It Had to Be You (Chicago Stars #1)(32)

Slowly she grew to believe that what had happened was her own fault. Her roommate, alarmed at her withdrawal, begged her to get out, and eventually it became easier to go along than to resist. She began spending her evenings drinking cheap wine and smoking pot with the ragtag band of students who frequented the sidewalks and brasseries of Montparnasse. Her misery had destroyed her appetite, and the last of her baby fat melted away, slimming her legs and emphasizing the hollows beneath her cheekbones. But her breasts remained as full as ever, and despite her shapeless clothing, the boys noticed. Their attentiveness deepened her self-hatred. They knew what kind of girl she was. That’s why they wouldn’t leave her alone.

Without quite knowing how it happened, she punished herself by sleeping with one of them, a young German soldier who had come to Paris to train with UNESCO. Then she let a bearded Swedish art student into her bed, and after him, a long-haired photographer from Liverpool. Lying motionless beneath them, she let them do what they wanted because she knew in her heart that she deserved nothing better. More than their sweating bodies and invasive hands, she hated herself.

Only gradually did she come to her senses. Appalled at what she had allowed to happen, she grew desperate to find a way to protect herself. Men were her enemies. To forget that was to put herself in peril.

She began to observe the pretty young French women who spent their evenings strolling the Boulevard du Montparnasse. She sat in the brasseries and watched them tilt their faces toward their lovers, luring them with bold, knowing eyes. She saw the confident way they walked in their tight blue jeans with hips swaying and breasts thrust forward. One night as she observed a sultry-faced young beauty part her lips so her smitten lover could tip the sweet meat of a mussel shell between them, it all became clear to her. These young French women used sex to control men, and the men were helpless to defend themselves.

That was when she began her own transformation.

By the time Arturo Flores found her working in an art supply store near the Madeleine, her baggy, figure-concealing clothes had given way to tight French jeans and tiny, clingy camisoles that displayed her breasts. Platinum streaks drew men’s gazes to the silky long hair that curled over her shoulders. With bold eyes, she issued her sultry, silent assessment of each one of them.

You can look, chère, but you’re not quite man enough to touch.

The sense of relief she experienced as they flirted with her, only to tuck their tails between their legs when she rejected them, left her dizzy with relief. She had finally found a way to keep herself safe.

Arturo Flores wasn’t like the rest. He was much older, a gentle, brilliant, and lonely man who only wanted her friendship. When he asked if he could paint her, she agreed without hesitation, never dreaming that she would find seven years respite with him.

Arturo was part of a close-knit circle of wealthy and prominent European men who were secretly homosexual, and his carefully selected friends became her friends. They were witty, cultured, frequently waspish, generally kind, and the demands they placed on her were not physical. They wanted her attention, her sympathy, and her affection. In exchange, they taught her about art and music, history and politics. She received a finer education from Arturo’s friends than her old boarding school classmates were receiving at college.

But they couldn’t make her forget. Her trauma was too deeply rooted to be easily conquered, and so she continued to punish the heterosexual men she met with small cruelties: an enticing smile, provocative clothing, a wicked flirtatiousness. She learned she could control all of them by letting her body make promises she would never allow it to keep.

So sorry, Monsieur, Herr, Se?or, but you’re not quite man enough to touch.

As she walked away from all of them, her hips swayed in the rhythm of the French girls who ruled the Boulevard du Montparnasse.

Hot cha cha

Hot cha cha

Hot hot

Cha cha cha cha

She was twenty-six before she’d permitted another man to touch her, the young doctor who attended Arturo during his illness. He was handsome and kind, and his physician’s hands had been soothing with their caresses. She had enjoyed the closeness, but when he had tried to deepen the intimacy, she had frozen. He remained patient, but each time his hands slipped beneath her clothing, she was assaulted with memories of the night in the metal pool shed, memories of the young men she had allowed to heave over her. The physician was too much of a gentleman to tell her she wasn’t enough of a woman for him, and he disappeared from her life. She forced herself to accept the fact that she was irreparably damaged when it came to sex and resolved not to let herself grow bitter. After the heartbreak of Arturo’s death, she found other outlets for her softer emotions.

In Manhattan, she surrounded herself with gentle, gay men, some of whom she held in her arms when they died. These men were the ones who received the love and affection she possessed in so much abundance. These were the men who took the place of lovers who would only have reminded her she was less than a woman.

“Hello, cuz.”

She gave a strangled gasp and spun around to see Reed Chandler standing in a pool of light at the edge of the lawn, barely ten feet away.

“Still hiding in the bushes, Flea Belly?”

“What are you doing here?”

“Just paying my respects.”

She was no longer a defenseless child, and she fought against the fear he still inspired in her. During the funeral she had been too numb to note the changes in his appearance, but now she saw that, although his features had matured, he looked much the same as he had during his college days. She imagined that women were still attracted to his gangster’s good looks: the thick, blue-black hair, olive skin, and strong, stocky body. But the full lips that his various girlfriends had found so sensuous had always seemed merely greedy to her. That avaricious mouth reminded her of how much Reed had always wanted from life, and how much of what he wanted belonged to her.