French kiss (15 page)

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gazing out at the river -- turned abruptly toward Alexa. She froze when she saw the look on his face pure, scorching anger. His lips were curled into a snarl, and his hands were balled into fists.

As an aspiring photographer, Alexa knew that some people despised being caught off guard by a camera. But she'd never seen someone get
this
furious. Monsieur Bastard flung his cigarette into the water and, scowling, stormed over to her, muttering French curses under his breath. Instinctively, Alexa hugged her camera to her chest and took a fearful step back, bumping into one of the round stone benches that curved out of the bridge.

"Casse-toi,"
Cigarette Boy spat and, to Alexa's horror, clamped his hand around her wrist and wrested the camera out of her grasp. She noticed, in the brief moment that their hands touched, that his fingers were stained with paint.

"What do you think you're doing?" she demanded in French, grabbing for her camera, but he fended her off. Was she getting mugged
again?
Her palms were clammy and her heart was hammering; she and Cigarette Boy were the only people on the bridge. Beneath them, a Bateau-Mouche tour boat slid across the glittering water, but Alexa knew no one on board would hear her if she screamed. "I'm going to call the police!" Alexa threatened, her voice cracking, as she

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looked around helplessly for a pay phone. Why did she keep running into psychotic French guys whenever she was alone?

"Go ahead they're as
sick
of you stupid paparazzi as the rest of us," Cigarette Boy retorted, in machine-gun-fire French. He was opening the camera and yanking out her precious strips of amber-colored film. "If I end up in the tabloids once more --"

"Oh my God -- stop!" Alexa cried in French, swiping at his hand, which now contained the crumpled roll of film. She couldn't believe it. This first-class ass was going to pay -- big-time. "First of all, I'm
not
with the paparazzi," she hissed, narrowing her eyes at him. Insulting much? Alexa had always imagined that
she
would one day have her photograph snapped on the red carpet
never
the other way around. "And you'd better reimburse me for that film," she added.
If you can,
she thought, sizing up his scuffed boots, paint-splattered jeans, and stubbly jawline. Clearly, Cigarette Boy was some broke slacker.

Slowly, his eyes swept over Alexa's face, and his features softened. "So you don't you
don't
know who I am?" he asked quietly. Then, after a moment, he held the camera for Alexa to take back, but kept the film.

Alexa accepted the camera, confused. Something else Cigarette Boy had said now registered:
If lend up

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in the tabloids once more.
Alexa felt a chill rake through her. Could this scruffy young guy be ...
famous?
No way. Alexa read French
Vogue
every- month and considered herself very plugged in to Parisian pop culture. If Cigarette Boy was truly
someone,
she'd have recognized him, right?

Alexa studied his face: the cat-shaped, slate-gray eyes that were the same color as the water below the bridge; the tousled reddish-brown hair; the small jagged scar above his upper lip. He did seem achingly familiar, though, unlike Sven, he wasn't model-gorgeous enough to be on a billboard.
But he's definitely sexy,
Alexa thought, before she could stop herself. A rare blush warmed her cheeks.

"Who
are
you?" Alexa finally asked, still in French, her voice barely above a whisper.

Cigarette Boy looked down modestly, kicking a pebble with the toe of his dirty boot, sticking his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. "Xavier Pascal," he murmured in his deep, slightly raspy voice. "You know ... the painter?"

Alexa shook her head as her blush spread along her neck. She
didn't
know. It was true that in Europe, an up-and-coming young painter could garner as much flashbulb attention as a hot actor, but since Alexa no longer
lived
in Paris, she wasn't aware of any new art-world stars. Alexa felt a pang of humility; so

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much for fancying herself an expert on all things French.
Xavier Pascal.
She made a mental note of the name and decided to Google him at an Internet café or check his credentials with Raphi that evening.

Xavier glanced back up at her, the corner of his mouth lifting in a half-smile. "You are American,
oui?'"
he asked, suddenly switching to heavily accented, but undeniably charming, English.

Alexa gasped, almost dropping her camera. How had he
guessed?
She was confident that her French was more or less as flawless as it had been when she'd lived here. Was it only because she hadn't recognized his name? Talk about arrogant.

"What makes you say
that?"
Alexa demanded in stubborn French, tossing her blonde ponytail over one shoulder.

Xavier leveled her with his cool gray gaze, a smile still tugging at his lips. "Something about you," he said, in a soft, lilting English. He lifted his hand and, as if it contained an invisible paintbrush, waved it around Alexa. "Something about you told me: 'This is an American girl pretending to be a Frenchwoman.'"

Alexa felt her blush deepen and she glanced down, hating that this mysterious stranger had somehow pierced her surface. But, even if Xavier was a super-famous artist, she wasn't about to let him condescend to her like that.

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"Go to hell," she snapped, sticking to French, and turned on her heel, but Xavier's warm hand on her arm stopped her.

"Wait a minute," he said, switching back to French. "Your film." When Alexa faced Xavier, he was gesturing to the crumpled roll in his hand, looking apologetic. "Let me fix it?" he offered softly, his tilted cat's eyes sparkling.

"You know that's impossible," Alexa protested. She snatched the film from his grip -- noticing the feel of his fingers against hers -- and dropped the ruined roll into her Chloe bag, along with her camera.

"You won't even let me try?" Xavier teased, giving Alexa a slow, suggestive smile. "I'm an artist, you know. I'm good with my hands."

I bet you are,
Alexa thought, suppressing her own smile. She reminded herself that she was on a strict boy diet, but a tingling started low in her belly. Suddenly faint, she swayed on her cork-soled espadrilles, realizing she hadn't eaten anything that day except for
&pain au chocolat
after leaving the apartment. Backing up, Alexa sank down onto the curved bench behind her and took a deep breath.

"Are you all right?" Xavier asked carelessly. Without waiting for a response, he eased his lithe frame onto the same bench. Lazily, he stretched out his long legs,

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crossing them at the ankles, and reached into the front pocket of his jeans, pulling out a ragged pack of Gauloises. "I've been rude," he added, as he tapped two cigarettes into his palm. "You know
my
name, but yours remains a mystery." He placed one cigarette in his mouth, his eyes never leaving Alexa's face.

"It's Alexandria -- Alexa," she replied, fiddling with the buttons on Raphi's sweater. Last night, telling Sven her name hadn't been a big deal, but with Xavier, it felt almost sensual, as if she'd revealed a sliver of skin to him.

"The pleasure is all mine," Xavier murmured and, instead of extending his hand, held out the other cigarette toward her. Alexa hesitated, but then found herself bending her head down and allowing Xavier to place the cigarette between her lips. That, too, felt incredibly sensual. Xavier lit his cigarette first, then hers, cupping the flame against the wind. Alexa took a quick drag of the Gauloise, tasting the burn. Unlike Portia, she'd never been an accomplished smoker.

As Alexa fought down a cough, she thought she saw Xavier's lips twitch with laughter; he seemed to notice everything.
A true artist,
Alexa thought. And it was in that moment, as Xavier regarded her with his laughing cat's eyes, that Alexa suddenly realized why he seemed familiar to her. She
had
seen Xavier once

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before -- that Saturday afternoon when she and Diego had gone to Montmartre, and she'd made serious eye contact with a scruffy sketcher. Yes, he looked different in a dark raggedy sweater, as opposed to the black T-shirt and disguising hat he'd worn then, but he was without a doubt the same intriguing stranger.

Was it kismet that they'd reconnected today? Alexa's stomach jumped at the thought.

"I'm curious, Alexa," Xavier was musing aloud in French, resting one elbow on the back of the bench and pinching a flake of tobacco off his tongue. "If you didn't know who I was, why were you taking my picture?"

Alexa took another drag, realizing that Xavier, of all people,
would
understand what she'd been doing that afternoon. So, as they sat smoking on the intimate bench on the lamp-lined bridge -- with only the occasional car driving past or couple strolling by -- Alexa explained her love of photography, and Xavier in turn talked about painting. Feeling reckless, Alexa told Xavier about seeing him in Montmartre, and he, half-smiling, said he did remember a beautiful blonde girl crossing his path. But since he spent a lot of time sketching there -- soaking up the gritty vibe and getting back in touch with his struggling-artist roots -- it was hard to keep track of the passersby.

"But I won't forget you now," Xavier murmured,

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slowly tracing the pad of his thumb along Alexa's cheek. Her breath catching, Alexa turned toward him, wondering if -- hoping that -- he would kiss her. She knew she was supposed to be resisting all boys, and that she'd only just met Xavier, but Alexa was suddenly dying to feel his mouth on hers. Normally, she might have even made the first move, but somehow, she felt that Xavier had the upper hand here.

There was no kissing
yet,
but, their talking on the bridge flowed into their walking across it, to the He de la Cité, where the ancient spires of the Notre Dame cathedral rose overhead. Xavier insisted on treating Alexa to lunch to make up for the film (which Alexa no longer gave a damn about). Over steaming bowls of bouillabaisse and icy bottles of beer at a tucked-away
brasserie --
where their waitress kept shooting shy, admiring glances at Xavier -- they finished Xavier's pack of Gauloises and covered the basics. Alexa confessed to being American -- but Paris-born and college-bound. Xavier, smirking behind a haze of smoke, told Alexa he was twenty-one, had been a wild child growing up on the French Riviera, and dropped out of high school to paint full time. Fresh off her Mr. Princeton experience, Alexa found the idea of a high school dropout exceedingly hot.

After lunch, she and Xavier strolled languidly through a nearby leafy-green park, the backs of their

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hands touching. Alexa was wondering how they could extend their dreamlike afternoon when Xavier's cell phone rang. As he removed it from the back pocket of his jeans, Alexa -- with a jolt -- remembered Holly.

I was supposed to call her!
she realized, glancing guiltily down at her watch. It was after five o'clock; by now, Pierre must have met up with some friends, and poor Holly was probably alone in the apartment, weepily waiting for Alexa to show up. Alexa noticed a Métro sign up ahead and figured she should hop on a train to go home. But one glance into Xavier's striking face as he frowned down at the caller ID expelled all thoughts of Holly. Alexa didn't care how bad a friend she was being -- she couldn't even
consider
leaving this boy just yet.

Xavier answered with a gruff
"Allô?"
and then muttered a series of brusque
ouis
and
nons
before clicking off.

"Who was that?" Alexa asked, intrigued.
Another artist? A gallery owner?
She had to admit she
was
a little starstruck by Xavier; many people they'd passed today had gawked at him, or pointed and whispered.

"Just bullshit," Xavier replied in English -- they'd been switching back and forth all afternoon. Then he stopped walking, let out a sigh, and regarded Alexa seriously. "But I'm afraid I do need to run. Stupid obligations ..."

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Alexa bit her lip, trying not to show her disappointment. So this was it. She'd get on that Métro and go back to Le Marais, the painter on the bridge remaining only a surreal memory. But then, before she knew it, Xavier was moving closer to her, hooking his thumbs through the belt loops of her jeans, and drawing Alexa in.
Finally,
Alexa thought, melting at his nearness. She ran her hands down his sinewy arms, breathing in his scent -- a musky mix of cigarettes and paint. The fact that the guy who was pressing her to his chest was the same one who'd viciously yanked the camera from her grip earlier that day gave Alexa a twisted little thrill; she liked knowing Xavier had a bad-boy streak in him even as his lips were caressing her neck.

"I have to see you again," he murmured in French, his breath hot against her ear. "Tomorrow night." It wasn't a question.

"Tomorrow night," Alexa echoed, wondering how she'd be able to live until then.

"Give me a pen," Xavier instructed softly. He didn't even bother to ask if Alexa
had
one, but fortunately she did though she had to reluctantly pull back from Xavier's embrace to fish the ballpoint out of her Chloe bag. Handing the pen to Xavier, she watched, mesmerized, as he turned her hand over in his -- making her shiver at his touch and wrote into her fair skin, like a tattoo, the bold letter
X,
followed by what