A/N: Thank you to those of you, whom review, add and continue to read this story, you rock my socks!

Twilight and its character belong to Mrs. Meyer. I own nothing, but I do, however, have a subscription to Vogue and can make a wicked good grilled chicken sandwich with honey almond glaze.

Read and enjoy.

BPOV

"Dad," I called setting down the mail on the counter, looking around the house and coming up empty.

Where was he? "Père!"

"Bella?" He asked, his voice coming from somewhere outside. Sure enough, he was in the back, pruning a rose bush. Before he retired this place looked like a wasteland, now it was nothing short of a secret garden, time that wasn't spent fishing was spent out there. You'd never figure Charlie for a green thumb. "I was just finishing up…"

"Charlie, who else calls you dad? Do I have a brother or sister you haven't told me about?" He just smiled and touched my cheek lovingly.

"Only you, ducky…only you."

I rolled my eyes at the nickname and went back inside to start gathering lunch. It was nice being the only one but to my father it was bittersweet. I knew he had wanted more children, when I was younger, he mentioned adopting in passing but when he saw my reaction the idea was quickly forgotten. I had always been terrified of losing him, sharing my only parent with someone else was horrifying—selfish as it was my reasons ran deep.

Just being with my dad took some of the edge off the fuckery that was my life. I had slept with a stranger and somehow it felt deeper than it ever did with Jacob. But then he turned out to be, well, a damn stranger, one that made me angry and attempted to make me feel inferior and unwanted. The worst reaction of all was that my body literally ached for the man; it had only been two days and I craved him. It was driving me mad, my flat was tortuous—the wall he took me against taunted me. The bed laughed and mirror judged—hence the trip to the one place that was always safe.

Dad.

Soon enough lunch was ready; grilled chicken sandwich with a honey almond glaze and sugarplum ice cream.

"Ducky, you take such good care of me." Damn with the ducky already! Will I ever live it down?

We ate lunch in silence, much like we always did, but it was a nice comfortable silence.

"So," he stared on his ice cream once his plate was reduced to crumbs. "What's the matter? Not that I don't love to see you here but, well, you were a surprise."

Internally I snorted; no truer statement had ever been said.

"Rien, papa, juste—Nothing…I just needed to see you, that's all. Do you like the glaze, I made it yesterday?" He nodded and let the subject drop. This is what I loved about him. He didn't push me, knowing that when I needed to talk I'd find him. I looked up to find him watching me, like he always watched me; I even knew the words that would come out of his mouth.

"You look so much like your mother, Isabella, it's unbelievable. The same lips and nose…" He trailed off, fighting back a chocked sob. With his gaze firmly set on the wall behind me I knew he was studying her picture with love—I couldn't sympathize, empathize or find traces of either one.

Renee.

She was a spoiled French socialite with too much attention, money, and even more boyfriends. Yes, she was beautiful. Jolie everyone used to say when her name was mentioned and I did look like a carbon copy except for my brown eyes. My father had kind eyes, warm and deep while the blue eyes I use to see on glossy magazine covers were cold and flat.

"You even have that je ne sai quoi that makes people want to know you, just like she did." I swallowed the bile that rose in my throat. I was nothing like her.

She had met my father, a shy American police officer on vacation and seduced him. They married young and about a heartbeat later, I was born. I suppose Renee never figured she'd get pregnant at all yet alone so quickly and I had a nagging feeling that if it hadn't been for Charlie she would have gotten rid of me…in a way she did. My father never told me why she left but the house cleaners at my grandfather's house had been there and loved to gossip, oblivious to the fact that I was still in the room. At five, I really was too young to learn that particular story. I cried for days, but at least I was informed.

"I'm proud of the women you've become Bella." You wouldn't if you knew what I did, on a Sunday no less. "Renee would have been proud of you, honey; she would have been beaming if she were here. I know she would."

"Sure." He gave me a scolding look but said nothing, choosing to get and check the mail instead of argue. This subject had been exhausted. Biology be damned, she wasn't my mother and he knew how I felt.

I was two weeks old when she left. She said this wasn't what her life was meant to be. Her marriage was just a mistake and she couldn't be trapped into it by another mistake, me. I never knew her, but I knew of her, everyone in Paris did. She was infamous for going to parties, drinking and screwing anything with a dick and there were whispers of female lovers, which would have been fine had she had the grace to divorce Charlie first. She'd call days after my birthday, late enough that I was always woken up to receive the call. It was as if someone was forcing her hand and I could never hear her over the raging music in the background. Grand père had been so heartbroken that she left me and Charlie both that whenever Charlie had to work—which was very often—he'd take over. She died when I was nine and I didn't find out from a loved one, nope, I read it on the cover of tabloid trash a girl threw at my lap after yelling that my mother was a whore. The headline read that Pairs' party girl Renee Swan and young lover, Luca, died on the scene in the French Rivera. On some road in Cote d'Azur she wrapped her shinny pretentious car around a tree; both she and her sex toy were intoxicated. Fuck with the damn drunk excuse.

I couldn't see how my father still loved her…she was horrible.

"Dad. I have to head back but I'm having a showing next week, will you come?" I knew he would but I asked anyway.

"Of course, Bella, I'll be there." When he looked up and smiled, I wondered when exactly my father had aged and my heart gave a familiar shudder at the thought of losing him.

He walked me out, catching me when I tripped over the same uneven brick paver. Sure I could maneuver on heels, pin thin stilettos, and heeled boots but that was now and for some reason wherever I came home, I reverted back to my less coordinated self.

"You know I don't like that bike." He admonished, waving to his neighbor.

"I know, but Dad I'm safe…you worry too much. Who's that?" I thought I heard him mutter something about my being all he had but I couldn't be sure.

"Emmett McCarty, he, his new wife and twins are my new neighbors." I arched a brow. "What, Montmartre is a wonderful place to raise children, I should know." I could tell my dad liked the man, though why I didn't know.

"Hey, Swan my man. The wife sends a Hey, Charlie, from inside the bubble." The huge man called loudly from his yard, waving excitedly like a child, "Hello, little Swan, nice wheels!"

I waved timidly. How did he know me? Charlie gave me a sheepish grin and I knew how.

"Bye, Ducky. Please be safe…don't drive too fast."

I promised to safe, but skirted the request to slow down.

xXXx

"Umm," He moaned against my skin, while his hands ghosted over my hips and legs. "Open your legs for me…I want to feel you."

I complied almost instantly, and felt his finger caress my wet slit, over, up and down, but never in. His thick arousal twitched against my leg and suddenly the need to have him, any part of him, inside of me became rabid. But he intended on teasing me. Bastard. How would he react if I took charge and sunk my own finger in my pussy? I blushed at the thought.

"Isabella, my dear, you're blushing, why? I've seen, touched and," he licked the underside of my breast, "tasted everything. I know your body and it knows me."

It was true; my body knew him, called for him and warmed at his very proximity.

"Have I told you how arousing that is, your skin is so warm and soft. I could just devour you, sweet girl." I stifled a moan as his lips wrapped around my nipple, tugging it gently, "No need to keep your sounds from me, I've heard them before. I need to hear to hear you now." His skilled fingers ran up my ribs at painstaking pace that had me panting. He bit my nipple and I cried out, loudly.

"That's my girl." He moved to the other nipple and lavished it with his mouth much like the first on only he didn't bite…he sucked.

"Carlisle, J'ai besoin de toi. S'il vous plaît!"

"Not yet…patience, Isabella." In a searing kiss, I felt everything I had felt the night he approached me at the bar; uncontrollable desire and a sense of hopelessness. "You'll have me soon enough."

Carlisle trailed open mouthed kisses down my sternum, across my ribs and belly. He seemed to have a fascination with my hipbones but I didn't mind, quite the opposite in fact. Feeling his warm breath so close to my pussy was delicious torment—the type apparently only he could inflict on me. He placed a kiss on my mound and looked up at me with burning blue eyes that set me further on fire.

"Ou bien toi, grande Nuit, fille de Michel-Ange, Qui tors paisiblement dans une pose étrange, Tes appas façonnés aux bouches des Titans !"

Two fingers plunged deep, caressed me and pulled out. He did it again bringing his mouth to my clit, nibbling at the swollen bud. I was too close, my skin stretched taut over my bones, every cell in my body ignited prepared to fight a foreign war. I didn't want to fight, I wanted to surrender to him and to the sensations he was creating. Something had to give. I clenched around him but then he was gone. Panicked my eyes snapped open to find him hovering over me.

"You have beautiful eyes, Isabella. Look at me."

He filled me in one slow unhurried thrust. Pulling out he entered me even slower than before, making sure I felt every inch of his impressively thick inches.

Damn, Carlisle! My eyes rolled back in my head as his pace quickened, his powerful hips nailing me to the bed each time.

"Isabella, you're close. I can feel you…stop fighting it. Come for me, sweet girl."

I woke suddenly, before I came. Fuck! It must be some cruel twisted joke that my subconscious had Carlisle quoting poetry, especially that poem. Sleep was useless at this point and I needed a shower. After cooling off, I changed the damp sheets and climbed into bed to read. It was only after the second page that I realized that I was reading his book, yet again.

A tear rolled down my cheek before I dashed it away. I had read this book over and over while curled up in this bed, trying to imagine what the man that wrote with such passion and intelligence would be like, but more so what he would look like. The book jacket was devoid of a picture and held the barest of biographies.

Dr. Carlisle W. Cullen, professor of Gothic literature Northwestern University, holds doctorate in French language and literature, a masters in Literature with concentration on Gothic works.

"I live by a code my father set for me since my early boyhood; 'The world has many ways of injuring you, it will try to beat you weak but it is the man that stands up and faces the blows with bravery that lives life without regrets'. Since his passing my mistakes have become sharper but never will I regret them."

Dr. Cullen resides in Chicago.

I cried myself to sleep that night, unsure why, mentally adding another name to the list of people whom thought of me as a mistake: Renee, Jacob, Sam, and Professor Cullen.

I was sure the last one hurt worst of all, whether because it was fresh or because he meant more to me, I didn't know. It was absurd that he would mean anything to me at all but…sex created a connection and forgot to explain them to me.

xXXx

The past two days had dragged in a combination of school, last minute details for my showing next week and painting.

People around me were acting off color. The Gallery called to ask permission to add another artist to my show as if I was the owner and not them—fuck nepotism. I had no problem sharing the spotlight, and in fact, I hoped this other person would take it all. Alice was acting strange—stranger than normal but I figured she was working on something new and left her to her genius. She really was such a talented designer but at this point she was controlled by her boss and given zero to no creative input—her own designs only saw the light of day when either of us wore them. Alice was the type of person you gave small limitations to but otherwise left to her own devices which was why her job often frustrated her. Charlie was skirting my calls, stuttering something about going deep-sea fishing and hanging up quickly.

I couldn't tell if something was brewing or if there was a gas leak in Paris.

As I rode through the streets I couldn't help but contemplate speeding past Sorbonne. I wasn't ready to face Professor Cullen today especially after that dissatisfying dream but if I didn't show up he'd know it was because of him and I'd be damned if I gave him the satisfaction of driving me away. France was my home and if one of us was going to run it would have to be him.

As I was parking my bike, I noticed more people were looking at me and for a moment, I thought I had forgotten something vital like a shirt…or pants. That's it! All of Paris has gone mad. I shrugged it off and got my things, paying special attention to not forget my helmet—I was always leaving it somewhere.

"Jolie Isabella, venez ici." The women from the tiny kiosk called.

"Bonjour, Gina, que voulez-vous? " Alice was the one that always bought the Vogue and she wasn't with me so I could only guess at what Gina wanted.

She handed me a thick Vogue and told me it was already paid for by Alice but I noticed another magazine, more than likely some tabloid rag but I said nothing about it. Alice called them her guilty pleasures. Thanked her and started walking away when Gina started to talk again. This women was too much and not in a good way.

"La bonne chance… ce qui vous pensent votre père penserait s'il étaient vivant ? Il aurait honte."

My grandfather? She had struck a nerve and knew it immediately.

" Qu'avez-vous à me dire? A partir de maintenant Gina ne mentionnent pas mon grand-père à moi, jamais. Compris."

I stormed off without bothering to check if she had agreed or not. More students were watching me, snickering or talking in hushed tones. What the fuck was going on? When I got to the classroom, it was empty but I noticed the small door beside the black board was ajar. I would have to be quite.

Sitting myself I pulled out the tabloid to see what Gina had been rambling on about and what I saw stunned my heart. My grand-père would be ashamed.

Splashed on the cover was a photo of a couple dancing on the Winston's dance floor. It was Professor Cullen and I. My dress had ridden up to mid thigh and my face was tilted to the side while he kissed my neck and griped my hips from behind. Had I not known better, I would have thought he was taking me there in the open because it sure looked that way. His face was blocked, he was unrecognizable but it was clear who I was. The headline mentioned me following in the path of my mother and questioned my late burst onto the scene and how many men I'd rack up. Towards the bottom, in a sardonic tone it wondered if I would meet her same fate coupled with a tiny picture of me on my bike.

Had I been standing I would have fallen over. My stomach fell to my feet. One time, one picture and everything was ruined.

"Isabel—Miss Swan you're early, an hour early." I could hardly hear him over the rushing sound of blood in my ears.

A picture says a thousand words but in France a picture like that screams one word repeatedly. Whore. Just like Renee.

"What's wrong? Are you sick? Bella! Answer me."

What would Charlie think when he saw it? We both had seen weekly covers of Renee in the very same embrace my photo showcased; head tossed back while a strange man put his hands all over her. In those moments I realized that he'd never be free of her, he looked at her replica everyday and it broke his heart. I hated her for that. Was I the same? Would all the years of my being a constant reminder finally catch up with me? Would he hate me as he should hate her? I would lose him and then I'd be alone.

"Breathe into the bag, Isabella! In and out." He put a bag to my mouth but my breath kept coming in wild gasps, as my heart beat against my ribs. Grabbing my hands, he placed them on his chest, "Breath like me, sweet girl, like me. Feel my chest moving in and out, copy me."

After a while of blowing into the paper bag, I settled down and was finally able to breathe on my own. Both my hands were still incased in his. Professor Cullen's chest was just as hard as I had remembered and beneath my palm his heart beat pounded fiercely. He felt like home against me, in every way—something I had never felt before. Surprised by the surge of emotion I saw in his blue eyes I ripped my hands away from him. A flicker of disappointment swept his face before he filed it away.

"Better?" He questioned his voice thick. Noticing that we weren't in the classroom I looked around. Book shelves, dust and desk—when had he found time to drag me to a cave. "We're in the side room. It's more like a closet but I couldn't have you hyperventilating out there. I didn't want you to be embarrassed."

I flinched and looked down. I was already embarrassed.

Carl-Professor Cullen was watching me carefully, worrying his bottom lip while assessing every minute detail of my face for some sign that I was about to melt down again. I wasn't going to melt down, especially in front of him. But my body betrayed me, his eyes were bluer than I had remembered and framed in those glasses it made me want to press my lips to his eyebrows, let him hold me till the pictures faded.

Remember the picture Bella. You're not her.

I hopped off the desk and pushed myself as far from him as possible in the tiny room, and I swore I could see his face fall a tiny bit before he shoved his hand hastily in his pockets. Mon Deiu, he looked adorable.

"I know I don't have the right to ask, but are you going to be fine?"

Instead of telling him, I dropped the magazine on the desk and walked out. Behind the closed door, a low Fuck was uttered.

My sentiments exactly Professor.

A/N: Let me know what you think ? Love it? Hate it?

Translations:

*Père\\\\\Dad

* Rien, papa, juste\\\\\Nothing, dad, just

* Carlisle, J'ai besoin de toi. S'il vous plaît!\\\\\Carlisle, I need you. Please!

*Ou bien toi, grande Nuit, fille de Michel-Ange, Qui tors paisiblement dans une pose étrange, Tes appas façonnés aux bouches des Titans !\\\\\ (Quoted form Baudelaire's poem L'Ideal) Or you, great Night, daughter of Michelangelo, Who calmly contort, reclining in a strange pose Your charms molded by the mouths of Titans!

*Jolie, Isabella, venez ici...Pretty Isabella, come here.

*Bonjour, Gina, que voulez-vous?...Hello, Gina, what do you want ?

* La bonne chance… ce qui vous pensent votre père penserait s'il étaient vivant ? Il aurait honte\\\\\Good luck...what do you think your grandfather would think if he were alive? He would be ashamed.

* Qu'avez-vous à me dire? A partir de maintenant Gina ne mentionnent pas mon grand-père à moi, jamais. Compris\\\\\What did you say to me? From now on Gina don't mention my grandfather to me, never. Understood.