Revealing Us Read online

Of course he has a home in Paris. I just hadn’t given it any thought until now. My gaze drops to where our fingers are twined and I wonder: Will his house there feel like home to me, as well?

  Chris touches my chin and I look at him. “We’ll figure everything out when we get there,” he repeats.

  I search his face, looking for the confidence in his vow that a man who is always in control would have, and I don’t find what I seek. The shadows in his eyes tell a story of doubt. Chris isn’t certain we’ll figure things out—and because he’s not certain, neither am I.

  But he wants us to, and so do I. His words have to be enough for now, but we both know it’s not enough for the future. Not anymore.

  Friday, July 13, 2012

  I called him.

  I shouldn’t have called him, but I did, and just hearing him say “Rebecca” in that rich, velvety voice was nearly my undoing. I’m supposed to leave for Australia tomorrow, and I’m not sure I can do it. I’m not sure it’s fair to my new man—not when I now know that I’m still in love with my Master.

  And tonight he was different. He was more than a Master. Tonight he was a man who seemed to recognize me as a woman, not just his submissive. I heard vulnerability in his voice. I heard raw need, and even a plea. Could I dare believe he is a man who is ready to discover that love exists?

  Now I am swimming in a sea of his promises that everything will change if I go home. He called San Francisco, and his house, my home. He wants me to move back in with him, to get rid of my apartment and the backup plan it had been. There will be no contract between us. There will be just us.

  I want us. I need us. So why does this deep foreboding claw at me, the same feeling I got when I was having those horrible nightmares of my mother? What is there to fear about my decision to go to him, but heartache? And it’s worth a little heartache to reveal the real us I’ve always believed we can be. . . .

  Two

  I blink awake, the haze of sleep clinging to my mind, seeing Chris lying in front of me, his lashes lowered in slumber. The sound of an odd announcement begins to permeate my fog, and I remember I’m in a private section of the international flight we’d boarded in Dallas many hours ago. One of the flight attendants is speaking in French over the intercom, and the only word I understand is “Paris.”

  I focus on Chris, his sensual mouth relaxed, his hair a rumpled, adorable mess. My lips curve at the thought of how he’d react to being thought of as adorable, and my fingers go to his cheek, trailing softly over his strong jaw. He is so beautiful, not classically like Mark, but raw and masculine, so completely male. Not that I’m sure I think Mark is handsome anymore. I’m not sure what I think of Mark anymore at all.

  Chris’s lashes lift and those brilliant green eyes of his find mine. “Hey, baby.” He grabs my hand from where it’s trailing over his lips and kisses my palm. The touch tingles up my arm and over my chest, and settles low in my belly.

  “Hey,” I say. “I think we’re about to land in Paris.” The flight attendant starts speaking in English, confirming what I’d surmised. “The prior announcement was in French, and as you know, I don’t speak French.”

  “We’ll fix that,” he promises me as we raise our seat backs.

  I give a delicate snort. “Don’t get your hopes up. The foreign language part of my brain doesn’t work.” I swipe at my hair, certain I look like a complete mess. If not for the fact that Chris has seen me sick and throwing up and still loves me, I might feel insecure. Then again, I’m probably too tired to be insecure right now.

  “You’ll be surprised how easily you’ll pick it up from being around it,” he promises. “Why don’t I give you a small lesson while we descend? I know that’s the part of flying you hate the most. It’ll keep your mind off the landing.”

  I shake my head. “I’m too tired to get scared of crashing, and too tired to handle a French lesson.”

  “Je t’aime.”

  “I love you, too,” I say, having watched enough television to know what he’d said. But that’s the extent of my French.

  His lips curve in that sexy way they always curve. “Montrezmoi quand nous serons rentrés.”

  The way the words roll off his tongue sends a shiver of pure female appreciation down my spine. I’ve officially found a reason to like the French language. “I have no idea what you just said, but it was sexy as hell coming from you.”

  Chris leans in close and nuzzles my neck. “To which I repeat,” he murmurs, “montrez-moi quand nous serons rentrés. Show me you love me when we get home.”

  And just like that, I’m not nearly as tired as before, but eagerly looking forward to this new home. What could possibly go wrong here in Paris? There is art and culture and history. There are new adventures. There is living life. And I’m with Chris.

  • • •

  When we step off the plane, I will myself to be excited about being in Paris, the city of lights and romance, but I fail. That bone-weary feeling has returned like a steam engine, and even Chris admits he needs rest. I can truly say that I’m looking forward to sleeping in a real bed with Chris very soon.

  We clear the ramp from the plane, stepping into the airport, which looks pretty much like any other airport. Signs in English and French point us in the right direction. Back in the States the signs would be in English and Spanish, so it feels familiar and that’s comforting. I also hope it means I won’t be completely disabled by my lack of French.

  Then we step onto a moving sidewalk that takes us through a strange, winding underground tunnel. Beside it is an odd, awkward stairwell that juts up and down in an uneven line, and I can’t imagine anyone using it. Why does it jut up and down? I find it illogical and disconcerting, and my comfort level plummets again.

  Suddenly our bags are on the belt by our feet, and Chris pulls me close, his hard body absorbing mine. I don’t look at him. I don’t want him to see how out of sorts I am. Besides, he is warm and wonderful, and I wrap my arms around him, inhaling his familiar scent, reminding myself he is why I’m here. That’s what matters.

  “Hey,” he says softly, leaning back and sliding a finger under my chin, not allowing me to escape his inspection.

  When my eyes meet his, I find them filled with concern. It never ceases to amaze and please me that he can be so gentle and sensitive, and also be the man who finds pain to be pleasure.

  I raise to my toes and touch my lips to his for an instant. “I’m just tired.” My fingers replace my mouth on his, tracing the sensual curve of his lips.

  He captures my hand and holds it. “You know I’m not buying that, right?”

  I manage a weary smile. “I’m just ready to be alone with you.” And oh, how true this is.

  He runs his hand down the back of my hair, his touch protective, possessive, and I have the sense he feels a need to hold on to me, like I could change my mind and leave at any moment. He murmurs, “That makes two of us, baby.”

  I’d promise him I’m not going anywhere, but I’m not sure words matter at this point. Actions do. Me being here. Me weathering the storm he believes is coming, without abandoning ship.

  Once we’re inside the main area on the opposite side of the tunnel, we’re greeted with restaurants and stores to our left and a huge security line that winds seemingly forever. “I am so incredibly glad that’s not for us,” I gush with relief.

  “Actually, it is,” Chris replies grimly. “That’s to clear our passports and enter the airport.”

  I stop dead in my tracks and turn to him. “No. Please tell me we don’t have to stand in that line when I’m this tired.”

  He shifts the bags on his shoulders. “It won’t take as long as it looks like it will.”

  “Says the receptionist in the packed doctor’s office,” I reply, and sigh. “I have to go to the bathroom before I stand in that line.”

  He leans in and kisses my forehead. “Sounds like a good plan. I’ll go, too.”

  We part ways at the restrooms, which say “toilette.
” Toilette sounds so crass to me, and as I walk into the crowded facility I wonder if bathroom seems the same to the French. There’s a line of at least five women ahead of me and only two sinks and two stalls. No hope of a speedy departure.

  A woman gives me an up-and-down look as she passes, her gaze lingering on my face, and I wonder if I look more American than I realize. Not that I know what an American looks like. I look like them. I think. My phone beeps and I pull it from my purse to find a message from my cell provider, basically telling me I’ll spend a small fortune to use my phone if I don’t adjust my plan. One of many things I have to deal with, I suspect.

  I glance up as the line moves. Another woman stares at me and I wonder if, when I brushed my teeth and applied lipstick on the plane, I created a mess. Do I have lipstick smeared on my face? I scan for a mirror, but there isn’t one. What? No mirrors? No American woman would stand for such a thing. Women around the world can’t be so different, can they?

  “Is there a mirror somewhere?” I ask the general population of the room, and get blank stares. “English?” I get more blank stares and two shakes of the head. Great.

  Certain I’m a mess, I sigh, wishing my cosmetics were in my purse with a mirror, rather than in the bag Chris has with him. I glance at the time on my phone, and try to set my world clock without success. It’s early morning here, and I think San Francisco is six or eight hours different. Or is it nine? Regardless, if I go to sleep anytime soon, I’ll never adjust to the time change.

  When I finally exit the bathroom I do so with hurried steps, and run smack into a hard body. With a gasp, I look up as strong hands right me before I fall. “I’m sorry,” I say, blinking as a big man with rumpled dark hair and handsome thirty-something features comes into view. “I didn’t mean . . .” I hesitate. Does he even speak English?

  He says something in French, and then says, “Pardon” before he departs.

  An uncomfortable shiver races down my spine and the unexplainable need to follow him has me whirling around, only to find Chris there.

  His brows dip. “Something wrong?”

  Yes. No. Yes. “I just bumped into a man, and—”

  Chris curses and grabs my purse, and I look down to realize it’s unzipped. I’m certain it was zipped before. “Oh no,” I say, and shove it open to find that my wallet is missing. “No. No no no no. This can’t be happening. He took my wallet, Chris!”

  “What about your passport?” he asks calmly, setting our bags down between us.

  My eyes go wide and I quickly dig for it. Feeling sick, I shake my head. “It’s gone. What does this mean?”

  “It’s okay, baby. I forgot to give you your plastic card; I still have it. That’ll get us past the entry in France with some extra effort. And you can use it at the consulate to get a new booklet.”

  I draw a deep breath and let it out. The way he says “us” is calming. I’m not alone. He is with me every step of the way, not just here and now. I know this, and I want to believe it won’t change. It’s one of the many things about him, and us, that delivered me to the airport today. “Thank God you have my card.”

  Chris reaches over the bags and caresses my cheek. “I should have warned you how bad the pickpockets are here.”

  “Pickpockets,” I repeat. “Here in the airport, or everywhere?”

  “Any tourist area.” He hikes the bags back on his shoulder.

  Welcome to the land of romance, I think, but then romance has never been an easy ride for me. “I have to call all my credit card companies, and I have no affordable cell service.”

  “You can use mine when we get to the other side of security.”

  I nod and zip my purse, then slide it cross-body and hold it with my hand. My world is spinning out of control and I am thankful Chris is a rock, or else I might just plain panic. It’s not that I want to dart back across the border, though I’m actually not sure I’ve technically passed it yet. I couldn’t go back to the States right now if I wanted to; a stranger has stolen that freedom from me. And I’m worried about my personal information in an unknown person’s hands, too.

  I comfort myself with the fact that they don’t have my Paris address, though; I don’t even have that yet.

  Then I look up at Chris, feel that familiar punch of intimacy between us, and correct that statement. Yes, I do know my address. It’s with Chris.

  Three

  After an hour of being drilled by the border police, Chris and I have our bags on a cart and we’re ready to leave the airport. We halt at the sliding doors under a “taxi” sign.

  “I’ll go find us a private car and driver,” Chris informs me. “You stay with the bags.”

  I purse my lips. “Yes, Master.”

  He arches a brow. “Why is it that I can only get you to say that sarcastically?”

  “Because according to you,” I remind him, “you don’t want me to call you Master.”

  “Are you saying you would if I wanted you to?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Chris laughs, a sexy rumble and it is a soothing balm on my nerve endings. “On a totally different subject,” he says, pulling me close, a light in his eyes I see too rarely, “the area we’re headed to is the Times Square of Paris. You’re going to love it.” He leans down and kisses me. “I’ll be right back.”

  I stare after him, watching his sexy swagger and warming to the idea that I am here. And I know that no matter how much he fears the ultimate outcome of my being here, he’s also excited to show me Paris. I’m excited to see it with him, too.

  I wait eagerly for his return, ready to share my excitement with him, disappointed when it becomes apparent that he’s going to be a few minutes. With a sigh, I snag my cell phone to set up an international plan. I’m almost done when Chris rushes back inside with a man I assume is the driver. Just watching the way Chris moves, all lean muscle and power, my heart skips a beat. I doubt if I’ll ever stop reacting to the first moment I see him, and I smile.

  “Ready?” he asks as I try to finish up with the cell company. The driver takes over our baggage cart and we follow him outside. I end my call and wait for Chris by the car door while he helps the driver fit our bags inside the trunk.

  When Chris joins me and holds the door open for me, I hug him, then tilt my chin up to meet his eyes. “I just want you to know that I understand why you needed to do this the way you did it, but I would have come anyway. I’m glad I’m here with you.” I kiss him, planning on a quick brush of my mouth over his, and, to my shock, considering how private a person he is, Chris slides his hand beneath my hair, around my neck, and slants his mouth over mine. I moan as his tongue caresses mine, stroking deeply into my mouth.

  “I’m glad you’re here, too,” he assures me, pulling his mouth from mine and setting me away from him, as if he has to do it right now or he won’t be able to. As if he might take me right here. And only he could make this once-conservative schoolteacher wish that were possible.

  I wet my lips and his hot gaze follows, and just that easily I’m tingling all over, hot inside and out. Someone shouts out something in French and Chris’s head jerks toward the speaker, mine following.

  I see the driver’s head above the roof of the car, as if he’d gotten inside and popped out to get our attention. Chris answers him in French and then shifts his attention back to me. His lips quirk and his eyes dance with amusement. “He wants to know if we’re ready.”

  We both start laughing. “We are definitely ready,” I say and duck inside the car.

  • • •

  Forty-five minutes later, I’ve canceled my credit cards and our driver has navigated us through morning traffic to Avenue des Champs-Élysées, a famous street lined with imposing old white buildings filled with stores and cafés. When we drive past the Arc de Triomphe, I take photos with my cell phone. Its spectacular carvings are illuminated, aglow against the darkness of Paris’s shorter winter days. And while I’d swear I’m not a structure kind of person, much pre
ferring paintings to steel towers, I gape as the Eiffel Tower comes into view, twinkling with lights in the inky gray sky. There was a time when I thought I’d never see . . . well, much of anything.

  We turn down a narrow side street lined with brownstone buildings and I frown at all the tiny cars lining the sidewalks. I cringe at how unsafe they look.

  “Please tell me you don’t drive one of those,” I say.

  “No,” Chris assures me with a bark of that rich laughter I adore so much. “My Harley is as close to that small as I’ll ever get.”

  A sudden flashback of him showing up, after weeks of shutting me out of his life, and ordering me onto the back of his Harley, in a skirt of all things, is an unwelcome memory I shove away. I won’t let myself worry about him doing that to me again. Especially not today.

  I’m alive, which is a gift I value more than ever before.

  I’m with Chris.

  I’m in Paris, which I’m experiencing because of Chris, when everyone else in my life has always kept me in a box.

  I lean over and kiss his cheek.

  “What’s that for?” he asks, his strong arm wrapping around my waist.

  I can think of a million ways to answer, and a million things I want to say to him. I simply say, “For being you.”

  The tenderness in his face melts the last remnants of my bad memory. “If this is the reaction I get to a little sightseeing, I can’t wait to see how you react when you see the art galleries. You’re going to go nuts, baby.” His cell phone rings, and with the obvious reluctance I love, he lets go of me.

  “It’s Blake,” he announces after glancing at the caller ID.

  The name is like a cold splash of water on the warm, wonderful adventure we’re sharing. Since Blake has been investigating both Rebecca’s and Ella’s disappearances, I’m not sure if I should expect good or bad news.

  “Easy, baby,” Chris murmurs, running his hand up and down my arm as if he feels my sudden chill. “Everything’s okay.”