Paris Rose
Paris Rose
A prequel to Fire Maidens: Paris
by
Anna Lowe
Billionaires & Bodyguards
Paris Rose
Copyright © 2019 by Anna Lowe
author@annalowebooks.com
Editing by Lisa A. Hollett
Proofreading by Donna Hokanson
Cover art by BT Design
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons is purely coincidental.
Other books in this series
Fire Maidens - Billionaires & Bodyguards
Fire Maidens: Paris (Book 1)
Fire Maidens: London (Book 2)
Fire Maidens: Rome (Book 3)
Fire Maidens: Portugal (Book 4)
Fire Maidens: Ireland (Book 5)
visit www.annalowebooks.com.
Free books
Get your free e-books now!
Sign up for my newsletter at annalowebooks.com to receive:
three free books (Desert Wolf, Off the Charts & Perfection)
a free audiobook (Rebel Heart)
and dozens of exclusive bonus scenes!
Signing up also makes sure you’ll be the first to hear about new releases, exclusive stories, and great deals!
Contents
Other books in this series
Free books
Contents
Paris Rose
Sneak Peek — Fire Maidens: Paris
Free books
Books by Anna Lowe
More from Anna Lowe
AnnaLoweBooks.com
Paris Rose
It’s 1953, and Clara Lambert is a simple country girl determined to start a new life in Paris. So far, so good — she’s found a great job and a great man. But all is not as rosy as it seems in the City of Lights, where warring shifter forces conspire to seize power…
Paris Rose is a prequel to Anna Lowe’s Fire Maidens: Billionaires & Bodyguards series, a romantic, suspenseful romp through Europe’s oldest, grandest cities. The adventure begins here!
Paris Rose
Before we start... Be sure to sign up for my newsletter – you’ll get three free books, a free audiobook, and dozens of exclusive bonus scenes.
* * *
Paris, present day
The scent of freshly baked bread wafted up from the boulangerie four stories below, and Clara inhaled deeply, cuddling closer to the man at her side. That was one of her favorite smells, because it had Paris written all over it. Paris and lazy mornings with her true love. Sunlight was dancing through the east-facing windows, and her cozy apartment on the Île de la Cité still held the chill of an early spring night.
She lay quietly in one of those pinch me, I’m dreaming moments that still hit her after decades of living the good life. Just about the only thing that could make life more perfect was fresh-brewed coffee and a few goodies from the bakery downstairs.
She slid a leg out of the covers, but Hugo cuddled her closer, mumbling, “Just a little longer.”
She chuckled and turned in his thick, muscular arms — her own personal fortress.
“You said that forty-five minutes ago.” She kissed his brow.
His eyes sparkled like sunlight glinting off a glacial lake. “Forty-five minutes? Forty-five years hasn’t been enough.”
She chuckled. His count was off by more years than she cared to admit, but otherwise, she agreed. “It’s never enough. But we do have that meeting later this morning.”
Hugo shook his head. “That’s hours away.”
Rubbing up and down one cheek, she slowly worked her way to the other side where she nuzzled some more. Hugo’s beard had gone as white as his hair over the past decade or two, but it was as soft as ever, and his body was just as firm. Otherwise, Hugo barely showed his age, looking every inch the warrior. She, on the other hand…
Reading her mind, he cinched her closer and kissed her cheek. “You’re more beautiful than ever, my mate.”
He said it like he meant it, because Hugo didn’t know any other way. Didn’t he notice the deep lines time had carved into her face? The streaks of gray in her hair? The way her full cheeks were losing their battle with gravity?
Apparently not, because he ran a hand softly over her hair and sighed like a man who’d snagged a true prize. “Most beautiful woman in all Paris.”
She sighed, nestling in his embrace. Was it possible to feel this happy?
Yes, it is, an inner voice purred. Now, stop rushing and enjoy life.
She gave in and settled back, abandoning thoughts of breakfast and the coming day — for the time being, at least. Her eyes drifted to the vase of pink roses on the bedside table, and she smiled, letting her eyes close.
“Just a little longer,” Hugo murmured, lulling her back to the world of dreams and memories.
* * *
Paris, October 1953
Clara clapped the morning chill out of her hands as she turned a corner and entered the Tuileries. Trees flanked the footpaths, and the long, narrow lines of the park drew her gaze to the fountain at one end. A sight for sore eyes, and one that reminded her she really was living in the City of Lights. A place a small-town girl could escape the wartime traumas of her parents’ generation. Better yet, a place an adventurous girl could really live…maybe even love.
She hurried toward a tiny green shed — the crêpe stand where she earned just enough to scrape by. A splotch of pink on the windowsill beckoned — or was that wishful thinking?
Don’t get excited. Maybe he didn’t come, she told herself.
But her heart was already beating harder, and her cheeks flushed. The long braids that tamed her wavy chestnut hair swung over her shoulders as she rushed ahead, and her brown skirt swished. She forced herself to slow down over the final steps, when she beamed from cheek to cheek. That really was a pink rose, and that really was a note beside it.
She lifted the flower gently, as if it were made of chiseled ice, because something so beautiful must be fragile. Like peace. Like love. Like promises, sometimes. Closing her eyes, she twirled the flower under her nose. The silky, floral tones were nice, but her mind mostly concentrated on the scent engraved in her memory — a strong, oaky scent laced with leather and a hint of pine. A fresh, open-air scent — that of an honest, hardworking man.
There was a note too, and she clasped it to her chest, whispering, “Hugo.”
In her mind, she could see him stealing over in the early hours to place the gifts there — all six-plus feet of him moving with the stealthy step of a man who’d risked a hundred secret missions. She could practically feel the soft touch of his dark beard under her hand and the layers of muscle that corded his arms.
She sniffed the paper, taking her time the way a child might with a gift — shaking, smelling, touching, and imagining what might be inside. Would it be like the very first note Hugo had left her, the day after they’d met? Two lines from Baudelaire’s In Passing, some of the most romantic lines she’d ever read.
Un éclair… puis la nuit! it started and went on from there.
A lightning flash… then night! Oh fleeting beauty,
By whose glance I was suddenly reborn…
Or would the note contain Hugo’s own words, not quite as eloquent but still perfect in her eyes, like those he’d penned the day after their first kiss?
Your kiss made my soul sing for the first time in years. Finally, I am alive.
Or would the note contain something enigmatic, like the crescent moon and howling wolf he’d sketched for her the previous week?
Whatever the note sa
id, she knew she would love it. She was a plain Jane from nowhere with brown eyes and brown hair, but Hugo made her feel like a movie star.
Turning the new note over in her hands, she finally unfolded it. As she read, she started to frown, then smiled again.
See you at noon had been written in script so painfully neat, she could picture Hugo hunched over a desk, a tiny pencil in his huge paw of a hand, concentrating hard. But that had been scratched out and in its place came, Work has called me away today. Until tomorrow, my love…
He’d trailed off with three dots, then tagged on the punch line in scratchy, impatient letters that said he was as disappointed as she was.
If I can survive that long.
Clara grinned. God, she loved that man. Did she dare tell him that the next time they met?
Yes. Three weeks wasn’t too soon, was it?
A raven flew overhead, and its harsh caw might as well have been her mother’s warning.
The more thrilling a man is, the more dangerous he is to love.
Clara sighed as she worked the key into the lock. According to her mother, her father had been everything a woman could dream of — handsome, adventurous, and courageous. A man who had swept her mother off her feet and given her the giddiest, most exciting days of her life. Those same qualities prompted him to defend France in a military campaign everyone assumed would be over in a few weeks. But the war had dragged on for years, claiming her father’s life, along with millions of others. Clara’s mother had gone on to marry the blandest, most boring man she could find — the local postman, twice her age.
A quiet man. A quiet life, her mother had counseled. Believe me. Guard your heart.
Clara frowned. Hugo broke every one of her mother’s rules. He was thrilling. Honorable. Rugged. Mysterious, too. And as for guarding her heart… She snorted. It was too late. She’d fallen in love on day one, when Hugo had walked through the park, intent on some urgent assignment — until he halted in his tracks and looked at her, as stunned as a man struck by lightning. Or maybe it was Cupid’s arrow, because she’d been struck too.
She propped the flower and note in a corner where they would be safe from splattered batter, butter, and powdered sugar, then took a deep breath. All right, Hugo had been called away to work that day. Well, she had work, too. Nothing as glamorous as she’d pictured from the ruins of the tiny border town where she’d grown up, but work, nonetheless.
Within twenty minutes, she had everything ready. Eggs beaten, batter mixed and left to rest, ingredients prepped. The sun rose higher, shining brightly enough to melt the frost on the ground, and the first customers trickled past. There were some new faces and a few regulars, like the widow with her son, the war veteran with one leg, and the night guardsman who stopped by regularly on his way home. Then there was a mother with two adorable daughters in pigtails and homemade coats, and not long after, a honeymooning couple from Marseilles.
Jam crêpes. Sugar crêpes. Crêpes with cheese or ham. Every customer had their favorite, and Clara loved serving up each one. Every little goodie offered a few bites of joy and peace, and she did her best to add to that with a cheery voice and bright smile.
“A beautiful day,” she said to the businessman who frowned at the headline on his newspaper.
When he looked up at the sky, the lines on his forehead eased slightly. “Yes, I suppose it is.”
To the older couple who bickered about everything, right down to which type of crêpe was the best, she’d said, “Madame can have sweet, and monsieur can have savory.”
And for a few moments, they had smiled and chewed in peace.
Peace. Clara might never sign a treaty to end all wars or teach children the harsh lessons of history, but she could do her part in her small way. God knew the world needed that.
Throughout the day, she peeked at her rose, picturing where Hugo might be. He worked some kind of security job, though he’d never shared the details. She’d never asked, just like she’d never asked what had ripped that scar across his cheek — the one that made him look as fierce as a native warrior if he frowned. When he smiled, though, it softened, and his whole face lit up.
She yearned to trace that scar. Truthfully, she yearned to touch the rest of him, too. So far, he’d been a true gentleman, and she’d managed to keep her raging fantasies to herself — somehow.
Just one? She’d joked after their first kiss.
Hugo had stroked her cheek with his thumb. His touch was light, but she could see the heavy beat of his pulse at his neck.
More than one may kill this simple soldier, I fear.
He’d been joking, of course, but a sad something had clouded his eyes, and his lips had twitched with some terrible revelation she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear. Something to do with the war, perhaps?
Whatever you had to do, whomever you fought, I don’t care, she burned to say. All I want is the man before me now and a fresh start.
But a carriage had come clip-clopping by after that, and once it passed, the moment for confessions had slipped away. They’d ended that evening with him walking her home then leaving her at her doorstep with a second soft kiss.
À demain, he’d whispered in a voice so full of yearning, she could have cried.
À demain, she’d replied. Until tomorrow.
She whispered those same words to herself throughout that long day of work. Was it normal to fall so deeply in love so fast? Studying every passing couple, she wondered if they had felt something similar at the start and whether the feeling had faded or stood up to the test of time.
Faded, she decided, watching two couples stroll by together. The two women chatted, totally ignored by the men, who were deep in a discussion of some kind. But then an older couple creaked by, arm in arm, and her soul lifted. Maybe there was something like true love after all. Maybe even destiny.
Destiny, a whisper drifted on the wind. Probably another figment of her imagination, but she smiled all the same.
As the sun rose higher overhead, the shadows in the park grew smaller, then stretched throughout the afternoon. All business as usual, until she heard an unwelcome voice call out.
“There she is. My favorite crêpe chef.”
Clara snapped around to the two men approaching with intent, prowling strides. Both sent a chill down her spine. One was Branix, the arrogant jerk who kept stopping by despite her clear signals of disinterest. The other was Calviorix, his surly sidekick. Both were from Brittany, or so she’d assumed from their unusual Celtic names.
I was just closing, she nearly said. But that would be a lie, for one thing, and bad for business too, so she settled for a frown instead.
“Yes?”
“I’ve missed you, darling.” Branix splayed his meaty fingers over the counter and leaned in.
She stuck up the long, dull blade used to flip crêpes. I haven’t missed you, you jerk.
“Would you like a crêpe?” she asked through clenched teeth.
Branix was big and broad, with a pasty gray complexion that reminded her of granite. When he leaned closer, letting his eyes rove her body, the chill that seemed to cling to his shoulders seeped over toward her.
“I’d like more than a crêpe.”
His friend gave a lusty chuckle, and she scowled. “All we have is crêpes.”
Branix’s eyes darkened like a spoiled child about to throw a tantrum. The man was used to getting what he wanted, and it showed. So, she crossed her arms like her bossy aunt used to do when unwanted visitors stopped by the house. If only she had a rolling pin to heft the way her aunt had.
“I see your lover has abandoned you. Again,” Branix sniffed.
He meant Hugo, of course. The two had stared each other down the couple of times they’d crossed paths. Clearly, they knew each other, though she couldn’t imagine how.
Not my lover, she nearly shot back. Not yet, at least.
“What do you see in that dog, anyway?” Branix added.
His buddy chortled at his ch
oice of words. Dog. In a way, it fit, but only in a positive way. Hugo was as loyal as a canine and just as steadfast. And hell, if Hugo had been with her, Branix wouldn’t have ventured so close. But Hugo wasn’t there, and she could handle this on her own.
Or so she hoped.
She stabbed a finger toward the menu. “I’m working. Would you like to order something or not?”
Branix grinned. “When do you get off work?”
She turned up the force of her glare. “No order? Quel dommage. I’ll get back to work, then.”
Then she looked up and nearly cried out in relief at who she saw. Not Hugo, but the next best person — Monsieur Thierry, the gendarme, walking his beat.
“Monsieur Thierry.” The moment she called out, Branix and his friend slunk away. “What can I get you?”
The policeman strode up, glowering at the two young men. The thing was, Monsieur Thierry was well over sixty, and Branix was a strapping twentysomething without a trace of respect. Not for older folks, not for the police, not for mankind in general. But he did back away, snickering under his breath.
“Let’s see…” The policeman made a show of scratching his chin with the thickest part of his baton.
By the time Clara had the policeman’s crêpe confiture ready, Branix and his troublemaking buddy had disappeared. Whew.
“You take care, mademoiselle,” Monsieur Thierry called and set off on the rest of his beat.
Oh, she intended to. Especially around the likes of Branix.
As the afternoon passed, she alternated between busy spells and lulls filled with thoughts of Hugo. Gradually, the sun descended, casting the Tuileries into sharp lines of shadow and light. A large group came along as she was about to close, keeping her later than usual. When she finally cleaned up and locked the stand for the night, it was growing dark. Which was fine, because the end of one day meant she was that much closer to seeing Hugo the next.