Lost in Paris Elizabeth Thompson (romantic story to read .TXT) 📖

Her tone changed to something more coquettish and she started proposing… alternate arrangements. If I didn’t know her so well, I might’ve worried about what she was getting us in for. Alas, my friend is an actress. She takes on personas and uses them to her advantage. I’ve seen her do it before, but never in such a dangerous situation.

But it worked. Monsieur Arpin, slack jawed, murmuring about Helen’s amiable nature, said he might be persuaded to accommodate us if she was agreeable to certain terms.

I was sick to my stomach as I watched Helen cozy up to the wretch, teasing him with smoldering eyes and a sultry purr.

The Helen that I knew would never trade her body for rent. It was… prostitution. I had to keep reminding myself it was just a role. Arpin was fully under her spell.

When he tried to touch her, she sidestepped him, informing him she would dictate the terms of their new arrangement; he was to go away for two days and anticipate the pleasures to come.

When he insisted on sampling the new terms immediately, Helen twisted his arm and lifted her knee to his groin and scolded him.

He was a short, stocky bull of a man, half-crazed with lust. I was afraid if she pushed him too far, he would turn the tables and take what he wanted.

Helen was playing with fire. All he needed to do was push her backward and he could dominate her. But instead, he whimpered in submission.

She held up two fingers and told him that during his two-day wait, he was not to talk to us. If he did, the wait would reset. She would punish him by making him wait another two days.

Then she gave him a shove toward the door, telling him to leave.

Before he could utter another word, Helen shut the door in his face and locked it. I was mesmerized by the power she held over this swine, and petrified by the way she wound him up only to push him out.

Finally, Helen broke character and bowed. Then she made a face and pretended to gag.

I declared her performance award-worthy, telling her that for a moment she had me convinced she meant to deliver on her promise.

What if he called to collect early? He’d already changed the rules on us once. What if he barged in on us in the middle of the night?

Frowning as if she hadn’t considered the possibility, Helen said we would find another flat within the next two days. In the meantime, we would move the dresser in front of the door. That way he wouldn’t be able to surprise us.

It didn’t make me feel better. But Helen sat on one of the beds, applying bloodred lipstick to her mouth, blotting her lips together, and studying her reflection in the compact she’d pulled from her purse as if she didn’t have a care in the world.

She turned to me and lifted her left brow in that worldly, knowing way of hers, telling me that since we were in Paris, I needed to understand that men would be men and if we don’t outsmart them, they would devour us.

With no security and no money, I was suddenly and shamefully homesick.

Those feelings weren’t only spurred because I felt I’d fallen into waters too deep. It wasn’t even noon, and Helen was urging me to go to a bar with her. She said we were to meet new friends at a place called Dingo Bar. After all that transpired, I don’t understand why Helen was so insistent on going to a bar midmorning.

Come to think of it, I couldn’t remember why moving to Paris had ever seemed like a good idea.

Five

December 31, 2018—10:00 p.m.

London, England

By the time we make it across town to Jemma’s flat in Chelsea, the party is in full swing. Festive jazz plays over the sound system. The lounge and kitchen are so crammed that people are spilling out into the back garden.

“The key is to invite everyone on the block,” Jemma says from her post behind the makeshift bar in the lounge. One thin, tapered hand holds a cigarette; there’s a highball glass in the other. “Half the time they don’t come, but then at least they don’t mind if you have a proper soirée.”

She parks her cigarette between her lips, adds ice to a glass, fills it with vodka and a splash of cranberry, and hands it to me. “Drink up, lovie. It’s bad luck to ring in the New Year sober.”

I touch the glass to hers and take a sip, recalling that Marla said something similar about New Year’s luck.

Speaking of the devil, I look around for her, but it appears she’s been swallowed up by the party. I wonder if she’s having trouble around all this free-flowing liquor.

I throw back the drink and shoulder my way through the bottleneck in the hallway. I finally make my way through a cloud of smoke and strong perfume into the crisp air of the patio, which is slightly warmed by tall heat lamps and decorated with strings of blinking Christmas lights and randomly placed bunches of mistletoe.

Cressida is out here talking to Danny, a guy she’s had an on-again, off-again relationship with for the better part of this year and whom I’ve never formally met for some reason. She looks posh in her short black dress. With all those beads at the neckline, it has to be expensive. Well, if it’s in Cressida’s closet, of course it’s expensive.

Danny’s leather jacket is draped over her shoulders. She’s facing him, and his hands are parked on her ass.

Underneath the Christmas lights, the sprayed silver glitter in her blonde hair makes it look iridescent platinum.

“Happy New Year,” I say to Danny. He answers with a nod, then turns his chin upward and blows a series of white smoke rings into the inky sky. Danny works in computers and wears horn-rimmed glasses. It’s hard