Lovers in Paris Read online

  Lovers in Paris

  French Kiss : Book 2

  Allie Hayden

  Copyright © 2019 by Allie Hayden

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Acknowledgments

  Make sure to check out Allie Hayden on her website or any of the social media platforms below

  AllieHayden.com

  Author Central

  Facebook

  Instagram

  Join the mailing list for up to date news and special offers

  Mailing List

  Also by Allie Hayden

  Second Time Hating You

  Off Limits

  Deja Vu

  Once More

  Hard Rock Love: A Second Chance Rockstar Romance Box Set

  Contingency Plan

  Dirty Vows

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Allie Hayden

  1. (Cecilia)

  2. (Cecilia)

  3. (Cecilia)

  4. (Cecilia)

  5. (Cecilia)

  6. (Cecilia)

  7. (Cecilia)

  8. (Cecilia)

  9. (Cecilia)

  10. (Cecilia)

  11. (Cecilia)

  12. (Cecilia)

  13. (Cecilia)

  14. (Cecilia)

  15. (Cecilia)

  16. (Cecilia)

  17. (Cecilia)

  18. (Cecilia)

  19. (Cecilia)

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Allie Hayden

  Bonus: Chapter 1

  Notes

  Chapter 1

  (Cecilia)

  Darius had taken me on a shopping spree a few days ago, and I had finally bought some clothes that matched my temperament. One I had chosen last night was this beautiful silk nightgown, revealing and sexy, appropriate to my new sensuality.

  I wore it for Darius because I knew it would not fail to make him amorous. And I was a little nervous and excited because today was to be the first rehearsal at my new job as second desk cello for the Avignon Symphony. Months had passed since I accepted the offer, and it looked like things were taking off for both Darius and I.

  My French was nowhere near good enough to get along, but I had been studying French for months on my own now. I felt better and better and more at home than I had ever felt in America.

  “Good morning, fairest one,” said Darius, coming through the door with a tray filled with coffee, juice, croissants fresh from the oven, and butter. I smiled broadly, feeling loved and complete. Then I threw off the bed covers and invited Darius to join me.

  “Dear god, you look beautiful today,” he said, admiring my figure.

  “My love, you even made breakfast!” I said.

  “Well, ‘made’ would be an exaggeration. Guillaumette made the croissants and the coffee, but I agree that I did pour the orange juice into glasses, which takes effort.”

  Darius was everything I ever wanted in a man. A beautiful, sensitive, and creative soul whose first book, The Discovery of a New World, had wowed critics and begun to sell well in America.

  “So, I got a message from Amanda Hamilton at Knopf today,” said Darius, jumping onto the bed beside me, and wrapping his powerful arms around me. “She wants me to go on a book tour of the U.S. What do you think? Can you come with me? It would be an adventure!”

  “That’s amazing! You’ll be brilliant!” I said.

  “I know! And I have this amazing idea: you come with me and play the cello while I read. Nobody’s ever done anything like it, and my writing is all about the cello. Imagine you playing the Bach solo cello suites while I read about a cellist. Tell me you’ll come with me and change the world?”

  I sat on the bed, eating this perfect croissant and imagining the beauty he just described. He was right—it would be perfect. Except that only three days ago, I had signed a three-year contract, which included a solo album and forty performances a year with the Avignon Symphony.

  “Yes, it would be amazing, but you know, Darius…I just started a new job here in Provence. Remember? I’m literally starting today. To take time off so soon would be professional suicide.”

  He knit his brow. “I never thought about that, I apologize. I was too excited.” He said. He sat in silence for several minutes. Then he got up. “Well, I’ll just tell her that I can’t do it!”

  “Darius! No! This is your big break. You can’t just say no. Remember the obscurity you were living in for so long? This is your chance to re-enter the world and make a huge splash. It would be great for me too, but it’s just not possible right now.” I looked deep into his beautiful eyes and saw the disappointment. “When would this tour happen? Maybe if it is after the season…?”

  “I’m not sure when it will happen. I think it’s still up in the air. But Cecilia, I also just found you after all these years of dreaming. There is no way I can leave you right now. I’m staying here. With you.”

  “No, you aren't. I won’t allow it. You’re going, and you are going to be brilliant. Let’s spend the next little while together and then we can go off and discover our new worlds separately if we need to. But I want a solid bedrock of love for us to build on.

  “That way, when you go, or when I go, we’ll share every moment. We’ll have Skype and FaceTime and phones and texts, and we’ll have no money problems. It’ll all work out. It’ll be tricky, but it’ll be right. Do it. Promise me you’ll do it.”

  He looked at me again, and the sadness seeped from his eyes. He smiled. “I know you’re right, but it is a terrible legacy—I never want to leave your side.”

  “Truly, love, I know we can make this work somehow. I’ve always wanted a man like you, and I’ve also always wanted a career like this. Did I tell you? They asked me to record the Dvorak Cello Concerto with the Avignon Symphony. And they’ve already agreed!” I forgot to tell him about this, wanting to save it for a special time, but this was as special a time as was possible, and it had to come out right now.

  “The Dvorak!” he gushed. “You will be so brilliant!” Tears were forming in the corners of his sensitive eyes, and his face was a mask of masculine beauty, smiling just for me.

  He rose. “Well, Cecilia, my soul, I think you’ve convinced me. I will toddle off on my own snowshoes for a bit, but you will be with me every inch of the way. In the meantime, let’s get up. ‘Busy old fool, unruly sun, why dost thou thus, through windows, and through curtains call on us? Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run?’”

  I smiled. “What’s that from?” I asked. “Sounds like you’ve been writing poetry.”

  “I only wish, my darling,” he said. “In fact, that is John Donne! But let’s arise; the Cannes Film Festival begins this week, and I want to go. My father’s produced some movie and I am curious to know what he is up to. We need to reconcile.”

  “This week? Oh, Darius. I’m so sorry, but I don’t think I can make it. I have my first rehearsals with the Avignon Symphony. But I could join you next week, I think.”

  “Had we but world enough and time, this coyness, lady, were no crime.”

  “John Donne again?” I asked, smiling.

  “Andrew Marvell, this time. ‘To His Coy Mistress,’” he laughed.

  “I can’t keep up with you, my love,” I said.

  “No need. Nor can I play your cello,” he said looking disappointed. “But in truth, I so much wanted to go with you; I’m pretty shy in public, and you empower me, baby. But I guess I will need to adapt.”

  I looked at the hang-dog expression on his face and suddenly burst into a huge smile. He was so sad and disappointed, this man who was and had been so resilient, so powerful, so strong for so many years.

  True, there were mysteries about him, but somehow this mixture of vulnerability and confidence was sexy. I leaped out of the bed and jumped on him. He was not expecting this and fell backward.

  “Come to me,” I murmured, and he responded.

  “Mmmm, I need you so much. You complete me in ways I could never imagine.”

  As I kissed him deeply, he put his hands on my back and pulled me to him, showing me the depth of joy he was experiencing. And while this was happening, I was gazing upon his beautiful manly face, the strong chiseled chin and the straight nose with the tiny bump that just made him look sexier.

  I appreciated how when we had issues, we talked about them instead of sitting in front of the television as I had done with Bill. This wonderful feeling of wholeness was new and exciting to me. My kisses were heartfelt and sincere, and he returned them with joy. Darius Wilde was my soulmate, and I would do anything and everything to make us work.

  However, I had a job, and this passion had to be checked. I found myself moving from him with a force of will.

  “Parting is such sweet sorrow,” I heard him mutter. I enjoyed the short walk to the bathroom and threw off my garments one by one, leaving a breadcrumb trail to the shower.

  Darius looked hungrily at me as I disappeared like a reverse Venus de Milo into the bathroom. I could almost feel his lust for me as I left the door open and stepped into the large glass shower. I felt his eyes hungrily watch me.

  Afterward, when I stepped out of the stall, he was standing there with a warm white towel, smiling at me. “Thought you might need a hand,” he said with his dark blue
eyes gazing under perfect tantalizing arched eyebrows.

  I glanced at the antique clock on the mantelpiece. “Darius, we need to go,” I said, trying to sound as though I meant it.

  “I know,” he said.

  I dressed as quickly as I could, nervously changing my outfit three times before I found the right one: a mid-length black skirt and a modest baby-blue blouse with ruffles at the wrists and neck. I paired this with demure black pumps.

  As I descended the curved staircase, I saw Darius, dressed in a beautiful Armani suit with a fuchsia dress shirt hugging his impressive form. He looked perfect. He was also smiling at me, happy to drive to Avignon where I would work at the symphony hall while he made arrangements for the Cannes Film Festival this week.

  Chapter 2

  (Cecilia)

  Thierry, who had more or less taken up the job as our chauffeur, was at the door with the black Mercedes taxi. He was sporting a jaunty new black and red peaked cap, knowing that he had work for the next while.

  He took my cello case and gently placed it in the boot (I had begun to adopt these Briticisms because every English person I met in Provence was British). Together, Darius and I climbed into the back seat and held hands as we watched the bastide fade into the distant mist like Camelot.

  We arrived at the concert hall at ten-thirty. The rehearsal was to start at eleven, and I wanted to be early to be sure I was doing everything right. Darius was driven away by Thierry as I entered, and I found my spot in the orchestra. I made myself comfortable at the second desk.

  It was a strange feeling not to be first desk, but I also knew that this was a much better symphony than the Minneapolis Phil. And my suspicions were made manifest when conductor Grigory Maranofsky dug into Beethoven Seventh that would open the season.

  From the first crashing chord in A major, I knew I was in a whole new world; every tiny nuance I had ever imagined while playing this in Minneapolis was suddenly there, played by the most sensitive players imaginable.

  The delicate and plaintive notes of the oboes were perfection, and I almost forgot to play as I heard their gorgeous little solos. This symphony, especially from the vantage point of the center of an orchestra, was an unimaginable joy.

  The feelings of giddy ecstasy were firing from me as I played. Before the first movement was complete, I knew I was well on my way to achieving my dreams.

  Later, I was introduced to the orchestra as their newest member by my old friend from Juilliard, the violinist Gaetan Bizot, along with a violist and a flutist. Gaetan was a wonderful man, perfectly fluent in English, who took me under his wing and helped me feel perfectly at home.

  He had married and settled in Avignon with his wife, Amelie, and his three-year-old daughter Manon. It was wonderful to have a friend like Gaetan in this alien land; I felt at home and inspired all at once.

  “Mlle Cecilia Winter is one of the great cellists of our generation, and she comes to us from America where she has been wowing audiences for a decade in Minneapolis. I know she will make this orchestra into one of the world’s greatest within years. She has already planned to record—are you ready?—the Dvorak Cello Concerto, and we will be with her all the way.” He spoke in French, which I realized, to my surprise, I understood perfectly.

  The speech itself and the fact that I understood it both overjoyed me. The entire day was filled with kind musicians introducing themselves to me, the brilliant playing, and my happiness at knowing that I was fulfilling my dreams at long last.

  “We will reconvene in a week’s time and begin rehearsals in earnest. And so, until Monday, please enjoy a week’s break so you can get your affairs in order.”

  This expression was one the French tended to use for everything. Get your affairs in order. I had just the one affair, and it was decidedly in order. We worked away in a very creative manner with the orchestra for the rest of the day, plowing through Beethoven’s Seventh, Mahler’s First, and Second, and Berlioz’ Symphonie Fantastique.

  It was a day of incredible musical highlights and emotional journeys that I had dreamed of for years.

  I texted Darius. “We have the week off. I thought I might not be able to accompany you to Cannes, but it looks like I am able to go after all. If you want me to, that is.”

  “Oh, yes, that would be perfect!” he wrote back almost immediately. “I’ll be there at six to pick you up.”

  At six, the Mercedes was waiting in the parking spot outside the hall and Darius was standing in front of it with a huge bouquet of the most beautiful wildflowers I had ever seen. His smile was almost as large as the bouquet when he saw that I was happy.

  “My love is like a red, red rose. That’s newly sprung in June: O my Love’s like the melody, that’s sweetly played in tune,” he said to me as he handed me the bouquet.

  “Who is that?” I smiled.

  “Robert Burns,” he said. “And like Mr. Burns, I think tonight we will have a celebration,” he said. “We both got what we wanted! We get to go to Cannes, and you get to play your heavenly music.”

  I had been married to Bill for too long and was honestly shocked that Darius was so attuned to my emotions.

  “I guess so,” I said, a little bewildered.

  Now it was Darius’ time to laugh. “Cecil, my love,” he said. “I can read every emotion on your face. You must never accompany me to Monte Carlo; you have no poker face. I know today was your triumph, and we must celebrate. I have reservations at La Cour du Louvre. Assuming you are interested,” he added.

  “Of course, I’m interested. I just need to freshen up a bit,” I said coquettishly.

  I was feeling overwhelmed. I decided to let things happen. Darius was that sort of lover—the kind who seemed able to be presumptuous but always right.

  As delighted as I was, I was unequipped for this kind of attention to detail. Bill had never once even met me after a rehearsal before, and he had certainly never—not even on our anniversary—taken me to dinner. Nor had he serenaded me with a poem.

  I was tempted to laugh except that tears were already pouring down my face, taking even me by surprise. This day filled with Olympian music and wonderfully talented and kind colleagues, and a lover who knew exactly what I wanted, was too much for the little Midwestern girl inside me.

  I put my head down on the car and shook with giddiness. I knew I didn’t deserve it and I knew it would explode in my face. I knew I would wake up and feel disappointed.

  Except that it was real. Somehow, I had done something right, and my life was perfect. I felt the delicate hands of my artist gently pulling back my hair and lifting me, taking me in his arms and hugging me with his whole body right there in the street.

  It was embarrassing, but I had no feelings of anything but joy.

  “Allons-y!”1 I said, collecting myself and kissing him full on the lips, covering his face with kisses. Thierry jumped to attention, and as we piled into the car, he drove off to La Cour du Louvre.

  Chapter 3

  (Cecilia)

  The first meal we had at La Cour du Louvre was hasty and rushed.

  “Darius,” I said to him as we sat at the table surrounded by many other diners. “This place is lovely, but I feel like we are not giving it a fair shake. The food is good, but we’re both distracted. How about we skip the rest of the meal and just go home to pack. I’m excited about the next few days and really want to meet your father and go to the Cannes Film Festival.”