Free A Paris Affair by Tatiana De Rosnay

affectionate kisses he would bestow on the whole family when he came home to Carlton Street in the evenings.
    “Handsome guy,” murmured another female student, standing beside Hunter and watching his car move away into traffic.
    Hunter’s best friend in Paris was taking the same classes as her. She was from Connecticut and her name was Taylor. She was a tall and slightly overweight brunette with surprising green eyes.
    Taylor thought she was in love with the professor. Sometimes, sitting in the attic room she rented on Rue de l’Universit é , she would spend the whole night talking about Jerome D.’s hands, or his eyelashes, or the color of his irises.
    “He’s married,” Hunter would repeatedly remind her.
    “I know,” Taylor would reply. “And his wife is beautiful.”
    “The brunette in the car.”
    “Yeah, the brunette in the car with the two little girls. A perfect family.”
    “You should leave families in peace.”
    “God, Hunter—you’re so American, it makes me sad sometimes. We’re in Paris. Husbands have flings here. Back home, they’re all too scared. I wouldn’t mind being one of the professor’s flings, I can tell you that!”
    “What about his wife? And his children?”
    “I could care less about his wife and his children.”
    “And afterward?”
    “Afterward? Nothing. I go home and marry a nice, fat Yank who’ll give me four kids. But at least I’ll have the memory of my French lover.”
    “I think that’s disgusting.”
    “No man as handsome as he is can be hogged by one woman. Madame D. should have thought about that when she married him.”
    *   *   *
    From her hiding place, Hunter examines Madame D.’s face. Hair tied back in a bow, high forehead, harmonious features. Taylor was right: Madame D. is beautiful. Beautiful in the way only women in their early thirties can be, with that mixture of budding maturity and still tangible youthfulness. She is elegant, too, in her black suit and stiletto heels. A true Parisian lady.
    Concealed behind a tree, Hunter is close enough to the professor’s wife to see that she appears worried, her forehead wrinkled by faint lines. She sighs. Leaning against her car, she chews on her key fob. The little girls aren’t with her today.
    Students swarm from the building and divide into small groups on the sidewalk. The professor is a head taller than the crowd around him. His wife spots him, opens the door, and sits behind the steering wheel. He joins her. She doesn’t look at him. Hunter notices that they do not kiss. The car speeds away.
    Hunter waits for Taylor.
    “Did you skip class?” Taylor asks when she arrives.
    “No, I got here too late. I was waiting for you.”
    Taylor is exultant. “Hey, guess what? The professor’s a womanizer!”
    “How do you know?”
    “I met a girl who slept with him. Apparently he’s famous for it. All you have to do is go to his office, do a bit of flirting, and wham bam thank you ma’am!”
    Hunter remains silent. She thinks about the little girls in the back of the car, and of Madame D.’s somber face. She doesn’t know why, but she wants to cry.
    *   *   *
    “Miss Logan?”
    She turns around and she is caught in the full glare of the professor’s charming smile.
    “Do you live near here?” he asks, gesturing to Place Saint-Sulpice.
    She stands up. “No, I live on Avenue Marceau.”
    He sits down, and she follows suit.
    “So, you must be staying with the viscountess.”
    “Yes,” Hunter admits, feeling intimidated.
    The fountain beside them makes a pretty, musical sound.
    “I often go for walks in the Luxembourg,” she says. “With Proust.”
    “Good idea.”
    She can feel his golden-brown gaze touching her cheeks, her forehead, her lips.
    “By the way, your last essay was excellent, if I remember correctly.”
    “Thank you.”
    “You don’t have to thank me. It was very well written.”
    She looks up at him, blushing slightly.
    He says, “We could go for a drink if