The Little Antique Shop Under the Eiffel Tower (22 page)

Maman wandered from the kitchen with a tea towel over her shoulder. “Are you going to answer that?” She indicated the door.

Before I could answer Henry wrenched it open, revealing a smiling Tristan. Oh God, I hadn’t had a moment to even think about him and where he might be.

“What can I do for you, Tristan?”
Oh, the dinner date!
His visit to the shop seemed like a lifetime ago. What an interminable day.

Mortification colored me scarlet, as I pictured the mess behind me. A girl still had her pride, and I didn’t want to be thought of living shambolically, no matter who it was. If I closed my eyes would this all disappear? When he’d arrived the last time, the apartment had been tidy, and now it was anything but.

He wandered in, nodding to Henry, and Maman.

“You’re early,” I said. I tried to don a serene expression but was feeling as tense as a coiled snake. Had he even mentioned a time? My mind was scattered like marbles, and I had no time to collect myself.

Maman popped on her spectacles, and leaned forward taking a good, hard look at him. I could see the cogs whirling inside her brain. Her glance flicked to me, and then back to him as a slow smile settled across her face. “Ma chérie! You have a beau?
Finally
!” She had attempted to whisper but the words carried around the room. She was most likely planning grandbabies already.

I cringed. Now he’d know I was living in squalor
and
I was desperately single. “He’s not a beau…”

He cleared his throat. “No? Aren’t we going on a date?” His eyes were shiny with mirth as though he was thoroughly enjoying the spectacle that was my life.

“We’re going out for dinner.” But I caught myself before saying anymore. If I wanted to get him to talk I had to act natural.

With a silky smile he moved to Maman, taking her hand and giving it a quick kiss as though he was some kind of gentleman. Which he wasn’t. He was a thief. And a crafty one at that. I held in a groan as Maman’s cheeks flushed. He had that same magnetism over everyone.

She nodded in my direction. “I’m glad she has a beau. All she does is work, work, work, and lives like a hermit. No real friends to speak of. Well, there’s Madame, but even she has a busier social life than Anouk. For a while I thought maybe she’d end up alone…”

“That’s enough, Maman.” For a woman who was usually reserved she sure was speaking a lot.

“What?” she said, perplexed. “It’s true. You can’t make love to a piece of jewelry, can you?”

“Maman!” My skin went puce from my toes right up to my forehead. “Excuse my maman,” I said. “She’s not herself at the moment.” Who was this woman?

He laughed. “Can I take you out for a drink before dinner?”

“No. I’m busy, I have things that need to be sorted out –”

I had to phone Papa and start putting the idea of romance into his mind. Get rid of Henry, explain to Lilou he was creeping around in a suspect way, and figure out how I was going to catch Tristan… And now, have a serious word to Maman about appropriate things to say to strangers. Whew.

“She’s not busy at all. A girl can only read the marriage announcements so many times before she dies of a broken heart!” Maman gave me a pointed look.

I wanted to dissolve into the carpet. So, I liked reading the marriage announcements? Was that a crime? It was nice to know there were couples who’d found their happy-ever-after. It wasn’t as though I cried reading them, well once or twice, maybe, but not every single time.

Maman hurried on. “Take her. Put that sparkle back in her eyes!” I had an awful feeling Maman had indulged in the cooking wine…

Lilou walked in through, arms full of boxes. “Well hello, gorgeous,” she said. “It’s Prince Charming, come to rescue me from the wicked sister!” She dumped her things on the dining room table.

“Lilou! Please!” What must he think? I risked a peek at him from under my lashes, and was surprised to find he seemed bemused rather than offended by my suddenly crazy family.

“What?” my sister said, confusion lining her face. “Oh! You cunning little fox! You
do
have a new boyfriend.” She clapped her hands. “You’ve kept that very quiet.”

Her face was flushed with happiness for me as if I’d just announced I was getting married or something equally amazing. “Some secrets are worth keeping, aren’t they, Anouk?” She grinned.

“Yes,” I said, hoping she’d leave it at that.

“We all have secrets.” A small smile played at the corners of Tristan’s mouth and he took the liberty of drifting around the living room picking knickknacks up, and scrutinizing them before moving on. “It’s human nature.”

The air in the room hummed as though too much had been said. I didn’t like being spoken about as if I wasn’t there. Maybe I just wasn’t ready to hear what they thought of my situation in case I agreed with them.

When Tristan came to my bookshelves he dropped to his knees and bent his head sideways to read the spines. “Crime novels? I wouldn’t have pegged you for that.”

I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing they were Joshua’s. Let him think that I’d done plenty of research when it came to catching a thief. “Yes,” I said, huffily. “There’s nothing better than reading about criminals,
especially
when they get caught.”

He ignored me and went back the books. “
The Jewel Heist
?” He pointed to a book. No doubt it would read more like nonfiction to him.

“Read it have you?” I asked pointedly.

“What’s for dinner?” Henry said blithely.

Before my head exploded I said, “Let’s get that drink, Tristan.”

Chapter Nineteen

In the twilight, I could think rationally, as Tristan and I walked sharing a silence. What my family said had touched a nerve. Did they really worry I’d end up all alone? That my lack of friends was because I felt I couldn’t trust anyone?

Friendships had been a struggle as my shop took over my life. But I was happy, wasn’t I? Subsisting on the thrill of securing treasures from the past was enough. I had Madame Dupont – we shared breakfast and gossiped. Oceane was also a friend. We sometimes sat by the bank of the Seine and drank wine. Now we were going to have a girls’ night out sometime. That was a full and rich life.

It wasn’t as though I hadn’t tried with men. The idea of love wasn’t repellant. I was just a little bruised after my last brush and now I was potentially semi-dating a jewel thief.

At the ripe old age of twenty-eight I still had plenty of time. Love chose us, not the other way around, so while I waited, I’d kept busy, just like always. I’d set goals, and achieved them. The man next to me was a perfect example of why I had to protect myself. A girl could easily fall for his wily charms, but it was a smokescreen. It dawned on me I was walking next to my enemy, someone who wanted to rob France of its glory, yet, it didn’t feel quite that way. He was good at his role, damn him. To stave off a month of crying into my pillow, if he
was
a big, fat liar, I had to step carefully.

Tristan took his jacket off and slung it over his shoulder.

Our footsteps echoed on the cobblestones as we strode side by side. “Your family is great. Lots of fun,” he said with a chuckle, shaking his head.

I gawped openly at him to make sure he wasn’t being sarcastic. “I think they’re suffering heat stroke.”

He threw his head back and laughed. “Possibly, summer
is
just around the corner. They’re looking out for you; it’s sweet.”

My shoulders relaxed a little. “It’s usually only me and my soup bowl.” May as well admit I talk to inanimate things. “So I’m finding it a little suffocating having so many people staying. My life is usually…sedate, quieter. I’m not used to so much noise, and mess. Chaos.”

“You’re good to those around you. Not just your family, but others too. Everyone talks about you and your little shop.”

He stopped and lifted my chin with a finger. My heart pumped so loud I thought he’d hear it. Slivers of moonlight shone between us as I tried desperately to remember he could be the bad guy. He wouldn’t think I was such a sweet person if he knew I was considering him a criminal, and debating what I’d do if he was. I was mute, lost in the blue of his eyes.

He gave me a penetrating look, as though he was debating what to say. “Why do you do it?”

“Do what? Work?” Did he not understand most of us had to work in order to live? He’d obviously become so enmeshed in the glitzy glamor of his high-flying life, he’d forgotten how real people survived – by hard work.

His hand dropped to his side. The cleft of my chin still buzzed from his touch.

“Nothing.” The mask slipped back on. “Nothing. Let’s get that drink.”

Flummoxed, I followed him into a softly lit book-themed wine bar. Benches were made from stacks of old hardbacks with a length of polished wood across the top to sit on. Walls were scribbled with passages from books written about Paris. Writers who’d fallen in love with the city and gone on to write fiction about it. Paris had burrowed under their skin and they never really recovered from it. My favorite was a quote from Hemingway’s
A Moveable Feast
.

Even though the late, great Hemingway had loved this place, life went on without him, or perhaps
with
the shadow of him, as we still lived vicariously through his economical prose, getting lost in his musings about Paris in the twenties, a time I wished I could transport myself back to.

Tristan found a table in a dimly lit corner, and hung his jacket over the back of the seat.

“This place is amazing,” he said. His American accent rang out in the small space. “Makes me want to read their books again.” Smiling, he pointed to a quote by F Scott Fitzgerald.

“American literati have always loved Paris.”

“Americans in general love Paris, especially this one.” We sat, and stared at one another for too long to be comfortable. With candlelight throwing shadows, it was almost possible to forget that I was sitting across from a thief, and instead I pretended for one lonely minute that he was a man with a good heart, and a romantic soul. Someone to love and be loved by. Until reality struck… Perhaps I was under too much stress:
to love and be loved by?
More likely my subconscious was reeling because everyone I held dear thought I was going to end up living an empty life and had only just thought to mention it to me. In front of Tristan.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “You look so sad of all a sudden.”

I blinked the worry away. “It’s nice to…” I stiffened.
Don’t say to be out with a man!
“It’s nice to re-read books you love,” I finished lamely. It was difficult being spy-like around him. It was as though any reasonable thought vanished from my mind, and my mouth moved of its own accord. It was the intensity in his gaze, and the curve of his lips, like he was always on the cusp of smiling that special smile, the non-rehearsed one.

“Champagne?” he asked.

“Oui.”

Tristan motioned for the waiter and ordered a rare vintage. Reality came crashing into my subconscious. The champagne he’d ordered was expensive. No doubt funded by the money he’d made from selling the stolen antiques. Stolen
French
antiques. And here I was about to sip from the fruits of theft. Did that make me an accomplice? Would the champagne taste like betrayal? The thought was enough to make me switch on, and remember my mission. Get him to talk. Refill his glass until he was a step away from inebriated. Not my usual style, but needs must.

The waiter carried the bottle over, held aloft on a silver serving tray. He uncorked it with a flourish and poured slowly, allowing the froth to settle as bubbles raced up the flutes.

“Cheers,” I said, holding my glass up. We clinked, and he gave me one of those winks. Honestly. He was so American.

“To new friends,” I said.

He ran a hand through his hair, which shone under the lights making him seem almost angelic. Innocent, even. “To new friends.”

I took a deep gulp, and urged him with my eyes to do the same. How much would he have to drink before his tongue loosened and he fessed up? His eyes locked with mine, recognizing the challenge and he took a long sip, smacking his lips exaggeratedly. “Thirsty?”

“Very,” I said.

“Bottoms up.”

Bottoms up?
Was he propositioning me?

He must’ve seen my jaw clench because he said, “It’s an expression, the bottom of the glass, not your actual…derrière.”

“Oh,” I managed, hoping the blush creeping up my neck wasn’t visible under the moody lighting. “Bottoms up.” We clinked again, and drank the remnants of champagne in our flutes.

Hastily, I refilled his, pouring clumsily, foam rising up and threatening to spill over. While I waited for it to subside, I filled mine more slowly. We sculled again, drawing worried glances from the waiter who was no doubt bamboozled as to why we were quaffing a three-hundred Euro bottle of champagne like it was water.

My stomach rumbled, reminding me I hadn’t yet eaten dinner. It was almost a sin for a Parisian to drink alcohol without a meal. If it wasn’t a formal sit-down dinner, if wine was served so were canapés. Wine and food were painstakingly paired up, and enjoyed. But if we ate it would slow the conversation down. Just this once, I’d have to forgo my French values.

“I haven’t met anyone like you before,” he said, giving me a slow once-over that made me squirm. “There’s so many layers to you.”

“You make me sound like a cake.”

“A very sweet one,” he said, laughing. “I thought I knew what your life consisted of, but there’s a lot more to it. I suppose we never really know everything about a person, do we?”

He meant my family, and their genuine worry I was one step away from a cat-lady, obviously. “OK, you’re right. I mean, there’s things no one knows about me.” I tried my best to appear beguiling, channeling every French actress I could think of. A quick glance over my shoulder to make sure no one was eavesdropping. That’s what guilty people did, didn’t they? If I acted a touch shady, perhaps he’d share his underworld dealings. “But you’d probably run out of here if you knew.”

He sat up straighter. “What kind of things?”