Christmas in Paris Read Online Free

Crillon occupies the most expensive real estate in Paris. The cafés on the Champs-Élysées charge ten euros for a soft-boiled egg.”
    â€œI’ll buy you lunch. My boss said I must try Fouquet’s.” She paused. “If it wasn’t for you, I’d still be trapped on the balcony.”
    Alec gazed at her glossy dark hair and brown eyes and wide pink mouth. He saw her slender neck and small waist and long legs.
    â€œI’m sure someone would have rescued you, but why not?” He shrugged. “A ham-and-cheese omelet and black coffee sounds delicious.”
    *   *   *
    THEY TOOK THE elevator to the lobby, and Isabel thought she had never been anywhere so beautiful. The gold-flecked marble floor was scattered with ivory silk sofas and glass coffee tables holding Lalique crystal vases. A white Christmas tree almost reached the ceiling, and boxes wrapped in silver and gold tissue paper spilled onto the Persian rugs. Bellboys carried Louis Vuitton suitcases, and a woman in a mink jacket hugged a small dog in a cashmere sweater.
    Isabel inhaled the scent of French perfume and hot cocoa and suddenly was so glad she was in Paris. She followed Alec down the marble steps, and they turned onto the Champs-Élysées. She gazed at the Arc de Triomphe on one end and the narrow Luxor Obelisk on the other and caught her breath. Everywhere she looked there were boutiques with green awnings and cafés with red umbrellas and window boxes filled with poinsettias.
    They passed Chanel with its gold logo and Dior with its glittering evening gowns, and Isabel thought it was the most elegant street in the world. Women wore narrow knee-high boots and cashmere coats. Their hair was pulled into tight chignons, and they carried bright leather handbags.
    â€œThe last time I was in Paris it was so hot I spent all my time at the Louvre.” Isabel gazed at a patisserie window filled with trays of vanilla custards. “It was the only place you could stay cool all day for the price of a museum ticket.”
    â€œParis is like a fickle woman, she’s either unbearably hot or intolerably cold,” Alec mused. “When I was a child, my mother took me to the Centre Pompidou during the winter holidays. I thought she was interested in modern art, but she didn’t know what to do with a boy in the rain.”
    â€œYou grew up in Paris?” Isabel asked.
    â€œMy mother is British and married a Frenchman. I’ve lived in Paris most of my life.” He nodded. “I attended a few different lycées. I’d turn in my science test with doodles of Gus in the margin and the headmaster would call my mother to discuss my future.” He smiled. “My mother would knock on my door with a defeated expression and a list of schools that were a better fit.”
    â€œYou seem to have turned out fine,” Isabel laughed.
    â€œMy sister’s boyfriend is a neurosurgeon.” He shrugged. “I suppose I could have achieved more.”
    â€œWhat does your sister do?” she asked.
    Alec’s eyes were suddenly dark and he stuffed his hands in his pockets.
    â€œLet’s get something to eat.” He stopped in front of a café. “The smell of garlic and butter is making my stomach ache.”
    *   *   *
    LE FOUQUET’S HAD red-and-gold awnings and double glass front doors and waiters wearing white dinner jackets. They sat on the patio, and Isabel glanced at the wide plates of veal flanks and silver baskets of fresh baguettes and realized she was starving.
    â€œFouquet’s has been here for more than a hundred years,” Alec said. “Charlie Chaplin used to drink schnapps at the bar and Marlene Dietrich was a regular and Jackie Onassis adored the bourbon vanilla ice cream.” He put down the menu. “Are you sure you don’t want to eat somewhere else? I’d be happy with a warm pretzel from a food