Chapter Seven
After spending an hour soaking in a lavender-scented bath and three hours twisting myself up in 1800-thread-count sheets, I realize Xavier’s wish, that I should have sweet dreams this night, is not going to come true. How am I supposed to dream when I am too disconcerted to fall asleep? Disconcerted. Disturbed, as in one’s composure or self-possession. Distracted. Flustered. Agitated. Unsettled. Discomfited. Some people count sheep to fall asleep, I count synonyms. Xavier’s kiss has me thinking of synonyms for disconcerted. Rattled. Ruffled.
I remember the taste of his lips on mine, the pleasure-pain sensation of his beard scratching against my shoulder and neck. Maybe disconcerted isn’t the right word. Maybe astonished is the right word. I am astonished anyone as beautiful as Xavier would want to make love to me.
Befuddled. Bemused. Beguiled.
Soon, I will be singing the 1940s Broadway hit, “Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered.” I have become a simpering child because a Frenchman has bewitched, bothered . . . Great! Xavier’s kisses and promises of lovemaking have me singing saccharine-sweet show tunes in my head.
. . . I feel restless, like I drank a tea made from poison ivy leaves and I am all itchy inside.
I click on the bedside lamp, throw off the covers, and climb out of bed, padding over to the minibar and flicking the switch on the electric tea kettle.
A minute later, I am lounging on the balcony, the hotel’s plush robe wrapped around my shoulders, a cup of hot tea in my hands, watching moonlight spill like mercury down the hills and into the sea. The sultry night breeze on my skin and hot chamomile tea in my belly work their magic, soothing my itchy nerves. My lids feel heavy and I am about to go back inside to climb into bed when I notice Xavier striding across the Boulevard de la Croisette. I sit up so quickly the robe slips off my shoulders.
He is dressed in a tuxedo. The moonlight shining off his slicked-back black hair makes it appear as if it is glowing blue, an entirely strange, haunting effect. He steps onto the cement island in the middle of the crosswalk and waits for the traffic going in the other direction to clear. It gives me a chance to secretly study him, to memorize every gorgeous detail about this man who has bothered and bewitched me. Like the way his perfectly tailored tuxedo jacket fits over his broad shoulders, or the crisp white line of his collar against his tanned skin, or the way he is standing, with one of his hands casually thrust inside his pants pocket, his chin lifted to a confident angle. How I wish I had my camera in my hands instead of an empty teacup; though, I am confident I won’t need a photograph to recall how handsome Xavier looks at this moment, how the unexpected sight of him makes me feel breathless and dizzy. I haven’t felt this girlishly giddy since Drew Landon let me wear his letter jacket—and that was my sophomore year in high school.
The light changes and Xavier finishes crossing the boulevard. I scoot down the lounger until I am close enough to the railing to peek between the wrought-iron bars, keeping Xavier in sight as he strides along the sidewalk leading to the hotel. I can almost hear the heels of his shiny oxfords striking the pavement. He is nearly to the hotel entrance, nearly out of my sight, when a tall, slender woman in a slinky gold cocktail gown emerges from a parked car and calls to him, her lilting, accented voice carried to me on the breeze.
“Xavier.”
He stops walking and turns around. She raises her hand, waggling her fingers. He takes a step back. Perhaps it is a trick of the moonlight, but the relaxed, confident man I watched stride across the Boulevard de la Croisette moments ago now seems transformed into someone unrecognizable, a tense, almost sinister shadow of Xavier.
Undaunted, the woman hurries over to him. She moves as if she intends to kiss his cheeks, hesitates, and steps back, leaving an arm’s-length between them.
“Laisse-moi tranquille,” I hear Xavier say. Leave me alone.
And then the woman speaks, her full, red lips moving rapidly. Her words do not carry to me. I turn my head, pressing my ear between the rails, but still I cannot hear what she is saying. This muted conversation continues for another minute before Xavier turns to leave.
“Xavier, wait!” she cries, her voice louder now.
She reaches for his sleeve, but he knocks her hand away. She recoils from the slap, stepping back, her foot slipping off the curb. Her ankle turns and she lets out a pained cry.
I expect Xavier to hurry back to her, to offer his assistance, but he has already disappeared through the revolving door, leaving the woman alone in the dark, and leaving me to wonder if he is the debonair, tuxedo-clad hero who rescued me from a purse snatcher; or the sinister, hand-slapping shadow.