Paris by Heart

  Paris by Heart

  Nora James

  www.escapepublishing.com.au

  Paris by Heart

  Nora James

  She came to Paris to forget about men, but the city of love has different plans for her…

  Elise Reid wasted years on a bad relationship, dreaming when she could have been doing. Now she’s making up for lost time—taking all of her savings and heading straight for Paris and the Cordon d’Or cooking school, the first step in her café dreams.

  No dream is without its roadblocks, and Elise’s come in the form of a dark, delicious, decidedly rude Frenchman who works in the café below her studio apartment. Forced to tutor Paul in exchange for reduced rent, Elise finds herself laughing, teasing and sharing her dreams.

  But there’s more to this story than mixing together two people and adding a dash of spice. Elise has been hurt before, and Paul has problems of his own. There are 14 000 kilometres between Australia and Paris, but that may be nothing compared to the emotional distance two people have to cross…losing their baggage along the way.

  About the Author

  Nora James spent her teenage years and young adulthood in Paris where she studied and worked before migrating to Australia. She later read law at the University of Western Australia and travelled extensively through her employment as an international resources lawyer and translator.

  She now writes novels and screenplays from her home in coastal Western Australia, where she lives with her husband and daughter and a menagerie of furry friends.

  When Nora’s not writing she can be found in the garden growing her vegetables, on the floor playing with her daughter and pets, in the kitchen cooking up a storm or on the couch reading a good book.

  She also loves interacting with readers. You can contact her through her website: www.norajames.com.au or on Facebook https://www.facebook.com/authornorajames

  Acknowledgements

  To my gorgeous French husband Dominique, thank you for all your love and support. There is a little bit of you in Paul, the hero of this book, and that’s because you are my very own hero.

  Thank you to my daughter Elise Li Yu for all the happiness you bring to me every minute of every day. I hope that when you grow up you’ll enjoy this book and be pleased it has a heroine with your name.

  To Kate Cuthbert and the amazing team at Escape Publishing, a very big thank you not only for the incredible work you do but for believing in me.

  To my editor Kirsten Delaney, thank you for waving your magic wand over my book and making it shine.

  For my family and friends in France.

  Je vous aime.

  Contents

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Glossary

  Bestselling Titles by Escape Publishing…

  Chapter 1

  Elise Reid looked out of the taxi at the creamy stone buildings shaded by a row of majestic oak trees, their green leaves gleaming in the sunlight. Paris was so beautiful in the morning.

  The taxi came to a halt. “Your address, Madame.” The driver was an older Frenchman, eyes rimmed with a greyish shade that told of more than one late night drinking cognac. While he saw to her luggage, she stepped out of the car and examined the building in front of her, frowning. “But it’s a café.” The navy and white sign above the door, Le Café des Amoureux, made that clear. “Amoureux, doesn’t that mean lovers?”

  “Those in love,” said the driver, climbing back into his vehicle. “There is a difference.” Before she could stop him he had taken off at full speed. Elise dragged her suitcase and heavy bag across the nearly deserted cobblestone street and leaned them against the wall. What would she do if she had the wrong address? She could barely speak the language. She’d have to find a hotel room until she could sort things out. That would definitely eat into her budget and money was already tight.

  A masculine voice, deep and rounded like a mellow red wine, brought her back to reality. Its owner spoke French and far too fast for her to pick up even a word.

  “I’m sorry, were you talking to me?” As she looked up her gaze met that of a man about her age, in his early thirties or perhaps a little older, and oh, what a fine specimen he was! A lock of dark hair swept rebelliously across his face, highlighting his cheekbones and came to rest on his strong jaw. His eyes reminded her of chocolate, not just because of their colour, but because of the promise of pleasure they held.

  She shook herself. The promise of pleasure? What was the matter with her? It must have been the jet-lag or the excitement of being there, a foolish bodily reaction, but one she could control. Besides, she wasn’t interested in a relationship, no thank you, not even a fling. Not after what she’d been through with that lying cheat of a husband, Steve. Ex-husband.

  The man crossed his arms, staring at her as if waiting for a reply. “I’m sorry. I don’t speak French,” she offered.

  It wasn’t quite true. She could say much more than hello and goodbye and had brushed up on her high school French before leaving. The reason why she made no attempt to speak it was that she was too embarrassed by her poor accent. She felt silly trying to express herself in a language she hadn’t mastered. It would come, she was sure, she would do her very best to improve—just not today after the long flight. Anyway, so far she’d been able to avoid speaking it. Nearly everyone in Paris, it seemed, spoke English.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur. Bonjour, Madame. Comment allez-vous? I see it is too difficult for a person, uh, a person like you.” He spun on his heels, head high, ignoring her. Well, he might have been a fine looking man, but he was also a perfect example of French arrogance.

  Just when Elise thought she was rid of him, to her dismay he crouched down, drew a key from his pocket and opened the café. First the locks near the ground, all along the concertina windows, then the door itself. She watched him scoop a ladybird off the pavement and gently place it in one of the pot plants that flanked the entrance to the café, before quickly getting to work pulling out small, round tables and placing them on the pavement, or terrasse as she remembered the French called it.

  She smiled at the small kindness. She hadn’t seen a man do that before. “That’s nice,” she offered, pointing to the pot plant. “What you did with the ladybird.”

  He shrugged and walked away before she could think of something else to say. She rubbed her nose, wondering what to do next. Should she try talking to him again? Or should she wait for someone else, hopefully Julie who she’d made arrangements with for the studio apartment, to magically arrive? What if she’d written down the wrong address? Julie might not arrive at all.

  The handsome Frenchman was placing sugar on the tables now. Elise plucked up her courage and approached him again. “I’m looking for a woman, Julie Brouard.” She pursed her lips, hoping that he knew the person she’d been corresponding with about the studio to let. He answered without so much as a glance, but again Elise didn’t understand a word. He looked up, screwing up his face with annoyance, and pointed to the table nearest her. “Sit,” he ordered as if she were a dog. �
��Madame Brouard will coming soon.”

  “Will come or will be coming. The tense wasn’t right.” She couldn’t help herself. She had to correct him although she regretted it almost instantly.

  The waiter clicked his tongue and disappeared into the café. Elise sighed with relief and sat down with her bags by her side, holding onto the smallest which was unsteady and kept falling over. Barely a minute went by before the handsome waiter came out again, marching toward her, and she decided that the polite thing to do would be to order a drink. She prepared to ask for a cup of tea in French, going over and over the words in her mind, in the hope that she wouldn’t be tongue-tied this time.

  He must have understood that she wanted something as he stopped next to her, but instead of looking at her he took an air of distinguished authority, raising his head like a proud rooster, and stared straight ahead. She let out a brief nervous chuckle she couldn’t control and immediately brought her hand to her mouth to stop it turning into a hearty laugh. As she did, his eyes narrowed and he threw her a glance that made her uncomfortable until she thought she saw mischief in it. Perhaps he wasn’t angered or offended, perhaps he was playing a game after all.

  “Well?” he suddenly barked. “What do you like?”

  The question surprised her until she realised that it might have been due to his poor command of the English language. Still, her resolve to speak French vanished in an instant. “A cup of tea, please. And a croissant, if you have any.”

  “I wish to inform you, Madame, that you are in France. Everybody has croissants.”

  She crossed her arms. This man, this gorgeous man with his movie star looks and his perfectly shaped lips, was imperfect in every other way. He was difficult to say the least, and she wasn’t going to let him spoil her mood. She’d waited far too long for this trip, four years of denying herself outings and life’s little pleasures to save up for it. She was here, despite everything that had gone wrong over the past few years, and she was going to make the most of each minute.

  She saw he was wearing a name tag: Paul. At least it was an easy name. “May I call you Paul? Or should I use Monsieur?”

  “Monsieur Fontaine, but you may call me Paul as it is on my shirt.”

  “Very well. I wish to inform you, Paul, that clients pay and expect to be treated with respect. Have you not heard the saying that the client is always right?”

  He nodded curtly, disappearing into the bar. When he returned, he placed the tea—black, but she decided not to ask for milk and upset him again—and a warm, sweet smelling croissant in front of Elise. “It’s offered by the house, Madame.”

  “On the house?” She smiled graciously. It was an apology of sorts, probably quite an effort for someone so arrogant. “Thank you very much. And actually, it’s Mademoiselle. I’m not married.” Well, she wasn’t any longer.

  He looked at her sideways, his thick lashes forming a seductive line along his almond-shaped lids and her heart skipped a beat. She secretly scolded herself. Yes, it was Paris, and Paul was as attractive as they come, but she didn’t need complications, and especially not in the form of Mr Arrogant. Life had been far too complicated lately with Steve pounding down her door, furious at not getting his own way with her anymore.

  No, she didn’t need a man in her life at all. She was going to enjoy the city, the culture, the food, the shopping and staying in her very own studio apartment in Paris, for two glorious months. Which reminded her, she had no idea how long it would be before Julie Brouard turned up, hopefully with the key to her apartment. She plucked up her courage and asked Paul as he next passed her. “Do you know what time Julie will be arriving?”

  Paul bent his lean—and she imagined perfectly chiselled—torso toward her, stopping so close she could feel his warmth. “Ah, telling of the devil! Or is it speaking of the devil? You use that expression, non? The English?”

  “I’m not English. I’m Australian.”

  He pulled a face, one that Elise interpreted as meaning that that explained a few things. Or was it surprise mixed with greater acceptance? She wasn’t sure. He was certainly hard to read and she wondered if it was because of their cultural differences or because of him. The only thing of which she was certain was that Paul was more than a handful.

  He gestured, palm open, to an older woman who was hurrying up the street towards them. As the lady came closer, Elise guessed she was in her late fifties, early sixties perhaps. She admired the woman’s tasteful appearance. She wore a black tailored jacket of the finest cloth, a pencil skirt, a strand of iridescent pearls and her thick, greying hair was cut with exquisite precision in a sharp bob. Classy and somewhat understated is how she would have described her.

  Suddenly conscious of her own lack of refinement, Elise ran her fingers through her long, ordinary brown hair, and adjusted her knitted top over her jeans. She stood. “Julie? I’m Elise. We’ve been emailing about the apartment.”

  “Bonjour, Madame Brouard,” said Paul with what seemed to be exaggerated reverence while raising his eyebrows at Elise and she remembered that the French addressed each other by their surnames, unless they were very close. She wondered for an instant if she hadn’t been too informal.

  “Sorry,” she said, “Madame Brouard.”

  “Ah, non, non, non. You must call me Julie. Once you start on a first name basis there is no going back.” To Elise’s relief Julie spoke excellent English, despite her slight accent.

  The older woman shook Elise’s hand and sat facing her, her lips curling into a warm smile as she continued. “It is like relationships with men. Once you have tasted their lips you cannot reclaim the distance. There are no acquaintances who have exchanged a kiss from the heart.”

  Julie spoke the truth, and there was nothing terribly shocking about it, but it seemed too soon for such an intimate conversation and somehow Elise found herself blushing. Julie chuckled. “Oh, I forget, I must not talk of such things. You are British.”

  Elise shook her head. “Australian. My grandparents on my mother’s side were Eng—”

  Paul raised his eyebrows as he passed the women again to place menus on the tables. “English, Australian, American. Of Anglo-Saxon descent. It is much the same for us.”

  Elise gasped. What a piece of work he was, capable of interrupting someone he’d only just met to blurt out an insult, and a racial one at that! Then she noticed how his lips twisted. Was that in an effort to hold back laughter? Had he been joking? Yes, he must have been. Before she could think of a witty answer, he’d hurried back inside to greet the patrons arriving for their morning coffee.

  Julie wiggled her nose, seemingly amused by the exchange. “I wouldn’t worry too much. Paul is like Roquefort, an acquired taste. You will not have to see him anyway if you don’t want to. You can go up and down without even looking at him.”

  Elise blinked a few times, trying to make sense of Julie’s last sentence. Was this some crude joke? Was she supposed to laugh again? The French had a reputation for being much more open and free, and there was hardly a French film made without someone walking around naked in it, perky breasts or other body parts happily bouncing away, but she hadn’t expected that aspect of the culture to permeate even business relationships. Going up and down on Paul without even looking at him went a little too far to her taste, especially coming from a distinguished lady she’d only just met.

  Julie must have understood how perplexed she was, for she put a hand on Elise’s forearm. “Up and down the stairs to your studio.”

  Relief washed over Elise and she burst into laughter. Julie giggled, too, and her whole face lit up, creasing in all the places that showed kindness. “He is a good man, Paul, a very good catch I would say, but then I am not a woman of your generation.”

  A man in his late fifties with happiness in his eyes and cheerful red cheeks stopped next to them, his hands on his slightly protruding belly. “Ca rigole!”

  Julie’s voice seemed to change as she swapped to French. “Ah, Michel! B
onjour. C’est l’australienne.” She turned to Elise. “Elise, this is Michel, my chef. He cooks for us, with some help from Paul. He said he noticed we were laughing a lot.”

  Elise held out her hand. Michel shook it and winked at her and Elise chuckled, not sure what to make of it. The men certainly acted differently over here.

  Julie waved him off and he hurried into the café. “Don’t worry, he is harmless. It’s what I call compulsive winking. He winks at every woman including eighty year olds. I must find a cure for him one day.” Julie stood, gesturing to the café. “Would you like to see your living quarters, now?”

  Elise nodded. She was eager to discover the place she’d call home for the next two months and, after the long flight, was looking forward to taking a hot shower, changing out of her tired clothes and resting on a comfortable bed. “I had no idea it was above a café, I mean a café-restaurant.”

  “Oh? I must have forgotten to mention that. Does having a food business below bother you?”

  “Not at all. I love food. I love cooking. In fact, I’m here to go to the Cordon d’Or school of cuisine.”

  “That’s wonderful! So you are on a student visa?”

  “Yes. When I go back to Australia, I’ll open my very own café.”

  It was something she’d always wanted to do, her dream, and one that had been ridiculed by Steve on more than one occasion. The silver lining of their divorce was that she received half their money and could do exactly what she liked with it. Steve had probably already spent his share on guzzling beer and buying presents for young women he hoped to bed, while she had set hers aside. Although the money would be tight, she would beg and borrow to add to it and build a solid business with what she had, one she’d love working in day after day, a venture she’d be proud of and one that would change her life.

  Julie nodded her approval. “What work do you do now?”

  “I’m an assistant in marketing.” It sounded better than it was. The job mainly consisted of sitting in an office typing up marketing blurbs all day long, or bringing fancy sandwiches into meetings where everyone looked down their noses at you.