His To Shatter Read online

  The words died on her lips as a head emerged after the hand. A dark-eyed, handsome man peered up at her from the booth, smiling toothily. He was wearing an incredibly well-tailored suit, and gazing at Dara with something a little stronger than admiration in his eyes.

  “My apologies,” he said in heavily accented English. “My associates and I were hoping that you ladies might want to join us for a drink.”

  As he spoke, the golden curtain was drawn back, revealing two more similarly attractive men within. All three appeared to be in their late twenties, and from the looks of the expensive bottles on their table and the fine cuts of their suits, they definitely appeared to have money. Dara, Ashlee and I traded looks, gauging the others’ interest. When no one spoke up in opposition, we decided as one to join our new friends behind the curtain. We were abiding by the buddy system, after all. We stepped into the booth, happy that the curtain remained open. The men each had glasses of smoky brown scotch that they were drinking straight. I grinned, amused by their choice of such a blatantly manly drink. They were just young enough that it seemed more cute than rugged.

  “You are American, yes?” asked the man closest to me. He had light brown hair that was swept to the side and an easy smile.

  “Yes,” I answered, sipping my martini, “You are not.”

  “No,” he laughed. “I’m what you might call a local. I’ve lived in Paris all my life. Are you enjoying your vacation here?”

  “I’m not really on vacation,” I answered, “I actually had an int—”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” he cut me off. I swallowed down my minor indignation. He probably just couldn’t hear me over the music or something. “Where are you staying?”

  I gave him some vague answer, not feeling particularly in the mood to offer up my home address. I peeked across the table to see how Dara and Ashlee were faring with their new friends. From what I could see, they all seemed to be hitting it off. I smiled gamely at my companion and tried to be friendly.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Antoine,” he responded.

  “And what do you do in Paris?” I went on, taking another sip.

  “Besides woo beautiful Americans?” he laughed, “I work for a very successful tech company. The best in France.”

  “Is that so?” I said.

  “It is. I’m just here with my colleagues celebrating a major acquisition. We’re having quite the quarter!”

  “Well, congratulations,” I offered.

  “I wish I could take even a sliver of the credit,” Antoine said, “It was really all the boss. He’s a genius when it comes to business. Built our company up from nothing.”

  “Wow,” I said. “That’s definitely impressive.”

  “Definitely,” he agreed, “But what can I do to impress you?”

  “Um...” I muttered. After a summer of learning how to talk to men without making a fool of myself, I felt my old insecurities begin to take hold again.

  “There must be something,” Antoine said, “I know one thing that will impress you, but it requires a bed.” He leaned forward, his arm draped around my shoulders. I could smell the scotch on his breath, and felt a sudden surge of panic rush through me. I shoved him firmly away and watched as his face fell into a heap of disbelief. Just as he was opening his mouth to protest, a firm voice spoke up from the booth’s entrance.

  “Try and act like a decent man for once in your life, Antoine,” the voice said. “If you insist on acting like a petulant little boy, I might have to ship you off to boarding school and off my payroll.”

  I whipped around to face the intervener, and nearly passed out on the spot. I blinked toward the entrance of the booth, and felt like I was hallucinating. There, standing against the backdrop of the throbbing club, was Girard. My jaw hung open, my eyes must have been bulging halfway out of my head. Could it really be him, standing before me like it was the most everyday thing in the world? His eyes fell upon me, and I watched recognition spring into his gaze. His firm, shapely lips curved into a small smile as he looked down at me.

  “Well, hello,” he said amiably, his tone shifting drastically from chiding to friendly.

  “Hi...” I managed feebly. I was utterly taken back, and couldn’t quite convince myself that he was actually here. I’d built Girard up like a demigod in my imagination after what had happened on the train. I half expected him to disappear in a cloud of smoke if I wasn’t careful.

  “Hello, gorgeous,” Ashlee giggled across the table. “What’s the story?”

  Girard raised his eyebrow at her. “The story?” he asked.

  “What’s your name?” Dara pressed, stirring her martini.

  “I’m Girard Remi,” he said. “The keeper of these louts. I’m sorry if they’ve been giving you trouble.”

  “Not at all,” Ashlee said, sidling up to her man.

  “Good,” Girard said, looking darkly at Antoine. “Except for you.”

  “What did I—?” Antoine started.

  “Don’t,” Girard cut in. “I know well enough what your treatment of women is like. You brag about your exploits well within ear shot of the entire office. Accidentally, I’m sure.”

  “Girard?” piped a voice behind him. I watched as Monica appeared at Girard’s elbow. Her eyes swept the booth and landed squarely on me. Her spotless brow furrowed ever-so-slightly, and I could tell that her contempt for me had only gotten finer with age. I smiled back at her, not one to be cowed by a pretty face or a bad attitude.

  “Look who it is!” Girard said warmly, gesturing my way.

  “Indeed,” Monica answered.

  “Wait,” Ashlee said, “Is this who you know from home?”

  “I...Um...” I stuttered, realizing that all eyes were suddenly on me. “I’m going to step outside for some fresh air.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Girard said as I staggered to my feet. “This club is full of touchy young men.”

  “I know,” Dara said. “Isn’t it great?”

  “Girard,” Monica said sternly. “We came here to celebrate as a company.”

  “So keep celebrating,” Girard said, “It looks like Antoine is lonely.”

  “Very,” Antoine said, pulling Monica down next to him in the booth. She shot a look of ice cold hatred my way before shoving her elbow into Antoine’s side.

  “Come on,” Girard said, “Let’s get that breath of air, shall we?”

  * * * * *

  Chapter Ten

  * * * * *

  He cupped my elbow in his hand, sending tendrils of warmth shooting up my arm. I felt my body respond to this simplest of touches in a way that it never had to anyone before. I looked quickly at Ashlee and Dara, who smiled supportively, if a bit confused. Girard guided me quickly away from the booth and down the stairs. He cut through the crowd as though it were nothing, his authoritative presence making it easy for him to navigate his way through. In no time at all, we had cleared the crowded dance hall and stepped out into the night. I breathed in deeply as the fresh air filled my lungs. I hadn’t realized just how oppressive the club had been until I was clear of it. Girard smiled down at me, and crossed his arms in front of his finely honed chest.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” he said.

  “Yeah,” I said, “I know, right?” I could have kicked myself for sounding like some North American teenager.

  “How did you end up in Paris?” he asked.

  “Oh. That interview I was heading to when you...You know. I got it!” I said.

  “That’s wonderful!” he exclaimed. “Excellent news. Where did you said it was?”

  “Corelli. The Paris office, of course,” I responded proudly.

  A look of genuine admiration passed across Girard’s features, and I could have jumped for joy. The fact that something I had accomplished was impressive enough to win this man’s esteem was almost too much to be believed. His entire presence was almost too much. Our chance encounter still felt more like a fever dream than anything el
se. How could this possibly be happening to me?

  “You look a little concerned,” Girard said. “I hope that Antoine didn’t say anything too offensive.”

  “Oh, no,” I said, smoothing down my dress nervously. “It’s just that I’m surprised to see it. It’s such a crazy coincidence.”

  “I don’t really believe in coincidence,” Girard smiled. “I prefer to think that everything happens for some kind of reason.”

  “Oh,” I said softly.

  “This is wild,” he said, “But I realized that I never even learned your name.”

  “It’s Madison,” I said, sticking out my hand. “Madison Cleary.”

  Girard took my hand in his and, instead of shaking it, brought it formally to his lips. His mouth brushed against my skin in the softest of kisses, and I could swear that my hand was a second away from bursting into flame.

  He smiled at me warmly and said, “It’s wonderful to see you again.”

  “You too,” I said. Miraculously, I no longer felt as though I was going to trip over my feet in this man’s presence. Every moment we spent in each other’s company, I felt more and more comfortable with him. It was as though we’d known each other for years, forever. There was a connection between us that I’d never experienced before, some link that made me feel more comfortable with him than I had ever been with anyone else. Even more so. I had no idea how to account for it, but I wasn’t ready to let it slip away unexplored.

  “Did you want to go back inside?” Girard asked.

  “Actually,” I said, “It was a bit too much for me. I might just walk home.”

  “Are you hungry at all?” he asked. “There’s a wonderful little cafe not far from here.”

  “That sounds lovely,” I said. He smiled and held out his arm to me. Feeling as though I stumbled into a fairy tale, I took it. We set off arm in arm down the boulevard, the street lamps casting long shadows all around us. Girard led me through the city, and it was clear that he knew these streets like the back of his hand. I stole glances at him, almost afraid to look him full in the face too often. He was so gorgeous that my eyes needed time to adjust to the sight of him. I was happy to have had a drink before running into him in this clandestine way. I don’t think I would have been able to put one word in front of the other, had I been sober. It didn’t hurt that Paris after dark can’t help but look like the most romantic place on earth.

  We rounded a bend and stopped in front of a tiny cafe that looked to have been plucked from centuries ago. Girard held the door open for me and ushered me in out of the night. There was one other couple in the cafe, huddled over a table in the back with their hands clasped firmly between them. The exposed brick walls were adorned with candle scones, and the air smelled sweet and savory all at the same time. We picked a table against the front window and sat down together. Girard looked even more handsome in the candlelight—the shadows of the room brought out the sharp, strong features of his face. I wondered what a passerby might think, spotting us. Would they think that Girard was slumming it with an average looking girl like me?

  I pushed the self deprecating thought of out my mind as the waiter appeared. Girard ordered us cappuccinos and croissants, then turned his attention squarely back to me.

  “Will you stay in Paris, now that you’re here?” he asked. “I do hope you say yes.”

  “I’m actually headed back to New York in a couple of weeks,” I said. “I’m studying at NYU.”

  “Ah,” he said, “I see. Well, we’ll just have to make this time count.”

  “I suppose we will,” I said. “Your, uh, employee said that you were celebrating some big acquisition?”

  “Oh, yes,” Girard said. “Those kids get so excited about making money. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t even expecting the company to take off. I started it with the money I made serving in the Foreign Legion, wages and bonuses, nothing much.”

  “You were in the military?” I asked.

  “Yes, I was,” Girard said. “That’s why I reacted the way I did when you were being harassed on the train. I can’t stand by if someone is in danger. Especially not an innocent civilian as beautiful as yourself.”

  It made perfect sense. He’d handled that situation professionally, with a cool head. I was even more impressed upon hearing where that training had come from. “So you’re an accidental millionaire?” I asked.

  “I wouldn’t say accidental,” Girard smiled. “I’ve done very well for myself, it’s true. But money has never been the most important thing in my life.”

  “Well, that’s because you have it,” I said jokingly.

  “I didn’t always,” Girard said. “I grew up very poor, actually.”

  “So did I,” I said softly. “Well, technically I’m still poor. I managed to get away without paying student loans, thank god, but once I’m out of school it’s going to be an interesting ride.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be fine,” Girard said, “You managed to get a job at Corelli. That’s not nothing.”

  The waiter returned with our order, placed the little foaming cups and flaky pastries down before us. Girard broke off a piece of croissant and held it out toward me. It took me a moment to realize that he was offering it to me. I suffered a little moment of indecision. Should I pluck it out of his fingers and take it with my teeth? Would he think me incredibly forward if I went with the latter? Maybe I’d been misreading all his signals and he was just being nice to me as a friend.

  But then I remembered that I was in Paris in the summer of my twenty-third year, and that an unbelievably handsome good samaritan was sitting across from me with a charming smile on his face. Perhaps I was also emboldened by the Martinis I had been polishing off back at the club.

  Fuck it, I thought, and leaned forward. I ate the pastry from his hand, looking into his eyes and I closed my teeth down on it. I lingered there for just a moment before leaning back. The croissant melted in my mouth, the buttery flakes were absolutely delicious. But the bite was not nearly as delicious as the man that had offered it. I smiled across the table at him, and he returned my gaze. It felt as though we’d come to an understanding, and perhaps we had.

  “Tell me more about yourself,” he prompted, taking a sip of his cappuccino.

  “Well,” I said, “I’m from Pennsylvania, originally. I share an apartment on the Lower East Side with my friends Ashlee and Dara. They were with me at the club—the ones flirting shamelessly with you. I’m studying international marketing at NYU. I love to run, especially in the morning. I love the arts—theatre, film, museums. I wish I could play the violin.”

  “Maybe your boyfriend could buy you some lessons?” Girard suggested. We grinned at the inelegant segue.

  “I don’t have a boyfriend,” I clarified, my heart pounding.

  “That’s good,” Girard said.

  “Will your wife mind your taking me out so late at night?” I replied.

  “She might if she existed,” Girard answered.

  “How about your girlfriend?”

  “Haven’t got one.”

  “How about Monica,” I said pointedly.

  “She’ll have more fun busting balls at the club than she would chaperoning us, I’m sure,” Girard said. I was glad that her hold on him didn’t seem to be as strong as I’d feared. Still, the look in her eye as we’d walked away at the club...there was something I didn’t trust about her.

  We finished up our treats, chatting about anything and everything that came to mind. I found myself talking to Girard like an old friend, rather than as a supplicant to a god. Even though I’d spent all those months building him up into a towering figure in my imagination, he was turning out to be an even better companion in real life. He was utterly unpretentious, confident but not cocky, and seemed to be genuinely interested in the things I had to say. In short, he seemed far too good to be true. We picked ourselves up to leave, thanked the waiter, and headed back out into the night.

  “I suppose I’ll be turning in,” I s
aid.

  “Let me walk you,” Girard replied.

  “Sure,” I said, and took his arm once more. As we tripped along the darkened streets, I looked up at his perfect profile in wonder. As I gazed at him, a sudden thought bombarded my mind. When we arrived at my loft, would I ask him up? Was that even something that I knew how to do? I had certainly never done it before. Was there some kind of protocol that I was supposed to follow for situations like this?

  I worried all the way back to my front door, my mind reeling with what in the world I was supposed to do next. We stopped on the sidewalk in front of my apartment and fell silent. In a crisis of indecision, I looked up into Girard’s eyes. He was returning my gaze with those deep, intelligent eyes. As inexperienced as I was, I could see the desire welling in them. A throbbing need began to pulse through my body—it was a sensation I had never felt before. As I opened my mouth to stutter something or other, Girard brought his lips down hard upon mine.

  The kiss was intense, searching, and masterful. Girard’s strong mouth pushed mine open, and I happily matched my movements to his. His sure tongue stroked mine, and I felt as though I could drown in that single moment. We stood together on the darkened street, losing ourselves in this miraculous contact, this clandestine kiss. I grabbed hold of his lapels, surprised by my gumption, and flicked my tongue against his. A tiny little shudder ran through his body, and I felt like I would have let him take me right there on the sidewalk.

  But instead, we broke apart. Girard looked down at me intently, and smiled when he saw my eager and happy expression.

  “Madison,” Girard said. “I know that you’re only in Paris for a short while longer, but I would like it very much if you would spend that short while with me.”

  “Yes,” I said, “Of course.”

  He produced his phone and asked me to punch in my number. I did so with relish, my fingers shaking on the keypad. He tucked the gadget back into his pocket and lay a kiss upon my cheek.

  “Goodnight Madison,” he said, turning away, “Sleep well.”