Liar Liar

‘In fact, I haven’t had that pleasure in over a year. Can you believe that? This year has been all work and no pleasure. Well, other than the pleasure I’ve brought to myself. And I’m sure I don’t need to explain what I mean when I say that. Or maybe I wouldn’t if you understood what I was saying.’

I press my lips together to halt my sudden stream of stupidness, but to no avail.

‘Not that we’d be talking about that kind of stuff if you at all understood what I was saying. Oh, but that’s not why I was carrying that thing in my bag, by the way, if you even remember that, which I truly hope you don’t. Either way, I’m truly sorry for my actions, but you shouldn’t creep up on a girl.’

I look over my shoulder to where Remy’s expression remains unchanged.

‘Even if you do look like you know the way around a woman’s body, feather duster or not.

‘Is there anything you want to say?’ I turn to face him, pressing my back against the sink. ‘No sense in me being the only idiot here today. Go right ahead, say what you’re thinking.’

He blinks as though coming back to the moment. ‘Je suis désolé . . . I’m sorry. I was trying to work out why I would need a feather duster.’ His resultant smile could be best described as enigmatic. It just adds to my curiosity. And damn, I wish I spoke French right now.

‘It’s good, right?’ I find myself announcing. ‘Whatever you say is between you and the Lord!’

‘Je ne pense pas que le bon Seigneur . . . I don’t think the good Lord is ready to hear me confess my thoughts right now.’

‘See?’ I find my hands in the air, my smile probably a little manic. ‘How easy was that? I have no idea what you just said. You can say whatever you like, and I wouldn’t even be able to guess!’

His fingers unfurl from around the cup on the table in front of him, and he leans back, hooking an elbow around the back of the wooden chair, the picture of manliness and ease. He seems to take up so much space in the room quite suddenly. Am I imagining the change in the atmosphere?

‘Rose. Pardonne-moi . . . Forgive me, but I do speak a little English. You might even say perfect English. But there’s no sense in spoiling our fun.’

The way he says my name makes it sound like a whole other word. The rolling, guttural R. The low rumble. It’s so damn sexy. And the rest? Totally bedroom-y.

‘Wait, how do you know that was my name? Comment mon nom?’ Or at least it sounds something like that, I think.

‘L’hôpital?’

I nod because this totally makes sense.

‘Si je . . . If I told you what I was doing on your doorstep, you might throw me out.’

My shoulders rise and fall in a tiny shrug. But whatever he said, it sounded so sexy.

‘D’accord,’ he adds in a decisive tone.

‘Says who?’ I know d’accord means okay. But, ‘Okay to what?’

‘J’accepte je . . . I accept I have your permission to say what I like. I agree to your suggestion to give myself the freedom to say exactly what I think. First, I think I should say that you must be a good person to have brought me here, to have opened your home to me, to have taken care of me as you have. So, I’ll try to behave myself.’

I’m pleased one of us is amused.

‘Mais je aussi . . . But I also can’t help but imagine what you’re wearing under your coat. Not a lot, as far as I can tell.’ He tilts his head, his gaze wandering down my body, his perusal almost a physical thing. ‘Which makes me wonder even more.’

I’m probably imagining things. Imagining the basis of those looks which, coupled with the deep tenor of his voice, makes every word sound like an invitation to the bedroom.

Or should that be boudoir?

‘Je pense . . . I think it’s a uniform of sorts, rather than something you’re wearing for your boyfriend, given your colourful explanation of just how single you are. Merci.’

I know “merci” is thank you in French, so I reply, ‘You’re welcome,’ assuming he’s thanking me for my help.

Lord, this conversation makes me feel like a horny terrier. If I don’t get laid soon, I might start humping fenceposts.

What a shame he has a broken head.

But getting back to our little tête-à-tête, I think he must be asking about my coat. He’s probably interested in why I’m still wearing it, judging by the fact that I am still wearing it, coupled with the way his eyes swept over me as he spoke.

‘It is a little warmer in here now,’ I begin to explain, ‘but believe me, you really don’t need to see what I’m wearing under here. Especially as, when I take off this coat, the girls are likely to make a break for freedom.’ If I haven’t popped at least one button tonight, I’ll be surprised.