Free A Paris Affair by Tatiana De Rosnay Page A

you like.”
    She can no longer hear the fountain, only the sound of his voice.
    “There’s a nice caf é just over there. What do you say?”
    She notices he is carrying a large folder.
    “You know what this is?” he asks.
    “No.”
    “Guess.”
    “Your next class?”
    “Wrong! It’s a book.”
    “On Proust?”
    He laughs. “No, I’ve already done that! This is a novel. My first novel.”
    “Do you have a publisher?”
    “Yes. These are the final proofs. I’m correcting them at the moment. I was on my way to see my publisher when I met you.”
    “Will it be published soon?”
    “In the fall.”
    “What’s it about?”
    “Love.”
    Hunter feels herself blush again.
    The professor smiles as he looks at her. Then he strokes her cheek. “How pretty you are, Miss Logan. And how afraid of me you seem!”
    “No,” she says, standing up again. “I’m not afraid of you.”
    “And yet you’re trembling.…”
    He takes her hand in his. He’s right: she is trembling.
    “I’m not going to eat you.”
    “Please…”
    The professor lets go of her hand. “Relax.”
    She says nothing.
    “Let’s go for a walk in the Luxembourg. Just the three of us: you, me, and Marcel.”
    *   *   *
    Hunter wished the huge yellowish clawfoot bathtub in which she lay would swallow her. The water was no longer even tepid; it was just plain cold.
    Savannah hammered at the bathroom door. “Hey, Boston, have you drowned in there? Your pal Taylor has called three times tonight!”
    “I’m coming,” Hunter muttered.
    She emerged from the tub and wrapped herself in a towel. Then she lay on the floor, her feet raised up on the bidet. She dreaded talking to Taylor, who would undoubtedly guess that she was hiding something.
    It all began yesterday, in the Luxembourg. The two of them walked under the chestnut trees. The weather was perfect. Around them, people were playing tennis, running, sunbathing. Jerome D. told her about his book. She listened dreamily. He held her hand, and she made no objection. She had the impression that people were looking at them kindly, as if they were happily in love, and this thrilled her.
    Then he kissed her. Intoxicated, she let him. For a brief instant the sad face of Madame D. and her little girls flashed through Hunter’s mind. Then Evan’s face, too. But she pushed them away. It was only a kiss, after all.…
    But the kiss did not end. It became less innocent. In the shadow of a chestnut tree, Jerome D. became bolder. His hands brushed her breasts, her hips. He rubbed himself against her, drank in her kiss.
    “I have an apartment, on Rue de Vaugirard,” he whispered into her hair. “You want to come? It’s nice there.”
    Hunter stiffened.
    “What’s the matter?” Jerome D. asked.
    Hunter freed herself from his embrace. “You’re married.”
    He laughed. “So?”
    She looked at him, dumbfounded. “But … b-b-but…,” she stammered.
    He drew her close to him again. “My wife doesn’t know anything.”
    Hunter pushed him away. “How do you know?”
    Surprised, he looked at her more attentively. “I’m sure she doesn’t.”
    Hunter took a few steps back. “I think your wife looks sad. She knows you’re cheating on her.”
    He laughed again. “So you think this is cheating, do you? A little kiss on a sunny afternoon? Seemed to me you were rather enjoying it—”
    “Everyone in the university says you have affairs with your students.”
    He smiled mockingly. “Oh, so you’re worried about my bad reputation?”
    “I’m not afraid of you or your reputation. I despise you. If you were my husband, or my father, I would be ashamed.”
    Jerome D. gave her a sardonic look. “Poor little American girl,” he hissed. “You really need to get laid more often!”
    Then, with a shrug, and a quick adjustment of his shirt collar, he walked away.
    *   *   *
    Jerome D.’s book was published. It was displayed in bookstore windows and the author’s photograph appeared in