Perfect Strangers

22

Café Blanc is crowdedwith the same annoying assortment of lovers making googly eyes at each other as it was the last time I ate here, on my first day in Paris. I’m irritated at myself for suggesting the place for my lunch with Chris, but it’s too late to change my mind. We’re already here.

“You look beautiful.”

Sitting across from me on the charming outdoor patio in the shade of a striped umbrella, Chris is somber and tense. He’s trying to look calm. Anyone else observing us would think he is, but I know this man too well. Behind his sunglasses, his eyes are darting. His thumb beats a fast, staccato rhythm against his knee.

“Thank you.” Unused to such compliments from him and unsettled by his energy, I’m not sure how to proceed. Self-consciously, I touch my hair. “I went to the hairdresser before I left. Apparently something called ‘balayage’ is the new thing.”

Jaw clenched, Chris gives my hair a cursory look. “It suits you.” His voice gains an edge. “You look happy.”

Here we go. “Take off the damn sunglasses, Christopher,” I say softly, “and talk to me.”

Aggravated, he whips off his aviators and tosses them onto the white linen tablecloth, muttering an oath. This display of irritation and jittery nerves is so out of character for him. The press didn’t dub him “The Iceberg That Sank the Titanic” for nothing.

He drags a hand through his hair. All that dark blond hair, thick and shiny, the rich hue of a jar of fresh honey held up to the sun. He’s always been that kind of Calvin Klein model good-looking. The all-American golden boy with a spotless pedigree that can be traced way, way back to his purebred British ancestors arriving on the Mayflower to wipe out the indigenous populations with their smallpox-infested blankets.

Poison comes in so many sneaky forms, but pretty is the sneakiest.

He says curtly, “You need to get back to New York as soon as possible.”

Leaning back in the chic café chair, I fold my hands over my stomach and consider him.

I loved this man once. Truly. Deeply. I would have literally died for him. I would’ve sacrificed my life to keep him safe. But at the moment, I’d like to drive my thumbs into his eye sockets.

“And you need to tell me what the hell is going on.”

He slams a fist on the tabletop, making the silverware jump. He snaps, “For fuck’s sake, Olivia, this isn’t a game. This is serious. You know I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t!”

He stares at me, seething. Several diners send alarmed glances in our direction. From the corner of my eye, I see my arch enemy, the waiter Jean-Luc, smirking at us from a nearby table.

Holding Chris’s furious gaze, I say evenly, “The days of you barking orders and me obeying them are long gone. You want me to jump for you now? I’m not asking ‘How high?’ I’m saying ‘Show me the money, bitch’ and negotiating price.”

Chris’s mouth opens, then closes. He’s not used to this version of me.

Neither am I, honestly, but I’m about at the end of my rope with the men in my life and all their drama.

Chris snaps his fingers. A waiter materializes instantly at our table. “Oui, monsieur?”

“Blanton’s, neat. Make it a double.”

The waiter bows before scurrying away, because Chris has that effect on people.

I say, “Things must be dire if you’re having a double bourbon at noon.”

Leaning his forearms on the table, he runs his tongue along his teeth. He stares at the tablecloth for a moment, gathering himself, then glances up at me. In a low voice, he says, “Dire doesn’t begin to cover it.”

Knowing he’ll spit it out eventually if I keep quiet, I wait, watching him, the muscles in my shoulders and neck pulled tight.

“I can’t keep you safe in Europe, Livvie.”