Pont Des Arts.
Kirill didn't know what he was doing here.
It was a place for lovers, and Kirill did not do lover. He didn't date. Assassins didn't date. They didn't do wine and dinner and flowers. And yet he was here, in Paris, walking down Pont Des Arts, holding hands with a woman he still hadn't kissed or slept with, after having a meal at the most romantic place on earth- the fucking Eiffel Tower. Gretkov would laugh himself sick.
They sat down for a short while to rest Michelle's aching feet. He saw another eagerly grinning couple taking a crooked trajectory to the side of the bridge, their arms entwined like vines while the guy fastened a lock in a tiny space in the already overcrowded railing. They walked off in the same aimless fashion, giggling and French kissing like teenagers.
Well, at least somebody is getting some, he thought. Though you can forget about me doing the padlock thing.
"You look moody."
Kirill's eyes darted across to see Michelle looking at him bemusedly.
She seemed to observe him so carefully. He did not think he gave anything away. He was trained not to. But the façade could only hold for so long. There were times his feelings overwhelmed him. And then there were the headaches…such bad headaches. There were days he would be sitting by the bed, head in his hands, rocking to and fro, the pain unbearable. Moments he would remember a kill, a gunshot, and he would awake on the floor, sweaty and shivering, not knowing what time of day it was and how he got there.
Kirill looked lost, almost haunted. Michelle could see secrets burdened him. She half wondered what they were, but then thought it was best not to wonder.
They had arrived in Paris in one piece, though the plane had circled around the airport undecidedly more than thrice before diving in for landing. She had panicked again, asking Kirill to translate what the captain had been saying. Unbeknownst to her, he had not been exactly truthful, but he had thought it best not to be. She would have been slightly more agitated had she found out the rudder was playing up and the pilots were trying to find a good way to manoeuvre the plane to reach ground safely.
The landing was undoubtedly the bumpiest she had ever experienced. She had clutched onto Kirill's hand the whole time, her tiny grip vice like. He didn't want to tell her, but it was almost painful. He had to repeat to her to let go of him when the craft had come to a complete stop.
They had gotten a cab together to their respective hotels. Fortunately, and to her great surprise, Kirill spoke fluent, accent-less French. She'd hoped he hadn't caught her ogling him shamelessly as the rapid-fire words fell off his tongue, but then again he was probably too preoccupied with speaking to the driver, a rude, disgruntled man who kept jabbering away in his native dialect with a cigar rolling around in his mouth. The suitcases! Oh they were too large. They were too heavy! Did he really expect them to carry that tonne of weight from the platform? He was just about to go on break and pick his kids up early from school before the ex-wife got to them, and there they were, just expecting them to taxi them to the city. Tourists! Pah!
After much flustering and blustering, they were squashed together in the back, a suitcase jammed onto the seat next to them. The front passenger seat was already taken- by a hideous mountain of paperwork that the cabbie either did not notice or bother to clear for them.
His demeanour worsened when Michelle timidly asked Kirill to tell him to ditch the cigar before they left, as she hated tobacco, and the driver had glared at her in utter disdain before flinging the offending object out the window.
"T'es content?!" he boomed while gesturing forcefully out the window. "T'es content, petit dame? Pah!"
He didn't speak much on the way to the city, except to burst out in a violent torrent of cursing against the upending traffic. Michelle was annoyed, but her mind was focussed on other things, like Kirill's thigh banged up against her own. It was making her think very naughty thoughts, though she was too tired by now to act on them. It didn't help that he was circling her kneecap with a smooth long finger either, while absentmindedly staring out the window as if oblivious to the fact he was making her flushed and sweaty.
They were staying in near vicinity to one another. She had chosen an apartment hotel on the Seine, while Kirill had opted for the Westin, where Gretkov usually stayed. It was no use staying in a dingy motel when he didn't have to creep around the streets at night with his gear, lurking in the shadows waiting to shoot.
It was mid afternoon when they finally reached Paris. Michelle looked dead, and expressed a wish to crash. She had tried to give him money for her share of the ride, but Kirill had refused it. He'd taken her luggage into the lobby, ignoring the yelled obscenities the cabbie had cried as he did so. She'd been grateful for the help. They'd agreed to meet for dinner before she sleepily checked in.
Kirill did not go straight to his hotel. The driver was still grumbling under his breath, but a big fat bill helped shut him up. They drove around the city, up the Seine, past the Louvre, the Palais Bourbon. He was about to take out a cigarette from his coat and light up, when he stopped himself, remembering what Michelle had said about tobacco.
"Elle a fait vous quittez uh?" the cab driver said, watching him closely from the mirror.
Kirill made a non-committal nod.
"Ah, femmes, femmes," the driver continued passionately. "Ne peut pas vivre avec ou sans eux….. femmes, femmes…bah!"
Kirill did not hear the rest. They were just passing the Tour de Eiffel. That was when he got the mad idea.
He ordered the cabbie to stop. Too astonished to admonish him, the cabbie did as he was told.
"Attendez ici," he said curtly as he shoved a hundred franc note in the driver's hand.
The cabbie opened his hand, his greedy eyes glued to the bill. "Oui, oui monsieur, j'attendrai, j'attendrai…."
He fingered the bill carefully, greedily, as he switched the engine off and flicked on the hazard lights.
Kirill knew it would be near impossible to get a booking, but the clerk had been gay and stumbling all over him as soon as he had seen him. All he had to do was give some smouldering looks, another hundred franc bill, and the poor guy was ready to eat out of his hand. A reservation for tonight? Well of course it would be difficult, not impossible of course, of course, but difficult…but of course monsieur was too kind…the tip was appreciated…there happened to have been an unfortunate cancellation just an hour ago…of course he'd be happy to reserve this for monsieur, anything for monsieur…no trouble, no trouble at all…
He finally made his way to the Westin, satisfied, with an almost polite cab driver who had remained eerily silent the entire drive. He even offered to take in his baggage, waving away the motions of the attentive concierge. Kirill had checked in, taken a short nap, showered, dressed, and was out the door again in a few hours.
He was in the Citadines lobby by six. She was already sitting there, reading a French paper. Her eyes shone and she waved enthusiastically when she saw him.
"Hi!" she said brightly.
Kirill couldn't answer. A lump had formed in his throat as soon as he'd spotted her. It was that dress. It was red, reached mid thigh and fit her like a glove, dipping low and cupping her gorgeous breasts. His imagination was in overload. Bed, he thought. Red sheets…
"Kirill? Is something wrong?" she said worriedly, but then grinned as he tried to speak but couldn't. "Ahh, it's my dress, isn't it?"
She was smiling from ear to ear now.
"You look…amazing," he said rather lamely.
She blushed. "Thanks. You look pretty- handsome yourself."
She looked down at the ground and stared at her shoes. "I'd hoped you'd like it."
Something tugged inside him. Nobody had worn something to try to please him before.
"It's not too short, is it?" she said anxiously, pulling down the smooth material.
"No," he responded immediately.
"There's probably a never 'too short' with men, though," she muttered drily.
"Not true," Kirill said, his eyes looking intensely into her's. The dress was alluring and certainly sexy, but not indecent.
"So, where should we go for dinner?" she asked abruptly. "I'm starving. I didn't eat anything this afternoon except that crusty baguette at the airport."
Kirill's lips stretched into a ghost of a smile. "I- made reservations."
Her eyes flew wide open. "Where?"
"It's a surprise."
She whistled. "You know how to charm a girl, Kirill."
He held out an elbow for her, and she slipped a hand through it, breathing in his spicy cologne, as they walked through the door.
Michelle was pretty floored when she found out just where they would be dining. She'd actually squealed. Twice. And she'd clapped her hands. She reminded herself of one of the three-year-old students she taught, at the moment when he'd finally found middle C without innumerable hinting. He'd danced around the room, all crazy arms and legs waving about and banging his hands together in utter delight. She was pretty sure she looked just as ridiculous at that very moment.
Kirill could not comprehend himself. I must be mad; he thought when they finally arrived, the suave music playing in the background, the candles on the table. He began reasoning that they would have to have dinner together before getting to bed together, and thus the reservation was only a logical step towards intended goal. Of course, going for the Eiffel Tower…it was flamboyant, certainly, but effective. Get real, Kirill, a dry honest voice in his head had said. You just chatted up a gay guy to impress a girl you just met less than 12 hours ago. He cleared his throat and told the dry voice to shut up, but it nudged at him constantly during the whole meal.
The evening was glamorous, the food adequate and overpriced, but the mood was there, under the soft light, their table giving a superb view of the city. They talked little, but exchanged glances often. Michelle thoroughly enjoyed the whole experience, though she could not help notice that the guy at the front desk kept looking at her, his face semi permanently curled into a giant scowl.
She leaned over the table and whispered.
"Kirill, that waiter."
Kirill's eyes were glued to the deep V that had formed at her chest when she'd moved forward. Up! He told his eyes. He forced his chin upwards, willing unfocused eyes towards her's.
"He's been giving me the dirtiest glares all dinner."
Kirill picked at the olives that still lay on his plate. "He was very friendly when I asked to make a reservation. It is not my fault he supposed I had other intentions."
Michelle giggled. "Did you seduce him, Kirill?"
Kirill gave a little grin. "I was merely- persuasive."
"I suppose he should have guessed anyway, as you were after a table for two," she said teasingly.
"He should have."
"Well, well done to you," Michelle said breezily, lifting her wine glass. "Here's to tonight."
Kirill clinked it stoically and drank, his eyes not leaving her's.
Michelle smiled, and then gave a little sigh. "He's doing it again. What a sour face!"
"We'll salute him too then." Kirill tipped his glass good-humouredly towards the direction of the clerk while Michelle laughed. "Salute, my friend." Kirill drank nonchalantly, emptying the contents.
Michelle stifled another giggle. "He's vanished behind his little desk. The maître d' is looking at him now, talking to him. He doesn't look happy."
"Serve him right. He shouldn't be flirting with his customers."
Michelle shook her head. "You are cruel, Kirill."
He rested a hand atop the small, circular table. "I can be."
"And will you be cruel to me?"
He looked at her amusedly. "For you…punishment could be pleasure."
Michelle flushed. "That was a good line."
He was enjoying looking at her, her face alight with happiness. Her hair fell in thick waves, tumbling down her shoulders and back, her skin glowing under the light of the soft lamps. He suddenly felt ravenous, and it wasn't for the chocolate mousse on the menu.
He dabbed his chin with his napkin. "How about we skip dessert?"
Her eyes were glittering, feverish. She nodded.
It was a nightmare finding a cab, so they walked, with Michelle leaning on Kirill's arm to support her rickety heels. They walked down the Seine, and ended up resting at a bench on the Pont Des Arts. Michelle's ankles were killing her, and she rubbed them tiredly as they sat overlooking the water, wondering just how stupid it was to wear the heels in the first place. Kirill was scowling, glancing at some crazy kids running around, their lips glued to one another. The sun was just beginning to set.
His arm was stretched out on the bench, though he wasn't touching her. He moved his hand to stroke the nape of her neck. When it was the right moment, he turned her to face him. His eyes were dark, and something lay behind them.
She was trembling. His gaze sparked something inside herself. She felt drawn like a moth to a flame. Then he went in for the kill.
Their mouths met hungrily, passionately. His arms went to press the small of her back, bringing her flush against him. She made a small contented sound, and it drove him mad. She tasted good, so good, as he palmed the back of her dress, feeling the curve just above her rear, all the while imagining that delicious body finally under him, naked…
Wrapped up in his lascivious thoughts, it was only some minutes later that he became aware she wasn't responding anymore and his tongue was lapping saltwater.
He pulled away quickly, and when he did his eyes widened in shock.
She was crying.
Tears were streaming silently down the corners of her eyes. She did not make any sounds, but her chest heaved up and down with suppressed sobs.
Fuck.
They spent the rest of the night in the Scottish Highlander pub on the Rue de Nevers, drinking. She'd apologized then, through sniffles, but she hadn't volunteered much information, and he hadn't asked. It was an ex boyfriend, that much he could get out. They'd been together for seven years, and it was still fresh. To be honest, he had nervously deflected talking about it, piling her up with whisky instead. He felt like he was sitting with a bomb, and under no circumstances did he want it to detonate.
He half carried her back to the Citadines around midnight. She'd immediately traipsed over to the elevator, and was halfway there when she realised Kirill wasn't following her.
"Aren't you coming?"
She looked at him enquiringly, expectantly. He took a deep breath and shook his head. She quickly walked over back to where he stood.
"Why?"
"Hush." She didn't realise how loud she was. The few people sitting in the lobby were staring at her with raised brows, wondering what the commotion was about. "Sit," he said, lowering himself on a nearby sofa and patting the space beside him. She sat with a clunk, lips pouting.
"I'm not taking you to bed while you're…like this."
"What, you mean drunk as a doorknob and unable to tell what I'm doing?" she said, still a little loudly. "Let me tell you something. When we first met, wasn't that what we both wanted? Don't tell me you just wanted to wine and dine me Kirill, because you don't look the type."
One of the guests ahem'ed rather obviously their way.
He sighed. He was actually turning down sex.
He cupped her cheek, and looked at her steadily, his fingers gently caressing her face. "It's what I want," he said. He dropped his hand. "But it's not what I want right now."
"And what do you want, then?" she said a mite snippily, but her voice had lowered to a reasonable tenor.
He looked at her, and she felt herself drowning in hazel eyes. He reached forward and kissed her gently.
She couldn't refuse the kiss. He tasted male and minty fresh and his aftershave smelled wonderful. So this was what it was like to kiss him properly, without bursting irrationally into tears and having a cry fest into his shoulder. It was like taking an elevator straight to heaven. No that was blasphemous. Oh, fuck it…
The kiss was over before she knew it. Her eyes flew open disappointedly to find him watching her again.
"I'll be here tomorrow morning," he said. "Sleep well, princess."
He gave one last kiss on her brow, and then he got up, stretching those long, muscular legs, and strode out the hotel.
Hope you enjoy!
As for the French interchanged between the rude cab driver and Kirill, here are the translations-
'T'es content, petit dame!'- Are you happy, little lady?
'Elle a fait vous quittez uh?'- She made you quit, uh?
'Ah, femmes, femmes…ne peut pas vivre avec ou sans eux..'- Ah, women, women…can't live with them, can't live without them.
'Attendez ici'- Wait here.
'J'attendrai'- I'll wait.