There was something so wildly freeing about being able to step out onto the sidewalks and garner no attention. She was one woman among thousands here. An anonymous creature, with no past, no worries. To anyone who noticed, she was a Parisian, through and through—the clothes she’d bought were current continental fashion and very lovely; she’d had her hair cut in the loose, natural style favored here. She bought neutral makeup, stopped coloring her nails, had them buffed till they shone. She carried a black Longchamp bag with thin brown leather handles, wore large black sunglasses, and double wrapped a well-loved Hermès scarf around her slender neck. Her French sounded native, was exceptionally fluent, with a local accent. There were so many strangers in Paris now, no one gave her a second thought. She’d overheard two women complaining that 30 percent of the people living in Paris didn’t even speak French. They were becoming a city of immigrants, and the natives resented this, but if your French was excellent, all doors opened.

There was nothing—nothing—to give her away. She fit in like a grain of sand on an endless stretch of beach.

As she rambled through the fine Parisian air, she allowed herself the indulgence of a memory. She needed to wean herself off her past, slowly, carefully, so she could leave it entirely behind. But one memory wouldn’t hurt.

A Bit of Backstory

A BIT OF BACKSTORY

Then

When she’d first met Ethan, at the requisite Friday night cocktail party for the talent, with his smooth smile and too-long, devil-may-care hair (expertly highlighted, she found out later), all she could think about was his skin. Seeing more of it. Touching it while lying next to him in the bed on a Sunday morning. Running her hands along his sides, across his broad back, and down, farther, to the silk she knew waited for her.

The desire for him, for their life to come, was sharp and immediate and she’d never felt anything like it before, with anyone. She watched his lips, full and laughing, and his teeth, shiny and slightly crooked, the front right overlapping the edge of its twin. And she just wanted to get him naked and see all of him.

It disturbed her, this reaction. Especially when she threw everything away and followed through on her urges. If only she’d resisted. Would she be here now?

He was beautiful in the way of hypermasculine men; he knew he was attractive, knew every woman in the room was imagining what it would be like to have him looking at, talking to, being with her.