"Folsom, Allan - The Day After Tomorrow" - читать интересную книгу автора (Folsom Allan)

were now. In between he'd booked a flight from Paris to Los Angeles. He
would be in Paris for five days. For five days they would do nothing
but be together.

He wanted to take her home, to her apartment. He knew she had to go to
work, but he wanted to make love to her all the hours between then and
now. And after, when she'd finished her shift and came home, they would
do the same all over again. Being with her, making love to her, was all
that mattered.

"I can't," she told him flatly, angered that he'd even come. How dare
he presume upon her like that?

It wasn't exactly the reaction he'd counted on. Their time together had
been too close, too perfect. Too loving. And it hadn't come from him
alone.

u agreed that after London there would be no more en us." grinned.
"Besides a few hours at the theater and dinere wasn't an awfully lot to
London, was there? Unyou count the throwing up, the high fevers and
chills."

For a moment Vera said nothing, then the truth came out. She told him
quickly and directly. There was someone else.

It would not be prudent to reveal his name, but he was important and
powerful in France and he must never know they had been together in
Geneva or London. It would hurt deeply and that was something she would
not do. What she and Paul had had, what they had shared in the past few
days, was done. And he knew that. Because they had decided upon it.
Painful as it was, she could not and would not see him again.

they reached the escalator and went up and out to the abs. He gave her
the name of his hotel on avenue Kleher. He would be there for five
days. He wanted to see her again, if only to say goodbye. Vera looked
away. Paul Osborn was unlike any man she'd ever met. He was gentle and
kind and understanding even in his hurt and disappointment. But even
had she wanted to, she couldn't give in to him. Where she was in her
life, he could not be part of. There was no other way.

sorry," she said, looking at him. Then she got into a cab, the door
closed and she was gone.

"Simple as that," he heard himself sayout loud.

Less than an hour later he found himself sitting in a brasserie
somewhere off rue St.-Antoine trying to piece the whole thing together.
If he had followed his original plans, never taken the shuttle to Paris,
in a few hours he'd be landing in L.A., taking a cab back to his house
overlooking the Pacific, getting his Chesapeake retriever out of the