aperitif at a café, and an early dinner at one of the small bistros on rue St. Honoré. Her conversation with Pierre had been perfunctory. After posing one rote question as to how her flight had been, he said his driver Aleksei would pick her up at eleven the next morning. “Are we going somewhere?” she’d asked.
“You are. I’ll already be there. You’re coming to meet my mother. Enjoy the evening.”
His mother? She shook her head as she walked. Was Barton a sentimentalist? Well, it was his dime, and if he wanted her to meet his mother, she would. The rich and powerful felt entitled to indulge their eccentricities, she supposed. And she felt entitled to enjoy her first evening in Paris. A languid look at the river followed by a glass of St. Emilion and a plate of duck confit would be an excellent start.
A dark blue Bentley limousine was parked on the street in front of her hotel when she emerged promptly at eleven the next morning. Standing next to it was a tall, well-built man with sandy-blond hair, in his late thirties, wearing a dark single-breasted suit, white shirt, narrow black tie, and dark sunglasses. He tilted his head down as formally as a bow. “Ms. Wallingham?”
“Yes. Aleksei?” She smiled.
She got the head tilt again but no returned smile as he opened the back door and stood at attention. He was no friendlier as she slid onto the smooth, cool leather seat. She noted that it was a British model with right-hand drive; how nice it must be to be driven to Paris in your own car. “We will be there in approximately fifteen minutes,” the driver said gutturally—his accent Slavic or Russian—before closing the privacy partition separating the passenger compartment from the front. Not much for small talk, Anna thought wryly as the big car moved silently away from the curb.
She’d worn a simple bottle-green silk shantung skirt with matching fitted cheongsam-like tunic and darker green ballet flats, formal enough for meeting Maman yet neither dull nor sexy. This day might be a turning point for her; she wanted to look good for it. Outside, the Champs Elysées slipped past,
Tomorrow, she’d see Barton. Today, she had decided before the plane’s wheels touched down, would require only a brief nap before doing what Paris was perfect for, strolling lazily through the streets.
She’d snatched several hours’ sleep in her comfy business-class flat-bed seat, primarily because she hadn’t looked at the magazines she’d downloaded onto her iPad until an hour before landing. Articles like “Is Your Skin a Billboard for Your Age?” and “Left Behind: When Your Man Trades You In for a Younger Woman” would have unsettled her. Today, even the ads were insults, with their fourteen-year-old models pouting in garments few grown women could afford.
She hoped Paris would be a breath of fresh air—and that she’d love Barton’s offer. While $25,000 was a godsend, it wouldn’t keep her afloat for long in Los Angeles.
After checking in, she wheeled her bag to a sleek, if anonymous, chamber with a view of the Eiffel Tower. Her choice would have been something more intimate than this luxury lodge with its hundreds of rooms. Then again, she wasn’t complaining about the incredible view, was she?
A long soak in the Roman bathtub followed by a nap left her feeling groggy but fresher when the alarm went off at four p.m. Barton was calling at five, and she wanted to sound alert. She’d already had a cup of tea, put on makeup, and pulled on stretch khakis and a linen shirt before the phone rang.
Five minutes later, she was out the door, having decided the late-May weather was perfect for a stroll along the Seine, an aperitif at a café, and an early dinner at one of the small bistros on rue St. Honoré. Her conversation with Pierre had been perfunctory. After posing one rote question as to how her flight had been, he said his driver Aleksei would pick her up at eleven the next morning. “Are we going somewhere?” she’d asked.
“You are. I’ll already be there. You’re coming to meet my mother. Enjoy the evening.”
His mother? She shook her head as she walked. Was Barton a sentimentalist? Well, it was his dime, and if he wanted her to meet his mother, she would. The rich and powerful felt entitled to indulge their eccentricities, she supposed. And she felt entitled to enjoy her first evening in Paris. A languid look at the river followed by a glass of St. Emilion and a plate of duck confit would be an excellent start.
A dark blue Bentley limousine was parked on the street in front of her hotel when she emerged promptly at eleven the next morning. Standing next to it was a tall, well-built man with sandy-blond hair, in his late thirties, wearing a dark single-breasted suit, white shirt, narrow black tie, and dark sunglasses. He tilted his head down as formally as a bow. “Ms. Wallingham?”
“Yes. Aleksei?” She smiled.
She got the head tilt again but no returned smile as he opened the back door and stood at attention. He was no friendlier as she slid onto the smooth, cool leather seat. She noted that it was a British model with right-hand drive; how nice it must be to be driven to Paris in your own car. “We will be there in approximately fifteen minutes,” the driver said gutturally—his accent Slavic or Russian—before closing the privacy partition separating the passenger compartment from the front. Not much for small talk, Anna thought wryly as the big car moved silently away from the curb.
She’d worn a simple bottle-green silk shantung skirt with matching fitted cheongsam-like tunic and darker green ballet flats, formal enough for meeting Maman yet neither dull nor sexy. This day might be a turning point for her; she wanted to look good for it. Outside, the Champs Elysées slipped past,
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