Read Online The Paris Secret by Angela Henry - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Angela Henry
Ads: Link
cotton bikini panties as well as another large bruise the size of a baseball on my right side. This bruise was tender and I flinched when he touched it.
“I should have killed that bastard when I had the chance!” exclaimed Simon through gritted teeth.
“I’m fine!” I quickly yanked the T-shirt down again. “Now get out of here so I can take a shower.”
Simon paused in the doorway of the bathroom before leaving. “Luc’s ex, Natasha, left some clothes behind that might fit you. They’re in the bedroom armoire.”
“Thanks.” I waited for him to go but he just stood there smiling at me. Was he expecting an invitation to wash my back? Like that would happen. I finally closed the door.
Natasha Girard had a much frillier and more feminine taste in clothing than I did. She was also a lot taller than me. The only things of hers I was willing to step out of the apartment in were a gray turtleneck sweater that covered the bruises on my neck and a pair of black slacks that fit just fine once the waistband was rolled up a couple of times.
While I was putting Natasha’s clothes back into their box at the bottom of the armoire, I found a snapshot. Two tanned, smiling couples stood on the beach. Simon’s brother, Luc, wearing an unflattering yellow Speedo and a red polo shirt, had his arm around a tall, willowy blonde in a pink string bikini. This had to be Natasha.
The other couple was made up of Simon and a curvy redhead in a black one-piece. Her gorgeous curly hair hung gracefully around her shoulders. The redhead wasn’t traditionally pretty, but she had a beautiful smile and was quite striking. Simon smiled at her like a love-struck teenager. I flipped the picture over, but all it said was St. Tropez 2004. I wondered who the redhead was. Simon was clearly crazy about her. Of course a man like Simon had someone special in his life, probably several someone specials. How cute. I tossed the snapshot back in the box and slammed the armoire shut with a force I hadn’t intended.
Dr. Evalyn Hewitt lived on the Ile St. Louis, the smaller of two islands in the center of Paris. Once Simon and I crossed the Pont Louis-Philippe, the bridge that connected the island to the Right Bank, it was as though I’d stepped into a small village.
I walked with Simon down narrow, cobbled one-way streets past shops, galleries, restaurants and elegant seventeenth-century townhouses. We strolled past an ice cream parlor that had a line of customers so long it was winding down the sidewalk. Simon told me it was Berthillon’s, an ice cream parlor that had the best ice cream in the world.
Once we were away from the busy rue St-Louis-en-l’Ile, a short street running the length of the island, the side streets were much quieter and tranquil, and it was possible to catch glimpses of the Seine between the buildings lining the quay. Residents of the island went about their daily business, pulling grocery and laundry carts down the street and relaxing at cafés.
Dr. Hewitt lived on the rue Poulletier in a building built in 1637, according to the plaque mounted on the outside of the honey-colored building. The building was a walk-up and I could see Simon resisting the urge to laugh at my pained expression as I started up after him. Thankfully we were only going to the third floor.
Simon was just about to knock on Dr. Hewitt’s door when it was suddenly flung open by a slender woman in her late sixties with short white hair pinned down on either side of her head by black barrettes. She wore a gray twinset and skirt.
“Dr. Hewitt?” asked Simon.
“Oh, yes. Do come in. I’ve been so looking forward to your visit, Monsieur Girard,” the woman said excitedly. She had an English accent but rolled the R ’s in Simon’s last name like a French native.
She stepped aside and we walked into a large spacious apartment. Our shoes clicked on the polished hardwood floors. The first floor of the apartment was decorated in what I would
“I should have killed that bastard when I had the chance!” exclaimed Simon through gritted teeth.
“I’m fine!” I quickly yanked the T-shirt down again. “Now get out of here so I can take a shower.”
Simon paused in the doorway of the bathroom before leaving. “Luc’s ex, Natasha, left some clothes behind that might fit you. They’re in the bedroom armoire.”
“Thanks.” I waited for him to go but he just stood there smiling at me. Was he expecting an invitation to wash my back? Like that would happen. I finally closed the door.
Natasha Girard had a much frillier and more feminine taste in clothing than I did. She was also a lot taller than me. The only things of hers I was willing to step out of the apartment in were a gray turtleneck sweater that covered the bruises on my neck and a pair of black slacks that fit just fine once the waistband was rolled up a couple of times.
While I was putting Natasha’s clothes back into their box at the bottom of the armoire, I found a snapshot. Two tanned, smiling couples stood on the beach. Simon’s brother, Luc, wearing an unflattering yellow Speedo and a red polo shirt, had his arm around a tall, willowy blonde in a pink string bikini. This had to be Natasha.
The other couple was made up of Simon and a curvy redhead in a black one-piece. Her gorgeous curly hair hung gracefully around her shoulders. The redhead wasn’t traditionally pretty, but she had a beautiful smile and was quite striking. Simon smiled at her like a love-struck teenager. I flipped the picture over, but all it said was St. Tropez 2004. I wondered who the redhead was. Simon was clearly crazy about her. Of course a man like Simon had someone special in his life, probably several someone specials. How cute. I tossed the snapshot back in the box and slammed the armoire shut with a force I hadn’t intended.
Dr. Evalyn Hewitt lived on the Ile St. Louis, the smaller of two islands in the center of Paris. Once Simon and I crossed the Pont Louis-Philippe, the bridge that connected the island to the Right Bank, it was as though I’d stepped into a small village.
I walked with Simon down narrow, cobbled one-way streets past shops, galleries, restaurants and elegant seventeenth-century townhouses. We strolled past an ice cream parlor that had a line of customers so long it was winding down the sidewalk. Simon told me it was Berthillon’s, an ice cream parlor that had the best ice cream in the world.
Once we were away from the busy rue St-Louis-en-l’Ile, a short street running the length of the island, the side streets were much quieter and tranquil, and it was possible to catch glimpses of the Seine between the buildings lining the quay. Residents of the island went about their daily business, pulling grocery and laundry carts down the street and relaxing at cafés.
Dr. Hewitt lived on the rue Poulletier in a building built in 1637, according to the plaque mounted on the outside of the honey-colored building. The building was a walk-up and I could see Simon resisting the urge to laugh at my pained expression as I started up after him. Thankfully we were only going to the third floor.
Simon was just about to knock on Dr. Hewitt’s door when it was suddenly flung open by a slender woman in her late sixties with short white hair pinned down on either side of her head by black barrettes. She wore a gray twinset and skirt.
“Dr. Hewitt?” asked Simon.
“Oh, yes. Do come in. I’ve been so looking forward to your visit, Monsieur Girard,” the woman said excitedly. She had an English accent but rolled the R ’s in Simon’s last name like a French native.
She stepped aside and we walked into a large spacious apartment. Our shoes clicked on the polished hardwood floors. The first floor of the apartment was decorated in what I would
Similar Books
