Reach for the Stars Page 17

  The agitated appeal of getting back to being carefree with Layla gnawed at him. The desire to hold her close and explain how he felt without words consumed him. He was impatient to be alone with her at the hotel and lock out the world.

  ‘What do you say we give these security people the slip and go hang the do not disturb sign on the door handle of our hotel suite?’ she whispered.

  ‘I can’t believe you said that,’ he murmured back. ‘You read my thoughts exactly.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Hot water would be coursing over his body, little rivers forming in the crooks of his arms, beads of moisture spattering his rock hard muscles. She was tempted to strip off and jump in the shower with him. Throwing herself wholeheartedly into enjoying his gorgeous hotness had been the ideal answer to her troubles. And sex was the best way she knew to make him calm. It was magic. She couldn’t get enough of his relaxed, lazy smile, his kisses, and the way he held her tight in his arms. She wanted to get back to what they did best – being each other’s ultimate distraction from life’s problems.

  The up-market, elegantly art nouveau hotel had bags of character and Layla loved it. Grand and imposing, it sat in a wide, tree-lined boulevard a couple of blocks from the Eiffel Tower. With its tall, shuttered windows and twisted wrought iron balconies, the hotel oozed old-fashioned charm. She kicked off her shoes and lazed on a chaise longue covered in kingfisher blue velvet in the sitting room of the superb suite. She spread her fingers and pressed her palm into the smooth fabric. When she lifted it away she’d left a handprint in the pile. Fidgety, she made another, and another. Brushing her fingers over the soft velvet to erase the marks she sprang to her feet and walked over to the window to see what was happening in the street. The evening sun beat down, creating pools of dark shadow on the pavement beneath the evenly spaced trees. Cars crawled towards the roundabout at the top of the road, and Parisians – effortlessly chic at the end of a stiflingly hot workday – marched to the Metro entrance. Behind the office block across the street she could just see the top of the tower. She wished she could magic up a bright idea to desensitize his fear of being photographed up there.

  Turning her back on the window she picked up the boutique gin and tonic Nick had ordered from the hotel’s cocktail menu. She raised the glass to her lips and an ice-cube slipped into her mouth. She kept the ice on her tongue, liking the cooling sensation as it melted. It slid down her throat and she sipped the drink. The heavenly flavours of Provençale summer herbs, wild thyme, lavender and rosemary, all handpicked on a sundrenched mountainside, swirled across her taste buds.

  She bit down hard on her lip. She’d gone from forgotten almost-fiancée to fabulous fling with a film star and she’d come close to ruining it all because of a thoughtless throwaway remark. He felt he’d told her too much. It wasn’t just confusing, she felt bruised. He didn’t fully trust her. Each time he’d opened up to her about himself, he’d shut right down again, the things he’d shared gone, as if not speaking about them meant they didn’t exist. Complex should be his middle name. He had unfathomable things going on beneath the surface and away from Porthkara she was out of her comfort zone.

  She set down her drink, and pondered the world outside the window. Had he just been using her to hide from himself? That wasn’t fair. She had no right to hold a grudge for him treating her the same way she’d treated him.

  A sharp knock on the door rang out above the sound of the power shower streaming jets of water over Nick’s body, bringing her back to reality and cancelling out her thoughts of leaping into the excellently-large and easily-big-enough-for-two shower cubicle. She quickly opened the door and a uniformed bellboy practically stumbled into the room overloaded with bags with designer labels on.

  ‘Bonsoir Madame …’ His eyes flicked to her left hand where there was obviously no wedding ring and he ahem-ed self-consciously, adding ‘… Mademoiselle’ with a flirtatious smile. ‘I’ve brought the things Monsieur has ordered for you.’

  ‘For me?’ He nodded deferentially, so she took the things he held out to her and stood trance-like, puzzled and waiting for him to leave.

  ‘The concierge asked me to tell Monsieur that he got the tickets. You can collect them from the box office.’

  Tickets? Tickets for what?

  ‘Oh right,’ she said, attempting to look like she knew what all this was about.

  The bellboy turned on his heels and strode out closing the door quietly behind him.

  She opened a bag with a French designer name on it and, ripping into the rustling tissue paper inside, pulled out the most amazing deep green dress. Drop-dead-gorgeous shoes followed from the next bag. ‘Ooh là là!’

  ‘You like?’

  She spun around to find Nick watching her intently from the doorway. He looked divine. All tanned skin and wet hair, hard jawline, temptingly freshly shaved. Ooh là là. Again. She liked that his compelling smile was back on his face, even though he was being mute and mysterious about the ‘I-have-a-child-I-didn’t-know-about’ revelation.

  ‘I love!’ She laughed. Making up her mind to accept his regret over telling her things about his life, and forget all about it, she added, ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘The opera and dinner,’ he drawled. ‘I’m taking us to see La Bohème.’ Suddenly self-conscious he ran a hand over the back of his head. ‘Do you like opera?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She bit her lip. ‘I’ve never been.’

  ‘Me neither. It’ll be a first for both of us.’

  ‘Another one,’ she hinted, deliberately a shade coquette.

  ‘I figured it might be …’ He felled her with a smouldering look. ‘… Romantic?’

  His far-too-bewitchingly-sexy smile curved impossibly wider across his lips. Electricity fizzled in the air, and they burst out laughing simultaneously.

  Failing to control her eruption into fits of giggles, she managed to gasp, ‘Great!’

  ‘You realize I’m attempting to inject some romance into the weekend?’

  Layla had realized which was why she was laughing so hard. ‘I’m sorry,’ she spluttered.

  ‘Ludicrous idea, right?’ He answered his own question. ‘Frankly preposterous.’

  Fighting her laughter, which was more tension than a rejection of his romance initiative, she said, ‘It’s a lovely idea.’ Her giggles under control she added, ‘And you definitely get points for effort!’ She held up the shoes and dress questioningly. ‘And these?’

  ‘I remembered your sizes from the things you wore to the party in Porthkara. The concierge did the rest. I asked him to use a personal shopper. I hope you don’t mind.’

  Mind?

  ‘Of course not.’ She set them down carefully like they were the crown jewels. ‘Why would I mind?’

  ‘I don’t want you to think I’m being controlling.’

  ‘Aren’t you though? Just a tiny bit? I mean this dress is fab but it’s suspiciously similar to the one I was wearing the night we met.’

  ‘You did something to me that night. I knew it at the time. But I didn’t know how much it mattered.’ He gulped. For a hesitant moment he froze in silence like he’d literally swallowed his words. His smile twisted back across his lips. ‘You can’t blame a guy for wanting to hold onto a special moment in time.’

  She walked over to Nick, stood on tiptoes and kissed him. As his head lowered, wet strands of hair fell forward into her face. He returned the kiss, slowly exploring her mouth. Her stomach flipped as he whispered hotly against her ear. ‘I can have the dress sent back if you don’t like it.’ His mouth recaptured hers and he kissed her so deeply that she tingled everywhere from her hair roots to the tips of her fingers and toes. It couldn’t be any clearer that he was still into her, despite the fact he’d drawn a firm line in the emotional sands.

  ‘The dress is out of this world!’ Thrilled by him and the anticipation of the night he had planned she broke away, breathless. ‘I’d better go get ready.’

  Beneath t
he white towel around his waist he’d hardened the microsecond her lips touched his. ‘Go,’ he groaned, ‘Go, or we’ll miss the overture and they won’t let us in until after the interval and all the concierge’s efforts will have been wasted.’

  With a mammoth effort of her own she reluctantly extricated herself from the arms banded round her, holding her close.

  ‘By the way,’ she threw him an over her shoulder look as she scurried away to change. ‘You’re out of this world too!’

  It was obvious to Nick that the concierge was suppressing a wry sneer when he called down and asked him if the car he’d ordered was ready. ‘Oui Monsieur,’ he said curtly. ‘Your car is here.’

  ‘Please ask the driver to wait.’

  ‘Très bien Monsieur.’

  So much for delivering romance! It had seemed like a good idea for all of about five minutes. They’d nearly split their sides laughing. He winced. Let’s face it! Even the concierge doesn’t think I can deliver.

  He was low on romance, big on physical heat. Her body next to his had the power to drive him out of control. What she did to him was insane. But much more than that, she was important, she deserved the loveliest things, and he wanted her to know how he felt.

  He flicked an impatient look at his watch. She was doing her make-up. How long could it take?

  When she finally made an appearance, she was a walking artwork, enough to send his temperature soaring inappropriately all over again. She looked absolutely stunning.

  The limo was waiting to take them across the river to the Palais Garnier. And yet he wanted to press pause, freeze the moment – splice it into his memory where he could hold onto her image forever. He wanted her just for him.

  With Layla, his history had stopped mattering. Happy in the moment he’d forgotten the player with a past, the games he’d played with the press, the flirting with flight attendants, the hook-ups with women on set. She’d eclipsed the emptiness of his world.

  Everything that went before had brought him to this time and place with this woman. She was an escape from the shallowness of Toni, the heartache of Fran.

  She picked up the matching clutch bag he’d ordered and turned, fiddling with the clasp on her charm bracelet. Fixed in a knot at the back of her neck, and held fast with a handmade silver clip encrusted with shimmering precious stones, her red hair shone. She set his senses on fire. So strong was the urge to drag her into his arms, unclip her hair and let it tumble onto her shoulders, crush her lips with his and hold her close, that suddenly his hands felt awkward. He plunged them deep into his pockets.

  ‘What do you think? Will I fit in at the opera?’ Catching his gaze with glittering dark eyes made up to dazzling effect, she added mockingly, ‘Or stick out like a sore thumb?’

  Her beautiful rich brown irises enticed him with their sparkle. She’d neither blend in nor stick out. She’d fascinate. ‘You’ll turn heads. You look amazing.’

  The shiny silver limo pulled up outside the Palais Garnier opera house. Suited and capped the driver held the door and in a little bit of a daze, Layla stepped carefully out to join her dream man. The fantastical building brimming with fashion conscious Parisians gave her butterflies. The one-off gala performance by a world-renowned soprano had attracted an elite audience. Nick must have paid a small fortune to get hold of last minute tickets. Goosebumps prickled her skin.

  Somebody pinch me.

  It was like walking onto the set of a glamorous film – and a long, long way from sleepy Porthkara.

  Her heart in her mouth, she willed herself not to trip when Nick placed his firm hand at the base of her spine and guided her towards the impressive sweeping marble staircase that led up to the opera boxes. Awed by the grandeur her nerves skittered and she struggled to remain poised as her high-heeled feet touched the bottom steps. Nick smiled his fabulous smile, his hand pressing closer, his touch revving up her self-confidence. The green silk shimmered beneath the light of the candelabras and collected admiring glances as she passed by chattering groups of sophisticated opera-goers. Way more attention-grabbing than anything she’d ever worn, the dress demanded to be seen. Inhaling deeply, she straightened her spine and held her head high. With the tuxedoed Nick by her side, tall, gorgeous, charmingly disarming, she got away with it – just.

  Reaching the top of the staircase they arrived in the palatial foyer without her having fallen over her feet and she heaved a sigh of relief. French chatter she barely understood a word of buzzed in her ears. The opera house was a feast of gold and gleaming light. She took in the mosaic floors and opulent columns stretching up to elaborate frescoes. Theatre box doors led to the auditorium. Nick cornered an usher and he pointed out which one they needed to take to find their seats.

  Nick close behind her, she stepped through a door like she was about to enter a wonderland – and stopped, stunned. She buzzed with amazement. The circular ceiling of the auditorium was a riot of colour. Spread out above the light of a huge crystal chandelier, it took her breath away.

  In astonished silence she gripped onto the back of one of the red velvet seats.

  ‘Words fail me,’ she gasped turning in time to catch him watching her, a flicker in his soft cheek muscle a striking contrast to his hard jawline. ‘Oh Nick, thank you.’ Somehow, she managed to breathe and speak at the same time. ‘I thought the gallery was awesome. But without a shadow of a doubt this has got to be the most romantic place I’ve ever seen.’

  Nick chuckled, and shot a winning smile at a long-faced woman impatiently waiting to get into the row where Layla had stopped, frozen in awe. He prized her fingers off the chair-back, gently squeezing her hand as he nudged her forward towards their seats. She couldn’t take her eyes off the painting. ‘The ceiling mural was painted by Chagall,’ he said. ‘Just so you know,’ he added, smiling broadly.

  When they took their places, she couldn’t contain her effusiveness, ‘If we leave now and I don’t see the opera, I’ll die happy.’

  He leaned close, his breath hot against her neck, the light in his eyes, soft, teasing. ‘Don’t exaggerate Layla,’ he whispered.

  ‘I’m not!’ She giggled. ‘I could sit here all night and just gaze at the ceiling. It’s fantastic.’

  ‘Here’s hoping that everything is fantastic. The orchestra. The music. The costumes. The performers.’ Nick crossed his fingers. The gesture was a nod to her fixation with things luck related. It gave her a funny lump in her throat which was in itself a piece of luck because it stopped her embarrassing herself by blurting out that – marvellous art and Marc Chagall ceiling mural aside – he was the most fantastic thing about Paris.

  By the time she was back in the bubble of the limo, gliding through the city streets en route to the restaurant he’d chosen for dinner, her head was awash with romance. She touched each of the charms on her bracelet and fidgeted with the clasp, which had come loose with all the opening and closing. The atmosphere inside the car was alive with the heat which raged between them as she rested her hand flat on the cool smooth leather seat. Her fingers almost twitched with the agonizing urge to touch him, resisting the burning temptation to kiss his lips and feel him kiss her back.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Sliding her fingers across the soft grey leather to connect with his, she was on the verge of telling Nick how badly she wanted him when the limo came to a stop outside a quirky, vintage-looking restaurant called Le Plein Soleil.

  Inside a woman with black wavy hair, gold hoop earrings and an antique watch chain looped around her neck showed them to a table at the back of the empty-ish restaurant. She had the air of a gypsy fortune teller. Layla wondered if she kept a crystal ball under the bar and did palm readings and tarot cards as a sideline when business was slack. She simmered in an invisible cloud of heavy scent, handed them menus with fingers that had neatly clipped, black-painted nails, and rattled off a list of specials. She had bright, beady, all-seeing eyes, and Layla couldn’t help noticing that she slightly resembled the caged mynah
bird at the corner of the bar which every now and then burst out with a few bars of La Vie En Rose.

  ‘What’s that weird bird whistling? Is it the French national anthem?’ Nick whispered.

  ‘No!’ Layla nearly snorted her champagne. ‘It’s La Vie En Rose. With the odd line from Je Ne Regrette Rien thrown in for good measure.’ The look on Nick’s face told her he was none the wiser.

  ‘When you’ve stopped splitting your seams you can help me out here and give me a clue,’ he said.

  ‘Edith Piaf,’ she enthused. ‘She was a famous French singer. There was a film about her life. Mum’s got the DVD.’

  Nick narrowed his eyes and straightened his knife and fork. ‘I’m not sure about this place. The concierge recommended it. I asked for somewhere quiet. But this place is a bit too quiet.’

  The tucked-away restaurant screamed retro. Yellow Tiffany-style shades hung low over the tables, illuminating them with a citrusy glow. The dark corners, the shabby carpet, worn in patches by the tread of many feet, the mirrored bar lined with golden-foiled bottles of celebration-ready fizz … she could almost imagine that if she stepped through the door to the kitchen she might slip into a time-warp. Completing the mashed-up retro feel, an eclectic mix of pictures decorated the walls. The one above Nick’s head shouted sixties style pop art – a giant plateful of spaghetti in psychedelic pinks and greens.

  Layla glanced around. ‘It’s certainly different,’ she protested. ‘I quite like it. To be fair to the concierge, it’s more interesting than dining on nouvelle cuisine in some minimalist upscale restaurant. But if you’re not keen we could pay for the champagne and do a runner.’

  ‘If you’re happy, I am too.’ Nick flicked a glance at the chalk board marked ‘Plats du Jour’. ‘Plus, I’m ravenous. And those specials look good.’

  Layla checked that all the staff were out of earshot and whispered, ‘Do you think the owner lady recognized you?’