Sinful Love (Sinful Nights #4)(39)

She grinned coquettishly. “I can do better. I won’t wear panties.”





CHAPTER TWENTY


Ten years ago

He shouldered his bag and scanned the arrivals and departures board, checking for his flight.

Delayed. For two hours.

He sighed and then shrugged. What can you do? He patted his carry-on. It was all he had brought on his short trip, and now he was returning to base. He had a paperback, and music to listen to—a new band that a college buddy had sent him. He’d find his gate, grab a seat, pop in his earbuds, and check out some tunes as he turned the pages.

Heading for security, he reached into his pocket and took out his boarding pass and passport, and ten minutes later, he was on the other side at the small airport in Marseilles. As he strolled past a coffee shop, he focused on the tasks ahead for the week, and the work he had going on in his army intelligence division, doing his best to keep his mind off whether Annalise had responded to his letter yet. Maybe, just maybe, he’d find a reply from her on his return, and perhaps it would be the answer to his greatest wish. Her yes. It would be stained with tears of happiness, and it would smell like her.

The sensory memory ran through him of the girl he still loved, now a woman he desperately wanted to see again. He allowed himself that moment, then he blinked, refocused, and turned into the gift shop to grab a bottle of water. Soon enough, he’d have her answer. No need to linger on the unknown until it was certain.

After he paid for the drink and spun around to leave, he spotted the magazine racks. Most of the magazines were French and local, but there were others, including Vanity Fair. From behind the column next to the racks, a woman stretched out her arm to grab an issue.

He only saw a sliver of her profile, the shape of her nose, but she was haltingly familiar.

His heart slammed against his ribs. It couldn’t be. There was no way. And yet, what if? A fragile sort of hope raced in him as he took a tentative step. He swallowed dryly, peering around the rack for a better look at the woman with the long red hair, flipping through a magazine.

And he knew.

The hair on his arms stood on end. Goose bumps scattered over his skin. She was his ghost, his memory, but she was all real now—creamy skin, green eyes, long fingers, and red lips that he’d kissed more times than he could ever count.

Ma petite fraise.

My little strawberry. He’d called her that because of her hair, and because her lips tasted so sweet. He hadn’t seen her in eight years, not since he put her on the flight back to Paris and said good-bye, his heart cratering as she flew across the ocean, far away from him.

He hadn’t talked to her in five years, not since he was a sophomore in college.

But here she was, and if ever there was a sign, this was it. He’d never believed in them before, but he’d once believed in her. She was his religion. His first love.

His only love.

He took another step and then parted his lips and spoke—a dry crackling sound that became her name. “Annalise?”

She raised her chin, her eyes widening. Her expression changed from curiosity over who was asking her name, to a wistful sort of wonder and surprise. She said his name like a question, too, but it sounded more like amazement that they were both here. “Michael?”

He nodded. “Yeah.” His chest warmed, like sunshine was spreading from the inside out. “In the flesh.”

As if to test his statement, she dropped a quick kiss on each cheek, then wrapped her arms around him.

It was like falling back in time, landing softly on your favorite moment in the past. All those moments were with her. All his favorite times. She smelled like raindrops and passion, just like he’d remembered, and he inhaled her scent briefly before they separated.

He gestured to her, standing before him in the shop. “How are you?”

It was such an ordinary question, the kind you would ask an acquaintance, but after all the years, it was the only natural way to begin again. Even after he’d sent her a letter a week ago.

“My flight is late. I was annoyed, but now I’m not,” she said, her lips curving up in a wide, crazy smile.

Oh shit. He was grinning now, too. Smiling like a f*cking fool. She still had that effect on him. His pulse thundered under his skin, hammered in his throat. She had to be saying yes. That must be her answer to his letter.

“Mine, too. Late flight, that is. Also, I’m not annoyed at all now,” he said, as hope rose inside him—the hope that they were flying in the same direction.

But when he asked, she was heading to Paris.

“Do you want to get a coffee?” she asked. “Or do you still detest coffee?”

“I would love to…have a tea,” he said with a smile, and she laughed, and this was good. So good. Like old times.

They headed to an ordinary airport café, ordered black coffee for her and tea for him, and sat at a small iron table as travelers filtered past them, talking about their trips, their plans, what they needed before their planes took off. It was white noise, the elevator music to this surreal slice of time.

Sitting here with her.

He wanted to cup this moment in the palm of his hands, to carry it and treat it like a precious object, like it could become what he’d once longed for so terribly—a future with her.

He had so much he wanted to say. Things like: “You’re beautiful. I miss you. Why couldn’t we find a way to stay together? Why did we have to drift apart? Did you get my letter and will you please, please, please tell me it’s the same for you?”