Seduction by Molly Cochran Page B

forward. I tried not to watch, but I think Joelle elbowed him in the neck.
    She cleared her throat and turned back to me. “I know!” she repeated with the exact same inflection as before.
    I turned to her wearily. I didn’t want to talk. I wanted to listen to Belmondo, not Joelle.
    “We shall all go out together!” She clapped her hands together in a parody of sincerity. “Tomorrow. Yes?”
    All? Who did she mean by all ? My eyes slid toward Jacques, who was groping his way toward Joelle’s face again.
    “We shall show you the sights of Paris!” she exclaimed. “You can see Belmondo again, yes?”
    “Belmondo’s going to come?”
    “Of course!” she chirped. “Belmondo, others . . .” She looked over her shoulder at Jacques. “You will make many friends, okay? I will arrange everything.”
    “Uh, okay,” I said just as Belmondo finished playing. So I’d missed the end of his gig.
    It was all downhill after that. Jacques kept groping Joelle, Joelle flirted with Belmondo, and I was getting really tired. When I checked the time, it was nearly two in the morning, and I was tired from cooking all day.
    “I think I’d better take you home,” Belmondo said. I nodded. Joelle wanted to come with us, but he put her off.
    “You were really good,” I told him in the car, which was, by the way, a sea-green Jaguar.
    He smiled like it didn’t matter that he was a brilliant guitarist and a world-class singer.
    “How long have you been playing?”
    “A long time,” he said.
    “Belmondo?”
    “Yes, Katarine ?”
    I liked how that sounded. “Are you . . . are you our landlord?”
    He laughed out loud. “I suppose,” he said, pulling up on the street in front of the house. “My family has owned this building for the past several hundred years.”
    “Several hundred ?”
    He shrugged. “Europe is ancient,” he said, his voice drawing me closer. “Our culture is ancient. Our souls are ancient.”
    “Er . . . okay.” I cleared my throat. It was very hard to be so close to him. “But there was one other thing—” I began.
    “Yes,” he said, taking my hand. “Always for you, my answer is yes.”
    I was going to ask him what his first (or last) name was, but at that moment I saw Peter climbing the front steps to the house. “I’d better go,” I said, suddenly nervous. Belmondo and I weren’t doing anything wrong, but I still felt as if I were betraying Peter.
    “I’ll drive you to the door,” he said.
    “No!” I looked back at Peter. “That is, I’ll walk.”
    Belmondo knew what was going on. He sighed. “Do you love him?”
    I swallowed. “Yes,” I said hoarsely. “I’m sorry. I wish I didn’t.” He started to get out of the car, but I stopped him. “Just let me go,” I said.
    He nodded reluctantly as I sprang open the door and ran after Peter. Halfway across the courtyard, though, I turned around and looked back at Belmondo. He was standing outside the car, his head bowed.
    I forced myself to turn away. Tonight didn’t mean anything, I told myself.
    Over and over.

CHAPTER
    •
    THIRTEEN

    “Peter!” I shouted as I sprinted up the marble steps. “Wait up!”
    He turned around in time to see Belmondo’s Jag speed down the street. “Who’s that?”
    I ignored him. “Where’ve you been?” I demanded.
    He smiled crookedly. “Brussels,” he said. “Can you believe it?” He stuck his key in the door. “There’s a trucking company—”
    “Why didn’t you come to my dinner?”
    “What? What dinner?”
    “Sophie said you’d be there,” I said as he pushed the heavy door open. Brazilian samba music was playing, nearly drowned out by the voices of people who’d had too much to drink.
    Peter closed the door again so the two of us were alone outside. “She didn’t tell me anything,” he said. “Not that I could have come anyway.”
    “Right,” I said abstractedly. I tried to remember exactly what Sophie had said. Peter should see your talent. Yes, that was