Apparently my brain and body are still working on North American time. It’s 11:40 a.m., and I’ve just woken up.

Today I’m going to do more wandering, partly to keep my mind off the dinner that Conlon has planned tonight. I don’t want to think too much about it, or to think about him. I just want to see what happens.

I’m hoping to pop into Notre Dame and have a look at the inside of the famous cathedral, if only to provide me with a little respite from thoughts of Mr. Davies.

After I make myself a quick breakfast of coffee and day-old pastries, I take a shower and contemplate what I should wear tonight. I’m a little torn about it; I’m supposed to be keeping him at arms’ length, but last night we did enjoy a certain strange, difficult intimacy. I got to know him a little better, to gain some understanding of his demons. It didn’t make me want him any less, but it did frighten me just a little.

I walk over to the closet and leaf through my dresses. A light blue one catches my eye, and I pull it out. Another plunging neckline; I could tease him a little with my breasts again at dinner. And I think maybe I will.

Wait, why do I want to tease him so badly? Maybe I should wear a flannel nightgown or something.

Fuck, I know why. I want him. I want him back inside me, but without turbulence. Without hiding. I want to feel all of him, his naked body pressed against me, taking me slowly at first, then hard. So hard. I want him to give me everything he can, for just one night. No matter how much I tell myself that I’ll keep him at arms’ length, the truth is that I want to pull him in, to taste him. To steal pieces of him to take home when the time comes. Maybe that’s it; his allure is that I’ll lose him soon. I’ll lose him the minute I walk onto that plane back to New York.

Okay, I’m inside my own head way too deep. Breathe, Adriana. Let whatever happens happen. Meanwhile, go spend a nice day alone in Paris. Jen told me to have fun, and Katherine told me to be adventurous, and here I am, tearing my mind apart over a man in a city I’m leaving in a matter of days.

I throw on another, more modest dress, and head out for an afternoon walk through the Parisian streets towards the cathedral. Maybe, just maybe, if I wander into a house of God I’ll be cured of all my lustful thoughts.

Yeah, that’s not likely to happen.

It only takes a few minutes to get to the large square in front of the cathedral, and when I arrive I let out a huff of disappointment. A long line extends through the vast outdoor area, and I only realize as I’m getting close to the arching doorway leading inside that it’s because there’s an airport-security-type setup awaiting visitors. Paris is on lockdown these days, I guess. I watch for a moment before committing, noting that the queue is moving quickly, and hop over to its end. I don’t have anywhere to be for a hours; may as well spend some time standing among tourists. The guards scan everyone’s bag on the way in but the line goes smoothly, and I’m inside within ten minutes.

Inside the largest, most beautiful architectural wonder I’ve ever seen. It turns out that it was so worth the wait.

I stop in my tracks when I first begin to register the size of the place, my eyes veering upwards to the vaulted ceiling so high above me that it may as well be among the clouds. There’s a sense of lightness about this building, like it floats on air despite the fact that it’s built of tons of rock.

The stained glass windows are beautiful, and remind me of my evening at the Sainte Chapelle. Every one of them tells a story, and my heart swells with a strange affection for them.

At the centre of the church, hundreds of chairs are set up in a cordoned-off area, separated from tourists like me by a translucent wall of woven metal. A congregation of some sort occupies most of the seats, and at the front a man is preaching in French. For a moment I stop and watch him, before proceeding on my way.

Here and there, dozens of candles are set up on sloping pedestals. For a donation, you can light one in memory of someone. Almost all of them burn brightly, and something about the sentiment hurts my heart. I like to think that if I lost someone I love, I’d come to this exquisite place and let a flame burn in their name. It feels like the souls represented by the candles are walking among us, their ghosts lurking in Notre Dame’s dark corners, observing their visitors.

After a few minutes, a beautiful, haunting music spirals through the air about me, and it takes a moment to realize it’s part of the church service. I wander back to the metal wall to see that a woman—a soprano—is standing, hands clasped, singing along with the organist. I recognize the music from a concert I attended with my parents when I was young. Handel’s Messiah.

Her voice, this place, everything that surrounds me brings tears to my eyes, and I just stand there and watch her until the aria is complete. I’m not a religious person, but the experience makes me feel closer to some magnificent, mysterious entity. I feel mended, strong, small, big, all at once.

I’m happy, so happy that I came to Paris.

But I wish Conlon were here.

* * *

Four o’clock has come and gone before I receive word from Conlon as to where we’re meeting for dinner. He offers to come get me, but I tell him to give me directions and that I’ll meet him at the restaurant. I suppose it’s my way of asserting myself again, declaring my independence. I have to admit, though, that I’m a little afraid that if he came over to get me, we’d never leave. Business associates or not, I want him a little too much to resist the opportunity to get him into my bed.

He’s chosen a restaurant along the Seine called Deux chatons, part of which actually floats on the river. It’s not far from my place, and when I come upon it, I’m filled with the kind of delight that’s hit me about a million times since my arrival in Paris.

Conlon’s already seated at a small table, a candle burning at its centre in preparation for the evening’s darkness to fall.

“How are you, beautiful thing?” he asks as he stands to greet me.

“I’m fine,” I tell him, seating myself on the opposite side of the small table. He’s chosen to dine outside, on the wooden dock overlooking the river. Boats known as Bateaux Mouches cruise along slowly by us, tourists staring up at landmarks as we watch them in turn.

Multicoloured lanterns hang all around us as the sky begins to turn shades of pink and orange. I feel like I’ve walked into yet another magical place, far from Paris or anywhere else. It’s no longer France, no longer even a city. We’re on our own gently rocking island, far from the madding crowd.

“I chose this place for the location,” he tells me, “but also because of the music to come. I hope it’s all right.”

“It’s perfect,” I tell him. “Speaking of music, I stopped in to see the inside of Notre Dame. It got me a little choked up.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.” I want to tell him how badly I wished that he was there with me, but I stop myself behind the invisible emotional barrier that keeps springing up between us.

His sexy lips curve up at the corners. For a second he reaches for me, then he pulls back, no doubt remembering my poorly thought out insistence that we keep things professional. “I have seen something far more beautiful,” he tells me, venturing into intimate territory.

He’s flattering me again, and it’s going right to that place deep inside that sends bliss raging through my bloodstream.

“Anyhow, let’s talk about the book,” he adds. I feel like a bucket of ice has just been dumped over my head. Cruel man, changing the subject like that.

“Yes, fine,” I reply, trying my damnedest not to look forlorn.

With a quick hand gesture he signals a waiter to come over. In impeccable French he orders a bottle of sparkling water and a carafe of red wine.

“Okay,” I say, pulling out my notebook and a pen. “Let’s start with your life before you owned the company. Do you want to fill me in?”

“Not particularly,” he tells me. He’s studying me with those blue eyes of his, his mind working on something. “But I will if I must. First, though, let me order some food. Is fish okay?” I nod as he summons the waiter over.

We speak about an assortment of topics until our food arrives—salmon and escargot, which I discover tastes quite a lot like soggy cashews soaked in butter. He tells me about his childhood, about where he lived just outside of London. His education at Oxford. Everything, of course, except for his feelings. Everything but the personal bits where he admits how much it broke him up to see Galen hurt. How much it hurt to lose his mother. Or lose his father, for that matter.

He’s closed himself off again, avoiding those topics like the freaking plague.

Eventually, as promised, a young woman and a man come along and seat themselves by an old piano a few feet from us. As the man begins to play, the woman starts singing a heartfelt, sad, beautiful French song, and we both stop talking to listen.

Conlon leans forward, elbows on the table, and closes his eyes. The song is familiar; I’ve heard it before in a Woody Allen movie or somewhere. Even without understanding the lyrics I can tell that it’s bittersweet, and it’s got to be about love.

“What was that song about?” I ask quietly when it’s over. I’m leaning forward too, and our faces are close. When Conlon opens his eyes I can see every line in his irises, the light blue intensity penetrating the surrounding darkness.

“It’s called ‘Je ne regrette rien.’ It’s about a young woman who claims she regrets nothing of her past—not the good, not the bad that people have done to her. Not her own mistakes. She’s singing to her lover. She says she has no regrets because now she has him. Nothing else matters to her anymore; she can forget all the ugly memories because she loves him so much.”

My heart pounds as his lips move. There’s so much meaning behind those words, and I can relate to them so damn well. I came to Paris to leave an old life full of regrets behind me. Now I’m sitting at a table across from a man who’s worked spells on my heart, and I want to be happy about it. I want to tell him that I have no regrets, because my life led me to this place, to him. But I can’t.

“Do you think she’s right?” I ask. “Do you think it’s possible to leave the past in the past?”

“I’m not sure, but I envy her,” he replies. “I envy the confidence to be able to say such a thing to someone. To say I love you, and that’s all that matters in this world.”

“Have you ever told anyone you love her?”

He shakes his head and looks away. “Never.”

“Because you were afraid to?”

“No. It wasn’t cowardice; it was honesty.”

“You’ve really never been in love?”

“No. The closest I’ve come…” He stops himself and takes a swig of wine.

“The closest you’ve come is…?”

“A woman I met at an airport in New York. I’ve come perilously close to letting myself fall very, very hard for her.”

“Really?” I ask, my heart’s powerful beats threatening to drown out the music.

He nods. “Really.” He’s looking at me with that hunger in his eyes again. That sexy, alluring gaze of his is pulling me in, and I find myself leaning forwards, a smile on my face.

That’s it. No more arms’ length. No more barriers. I should just tell him what I’m feeling, let it out and see where the chips fall.

“Conlon, I want to tell you…” I begin. I want to tell him I’ve changed my mind. That I’m willing to take the risk and open up my heart. That I’m falling hard for him, too.

But he interrupts before I can complete the thought.

“It’s fine,” he says, shaking his head. “I know what you’re going to say; you want to keep things professional. It’s for the best, of course. You’re leaving soon and I’m…well, I’m useless. I don’t do well with women, Adriana. Ask any of my exes, if you can even locate one. You’d be better off without me. We’re not meant to be.”

Not meant to be.

And there it is, ladies and gentlemen. The words every woman dreads hearing from a man she’s grown to care about.

I feel like I’ve been punched in the chest. After convincing myself to open up my heart to him, he’s proven what a bad idea that is. The man has managed both to pull me in close and shoot me down within a matter of seconds. What a concise way to tell me that nothing will ever evolve between us.

Just in case I was foolish enough to think that maybe, just maybe, I was worthy of a man like Conlon Davies, he’s let me know I’m not, that a relationship between us could never happen. After holding my hand, kissing it last night, after our intimate phone call, he’s let me know that even though he nearly fell for me, he was able to just shut it down because hell, I don’t actually mean anything to him.

I hesitate for a moment and then push my chair back and rise to my feet. This guy’s a billionaire, right? He can afford to pay for dinner. “I’m suddenly not feeling so great,” I tell him. “I’m going back to my apartment. Tell your assistant or someone to send me information for the book, and I’ll think about it. Good night, Conlon.”

I stand up and walk away, and I don’t look back.