“I think so too,” she agreed, and her heart pounded as she let them both into her house. He had gotten the address when he called her office and said he had proofs to show her. He followed her inside and looked around, nodding approval, as he took off his leather jacket. It looked as though it had been through the wars. “Would you like dinner?” she asked as he smiled and nodded, and went to look at the view, and then, while she was cooking, he took photographs of her. “Don't, I look terrible,” she said, brushing a lock of hair off her face. All she had was soup she had heated, cold chicken and salad she made for them, and she poured them each a glass of wine, while he put on some music. He seemed very much at home, and he came to kiss her from time to time while she organized dinner for them. It was harder and harder to keep her mind on what she was doing.
They sat down at the kitchen table, and talked about music. He had very sophisticated tastes, and was very knowledgeable about classical music. He said his mother had been an artist, and his father a conductor. And his sister was a doctor in Paris. A heart surgeon. He had an interesting background. He asked her what she had studied in school, and she told him economics, and he said he had studied political science.
“Sciences Po,” he said, as though he expected her to know it. “It is a very good school. And you? You did more high studies?” She knew what he meant.
“Graduate school. I have an MBA.” He didn't understand, and she said it was a very respected business degree, and he nodded.
“I understand. We have a very good school for that. HÉC. It is like Harvard Business School for us. I don't need that to take photographs,” he said, and laughed. And after they ate, he kissed her again, and she had to fight back a wave of passion that seemed to overwhelm her. This was crazy. She couldn't just let animal instinct overpower her. Nothing like this had ever happened to her, and she finally looked at him in dismay.
“Jean-Pierre, what are we doing? We don't know each other. This is crazy.”
“Sometimes crazy is good, no? I think yes. I am crazy to you.”
“For you, or about you.”
“Yes, that.”
“I feel that way too, but in a few days you'll leave, or sooner, and we'll be sorry if we do something foolish.”
He touched his heart and shook his head. “No, then I will always remember you. Here.”
“Me too. But maybe later we will be sorry.” She was worried about what they were doing or might do. He was nearly impossible to resist.
“Why sorry?”
“Because the heart can be very easily hurt. And we don't know each other,” she said sensibly, but he disagreed.
“I know you very much. I know many thing about you. Where you go to school, your children, your work, your marriage, your
“I read it to my children. It is very sad. The little prince dies in the end.” She looked touched. She loved the book.
“Yes, but he live forever in the stars.” He was pleased that she knew the book. It told him that she was a very special woman, as much so as he had thought. He had seen it in her eyes when he took photographs of her. “You must always see with the heart. And after, you will live forever in the stars.” It was a lovely thought, and it touched her.
They spent hours talking that night, and although she sensed that he would have liked to stay, he didn't ask her and she didn't offer. He didn't want to press her, and spoil what they had.
The next day he called her and then showed up at the office, and Bix looked surprised when he walked in.
“Are you still here, Jean-Pierre?” Bix asked with a smile of welcome. “I thought you left on Sunday or Monday.”
“I did. I go to Los Angeles.” He made it sound like a French city, and Bix smiled. “And then I come back yesterday.”
“How long will you be here?”
“Maybe a few week,” he said as Paris came out of her office and saw him. And something passed between them, as they looked at each other, like an electrical current of industrial voltage. Neither said anything, but Bix saw it immediately. He invited Jean-Pierre to stay for lunch, and the three of them ate sandwiches and drank cappuccinos in the room where they made presentations to clients. And afterward Jean-Pierre thanked them and left. He said he was going to visit Berkeley. He never said anything obvious to Paris, but he managed to communicate to her without words that he would see her later. And after he left, Bix stared at her.
“Am I imagining things, or is there something going on between you two?” He looked stunned, and turned to Paris, as she hesitated.
