PARIS SQUIBBLE

by Jill

I finally get to the front of the queue and pile into a cab, showing the driver the address of the hotel because I have no idea where it is and my French isn't really that good. He seems to know it, though, and we drive off through the night-time streets, with me gazing idly out of the window at the neon lights and maniac drivers intent on killing themselves and each other. We're stopped at yet another set of traffic lights which are just turning green when the other passenger door is yanked open and someone more or less falls into the back next to me, slamming the door behind them and dropping face down on the seat, out of sight of passers-by. My shock leaves me speechless, but the driver launches a tirade of incomprehensible French, turning to glare at the intruder. I finally manage to find my voice enough to join him, telling my new companion coldly that this cab is taken. But I'm more than slightly stunned when he raises his head with something of an effort to fix me with blue eyes made more brilliant by the light washing through the car's back window, and says in a soft and obviously non-French accent that it's OK, just ignore him, he isn't really here, but that it would be really great if we could just drive on... quickly...

...Well, there's something about what I can see in the depths of those eyes - vulnerability, a plea that I really can't turn my back on - that has me over-riding my common sense, so without taking my eyes off him I tell the driver in my best non-existent French that it's OK and to drive on. He looks at me as if he thinks I'm quite mad but, with horns blaring behind us, he does as I ask. I think I see out of the corner of my eye dark menacing figures outside on the pavement moving purposefully towards us as with a squeal of tyres the driver beats the lights and shoots away from them. A look of heartfelt gratitude spreads across the pale face staring up at me, his intent gaze now showing a hint of pain and exhaustion just before the head sinks back down onto the seat again, and I start to think he may be taking this 'not really being here' thing rather to extremes.

The momentum of the taxi as the driver hurls it round a roundabout - obviously anxious to get both the mad foreigners out of his car as soon as possible - throws me towards my fellow passenger, and I'm forced to put out a hand to stop myself falling. It encounters the cold dampness of his jacket, and I'm alarmed to feel the solid and obviously muscular form of his torso shivering under my fingers. Cautiously I slide my hand up to encounter the wet spikiness of his short rain-dark hair, my knuckles catching just the hint of a somewhat less than healthy heatedness coming from the skin of his cheek as they brush briefly across it. My touch seems to rouse him, though, and he lifts his head to look up at me again. He asks huskily if it looks like anyone's following us, and I assure him that the crazy way this cab is zig-zagging from one side street to another, there's no chance of anyone keeping up. He apologises for scaring me, tells me he'll be out of my hair soon, just needs to put some distance between himself and some people who were out to do him some damage. But from the way he's hunched down, long legs tucked awkwardly into the space behind the front seat, one arm wrapped round his middle while the other prevents him being tossed around by the car's movement, I suspect the damage has already been done.

I suggest cautiously that he should perhaps go to the police, asking if he might need a doctor, but the obstinate look that floods his face makes it clear this isn't on his agenda. He shakes his head, asking instead where I'm going and promising that if I'll just put up with him until we get there, he'll be on his way and I won't be troubled further. It's obvious he doesn't like asking for help, that he truly doesn't want to be involving me like this, but that just makes his request all the more impossible to deny. I nod slowly, oddly drawn by the quiet strength in his features and the frankness of his deep blue gaze, and for reasons I can't quite fathom I know I can trust him completely...

His relief at my agreement is palpable, coupled with a lessening in the tension I can feel emanating from him, and I have to stop myself from reaching out to add the physical reassurance of my touch to that of my words. But his eyes have already slid closed again, and before I know it the taxi is screeching to a halt outside what is apparently my lodging for the evening - the large and rather impersonal hotel towering over the surrounding buildings in some part of Paris called Montparnasse. Not having consulted a map, I have no idea where that is in relation to any known landmarks but, as I wasn't here to sightsee I didn't think it important. I'm now wishing that I had, because I might then have had some better idea of how to help my mystery man. The abrupt halt of the car had flung him forward against the front seats, and I see him now push himself carefully up above window level to peer out at our surroundings. I hurriedly drag the envelope of French currency provided by my secretary from my bag and pay off the taxi driver, waiting impatiently while he scribbles a receipt, but the sound of the other door opening has me glancing round to see I'm about to be left alone on the back seat. Instinctively I reach out a hand to grab at the disappearing coat sleeve, seeing it's owner look round in surprise, and although I'm not sure exactly why I did it, I keep hold of him until the driver hands over the fiche and I can gather up my overnight bag and slide out of the car after him.

The rain batters at us immediately so I tug him towards the hotel entrance, overcoming his resistance far more easily than I expect. But, once we reach the shelter of the vast awning covering the pavement in front of the building, his independence reasserts itself and he pulls away from me, telling me firmly that he's OK now, thanking me for my patience and help and declaring his intention of disappearing out of my life and into the night. I look at him appraisingly, taking in the ashen features coloured only by the pale blueness of his eyes and the slight flush in his cheeks, his still damp hair boyishly awry and firm jawline tensed as he psyches himself up to do what he's telling me he's going to. But I can see how tired he is, and how warily he's looking at the shadows out beyond the hotels welcoming lights, and I know that he's still in danger - if from nothing else than himself.

I'm not an impulsive person - all my friends tell me I should be more spontaneous, but spontaneity is not something I do well. But on some insane impulse I find myself telling this tall, obviously strong and probably dangerous man that he's not going anywhere except to bed - to sleep, I hasten to add, blushing furiously. His bemused expression tells me he's as amazed at my temerity as I am, but he allows himself to be dragged into the hotel's vast reception. Pushing him towards the seating area over by the lifts and telling him to find somewhere unobtrusive to wait, I check myself in, hoping that the reservation confirmation stating that the travel agents have booked a deluxe room with two queen-sized beds - which I originally laughed at, wondering how they expected me to make use of two large beds - was actually accurate.

Once checked in, I head purposefully for the lifts, alarmed when I can't see any sight of him where I'd told him to wait. I stop, trying not to be conspicuous as I look around the busy space, sure he's done a runner on me, but I almost jump out of my skin as he materialises at my elbow as if from nowhere, the fleeting touch of his hand on my arm sending a quiver of something I can't quite identify through me. Wondering again what I'm letting myself in for, I pull myself together enough to start walking towards the lifts, clearly aware of his presence just behind me as he follows…

…a presence that remains tantalisingly at the edge of my vision, with me but not with me, staring studiously at the floor to avoid eye contact with the other passengers, during the quick ride up to the 6th floor. But I can feel him as plainly as if he was pressed up against me, and I have to make a conscious effort to move when the doors open at my stop. I hear him apologising as he pushes past the other people, and his footsteps shushing on the thick carpet as he trails me down the corridor in search of my room.

The lights and TV come on automatically as I open the door, and I'm pleased - but also bizarrely a little disappointed for some reason I can't rightly explain - to see that the travel agents were correct. The room is large, large enough that the two double beds pushed together along one side wall don't seem overly intrusive. Hearing the door click shut behind me I dump my bag on the furthest bed, stripping off my coat and draping it over the chair as I turn to look neutrally at my unexpected guest, who is standing hesitantly just inside the room. This is really the first time I've had the chance to look at him properly in decent light and, despite the wet clothes and hair and the obvious stress he's under, I'm having problems keeping my pulse rate at anything near normal as he returns my gaze. Although maybe not what you'd call classically handsome, he's incredibly attractive in a very masculine way and I can feel the sheer magnetism of him tugging at my senses.

His eyes are guarded, but I can still see the fatigue and pain etched into his face and the way he's trying to control his shivering. He asks if I'm sure about this but I wave his concerns away airily, gesturing to the two beds and telling him there's plenty of space, as he can see, and that it's no night for anyone to be outside. A trace of a smile reaches the full lips I was beginning to wonder if I would ever see any way other than a straight tense line, and my heart does an odd little flip at the hint of dimples that appear fleetingly. I find myself suggesting he might find a hot shower the quickest way to warm up, and the smile broadens a touch at my discomfiture when I realise my mouth is getting away from me again. But he accepts almost shyly, disappearing into the bathroom and closing the door, and condemning me to a silent battle to keep the images of him naked under the steaming flow of water I hear soon after out of my head. I busy myself unpacking my change of clothes for the morning, listening distantly to the chatter of the TV as I run through what I need to do the next day. That done, I sit down on the bed and flick absently through the channels until the sound of the door opening again distracts me. I glance round, then nearly do myself an injury doing a double take, my jaw dropping open and my breath stopping in my throat at the vision that greets me.

My eyes travel slowly downwards from the top of his damply spiky hair to his bare toes, taking in with somersaulting heart the broad expanse of his smoothly naked chest and powerful shoulders, moving on down to his abs, each muscle clearly defined. He has a white towel wrapped around his middle, but it can't disguise the trimness of his hips or the muscular thighs which taper on down to muscular calves and well-shaped feet. The bare feet just add to his vulnerability in my eyes, and I have to work really hard to stop myself rushing over to comfort him. I can't hide my wince of sympathy at the sight of the already darkening bruises that adorn his left side, though, confirming my earlier conclusion that he'd already had a run in with whoever he's hiding from. I drag in a shaky breath as I haul my gaze back to his face, blushing wildly again as I find him looking at me, the small grin and quizzically raised left eyebrow telling me he knows exactly what's been going through my mind…

…He apologises for startling me, though, and for not having anything more respectable to put on, and to hide my embarrassment I wave a flippant hand towards the bed, suggesting he get in before the beneficial effects of the hot water drain way. His grin widens, but it must be a measure of how bad he's feeling that he does as I suggest without demur, suppressing a grunt of pain as he slides under the covers and settles back against the pillows. His eyes are drooping closed almost before head hits them and I watch the tension drain from his face and body as he falls quickly asleep, feeling very touched by the trust he has placed in me. I stand staring at him, transfixed by the youthful innocence of his sleeping features, hearing his breathing slow to a steady rhythm, but after a few minutes I jog myself out of my reverie and wander into the bathroom. His wet clothes are piled in a small heap on the floor under the sink, and I shake them out and hang them over the shower curtain rail to dry, catching the aroma of his unique scent from them despite the overriding smell of damp fabric.

It's still only 9.30, too early for me to go to bed, especially with the time difference, but I don't want to risk disturbing his obviously much needed sleep by trying to watch TV or do any work. So I gather up some reading and, turning the TV and main room lights off but leaving the bathroom light on to illuminate my return - and in case he wakes disoriented - I go in search of the bar and a couple of stiff drinks to re-build my confidence that I'm doing the right thing.

It's getting on for 11 when I return, letting myself in quietly and tiptoeing into the main room to check that he's still there - which he is, seemingly unmoved though I think I can detect a slightly uneven quality to his breathing that wasn't there before. But knowing there's little I can do about it, I take my things into the bathroom and ready myself for bed, wishing absently that I'd brought something a little less homely to wear than my Winnie-the-Pooh nightshirt. In minutes, however, I'm tucked up in my own bed, trying to calm the tingling sensations that run through me at the very thought of his close proximity enough to get off to sleep. It's difficult, though, the soft sounds coming from the next bed reminding me of the fact with every breath he takes, but I must manage it somehow because the next thing I know I'm being roused from a rather hot and bothering dream by a voice calling out in distress.

I bolt upright, noting distantly that the room is still pitch black even as I turn towards the source of the noise, hearing his ragged breathing and incoherent cries as he shifts restlessly against the pillows. I reach a tentative hand to rest my fingers on his bare shoulder, immediately feeling the heat rising from his skin even as I'm trying to decide whether I should try to wake him, worried that his cries will attract unwanted attention. But it seems my touch has a soothing effect on whatever is disturbing his slumbers so, telling myself I'm only doing this for his benefit, I crawl over the narrow gap between the beds and slip under the covers beside him. He turns to me instinctively, a tiny whimper escaping him as I slide my arms around his shoulders and pull his head to rest on my shoulder, his irregular exhalations tickling the hollow at the base of my throat. His arm snakes out across my stomach and he buries his face against my neck as he huddles against me, the mumbles and whimpers fading under the comforting influence of my fingers riffling through the short hair on the back of his head, gently massaging his neck, his shoulders, calming his breathing until he falls into a relatively peaceful sleep again.

No such relief for me, however - the heated length of his body pressing against mine brings back all too clearly the subject matter of my dreams, not helped at all by the realisation that his restless shifting has caused the towel that had been firmly fastened round his waist to come loose. But in self-preservation I try and distract myself from the impulses egging me on to explore in reality what I'd been uncovering in my unconscious state by reminding myself that I'm the one in the albeit unaccustomed role of protector, and that right now he needs my reassurance more than anything else. So I hug him to me, telling my already over-stimulated nerve endings and the reciprocally twitching muscles of my lower stomach that now is not the time and, lulled by the warmth of close physical contact with another human being, I let myself drift…

…When I open my eyes again, I can tell dawn is approaching by the fact I can see further than the end of my nose. This also allows me to see the dark figure moving silently towards me, and with a stifled squeak I shrink back against the pillow, my still sleep-scattered senses realising only belatedly that the comforting presence that I'd been clinging to is no longer there. By then the figure has come close enough for me to recognise that it's him, fully dressed, and I see the anxious look on his face as he sits down carefully on the bed, a tiny frown creasing the smooth high forehead between his straight eyebrows. He sshhh's me soothingly, reaching fingers to caress my cheek, smiling slightly and eyes reassuring as he tells me it's OK, he didn't mean to disturb me but he needs to go, has to meet his partner. I open my mouth to protest, tell him he's not well enough, that I don't want him to go, even to dare to tell him that I want him back beside me, but he silences me with a gentle kiss, the feel of his lips on mine re-igniting all those fires I'd fought so hard to control.

Although I want so badly to prolong the contact, wrap my arms around him, bring him back to me, I'm left paralysed by his touch, and can only lie motionless as he pulls away - much too soon! His lips slide down to my ear, his breath washing across my sensitive skin, carrying brief words of thanks for my help and a promise of repayment sometime, someplace. And then he's gone, and as the door clicks softly shut I'm left trying to blink back tears of regret at what might have been and anger at myself for getting into this situation in the first place. But the tears win, and I spend altogether too long wrapped around his pillow, inhaling the smell of him with every breath, alternately sobbing out my disappointment and cursing the male gender in general and him in particular.

Eventually I manage to pull myself together, remembering the heavy schedule of training and presentations awaiting me, and struggle into the shower to wash away all reminders of his ever having been there. But it's only when my skin is pink from the continuous pounding of the water and wrinkly from the length of time I've spent there that I feel able to step out and get on with my day.

Dried, dressed and almost re-focussed, I check out and find a taxi to take me to our local office, trying hard to stop myself looking around in case he's still somewhere near, still in need of help. Once I arrive in the agency and get immersed in the things I need to do there, I have little time to think about anything else, so it's only when I take my leave and head off back to Gare du Nord for the return Eurostar journey that I really have the chance to wonder about him again - who he was, what he was doing here in Paris, how he managed to get himself into such trouble, who this mystery partner was that he needed to meet so badly. Romantic - and more sordid - notions wander through my head as I pay off my cab and check in at the station, memories of the sheer unadulterated masculinity of him and the delicious sensations his nearness provoked in me keeping me happily - if somewhat frustratedly - amused during the three hour journey through the Channel Tunnel and back to Waterloo.

My carriage fortuitously stops right by the escalators down to passport control and I'm probably third or fourth through the barrier at the bottom, my mind already ranging ahead beyond the tedium of my black cab ride home to the enticing thoughts of a long hot bath and a good night's sleep in my own bed. So as I come through the sliding doors into the arrivals area I'm already looking upwards for the signs directing me to the taxi rank, sparing only a cursory glance for the waiting meeters and greeters with their hand-written signs, knowing that there will be no one there waiting for me.

It does, though, seem that I'm mistaken.

Something makes me falter in my determined progress towards the exit and my rightful position at the head of this taxi queue, and my gaze is drawn to the black-clad figure standing back away from the crowd. Even at this distance he takes my breath away, inquiring blue eyes seeking and holding mine, a shy smile drifting across those full lips I got to sample so briefly, his expression at the same time apprehensive and encouraging, and I find myself rooted to the spot as he moves cat-like towards me. I vaguely notice another man in the distance behind him - darker, slimmer, probably attractive if I had the time or inclination to look - but all my attention is focussed on the one approaching me, my eyes locked on the promise I can see in his, and I wonder if, maybe, just for once, I've found a man who pays his debts…

THE END