The Forbidden Heart (The Forbidden 3)

Vincent’s friend’s apartment was really only minutes away. A more skeptical girl would think he had chosen the restaurant for that reason. It was always his intention to bring me here. Was that so wrong? Unexpected? I wasn’t in France to visit Disneyland, I told myself. If you want boys to think of you as older, be older.

He pulled into a small parking lot in front of the building and took the helmet off me, running his fingers through my hair.

“Très bien?”

“Oui. I’m fine.” Was that his way of asking if I still wanted to go to his friend’s apartment? Asking if I still wanted to be with him? He wasn’t thinking of playing Scrabble. It would be easy to look at my watch and say, “Well, maybe I should head back. I promised my uncle . . .”

“I’ll take this with us,” he said, indicating the helmet. “Paris is still a city. People find their things disappearing.”

He locked his scooter and then took my hand and led me to the front entrance. He knew the code that opened the front door. When he opened it, he looked at me. There was that slight hesitation again, but I said nothing, so we headed for the elevator.

“How long have you known your friend?”

“Oh, more than ten years,” he said. “He was working in a jazz band while he was still in school. They travel, too, go to festivals in the summer all over Europe. They dream of going to the United States. They’re very good. You’ll see. Do you like jazz?”

“I like everything,” I said.

“Tous?”

“When it’s good,” I said, and he laughed.

The elevator stopped at the fifth floor, and we went all the way down the hallway to the last door on the right. He pulled out a key, opened the door, and stepped back for me to enter. It was a small apartment and not, I thought, kept too neatly. The small entryway opened to the living room. He rushed about, scooping up empty wine bottles, a box of takeout food, and some newspapers. There were glasses on the floor, a bowl of something days old, and cigarette butts in every available ashtray. But he was right about the music equipment set up against the right wall. It was obvious his friend had put all his money into that. I knew enough about it to know that the speakers and the tuner were expensive. There was a music stand on the side, with sheets of music over it.

I continued into the room while he cleaned it up. The windows looked down at the street, but other buildings blocked any real view of Paris. I was happy they were opened, imagining what the odors might be if they weren’t. I recalled Roxy describing the roach hotel she had stayed in the nights after our father threw her out and before she was brought to Mrs. Brittany. From her description of what she tolerated, I understood how important it had become to her not to come running back to our home. I couldn’t imagine having that sort of grit and stubbornness. Just the thought of being where she had been turned my stomach.

Vincent returned from the kitchen with another bottle of wine and two glasses. He had obviously just rinsed them out. He brushed down the sofa and put the glasses and the bottle on the coffee table, pushing aside a pile of magazines and two full ashtrays and small change.

“Maid’s on vacation,” he joked, and opened the bottle with a corkscrew that was on the table. He poured a glass for each of us and went to the stereo. “Ah, here’s the CD I want you to hear,” he said, and inserted it. I sat on the sofa and sipped my wine. It was heavier-bodied but not as good as the wine we had with our pi

zza.

“More back bite than usual for a French Burgundy,” I said.

He sipped it and nodded. “Beggars can’t be choosers, right?”

“Except I’m not begging,” I said, putting the glass down. “My sister always says it’s better to drink water than bad wine, especially with dinner. It can ruin your food.”

“I have to meet this fantastic sister.”

He sat beside me as the music began.

“Listen to that saxophone. That’s Nikki.”

“Your friend?”

“Oui.” He sat back and closed his eyes. “I like writing lyrics,” he said. “Poetry to music. His music inspires me.”

“Have you written songs, then?”

“Absolument.” He sat forward. “I’ll play some of that for you next time. I’ll bring along my own discs. I have this friend with a great voice. She’s not pursuing a career as a singer, but she should.”

“Denise says you want to continue your education, but your father wants you to remain with the pastry shop.”

“He’s an old-fashioned guy. I’m working on him. He’ll come around. Denise worries about me too much. She should worry more about herself.” He smiled and took my hand in his. “It’s good what you’re doing with her. She’s had a very difficult time of it. She needs someone like you. I could see immediately that you’re a very caring person,” he said. Then he kissed me softly on the lips and moved closer. “I love that saxophone,” he whispered. “Don’t you? Sexy.”

His lips were tracing along my cheek and then onto my neck. I leaned back, and he kissed me again, only this time longer, his arm sliding under my lower back to lift me gently as he moved me under him. I was getting lower against the back of the sofa. The music continued and seemed to get louder. He kissed me again and again and now whispered mainly in French. I caught a few words—“sweet taste, beautiful, soft, loving.” I felt his hand move under my blouse and, in what I thought was a very dexterous motion, unbutton it from the inside. It was as though he had done it hundreds of times.

“You’re a very sophisticated girl,” he said. “You could teach Denise a lot about life, I’m sure.”