Authors: Letty James
Chapter 5
The car pulled up to a restaurant fronted with gleaming carved wood and etched glass. Lit by soft gaslight, the windows reflected a cozy glow. Potted palms caught Nikki’s eye and she noticed the name, familiar to any reader of American gossip magazines. Here is where celebrities had romantic tête-à-têtes.
“We’re having dinner
here
?” Nikki clutched Beauvais’ arm in apprehension, then dropped her hand as awareness flooded through her of the flesh and muscle beneath the fabric of his jacket.
Beauvais smiled down at her. “It’s one of my favorites. There’s no better way to get a sense of French cuisine.”
No better way, indeed! Nikki hoped she didn’t make a fool of herself gawking at everything and everybody. She timidly returned Beauvais’s smile and reached for the door handle. He took her hand in his.
“Patience,
ma petite
, Marco will get the door.”
Nikki sat back, embarrassment bringing her down to earth with a thud. Beauvais squeezed her hand in what she imagined was pity.
“I’m used to doing the driving.” Nikki pulled her hand away and clenched it at her side, once again feeling worlds apart from the man sitting next to her.
“I find having a driver much more efficient in the city.”
“Is that your motto—efficient?”
Before he could answer, Marco had opened the door and Nikki jumped out of the car, taking a deep breath of Parisian air. Wired on adrenaline and alcohol, Nikki’s nerves simmered. She hugged her arms tightly to her chest, trying to contain herself. Mimi warned constantly about her sassy mouth. She didn’t need to lose this job the same day she’d obtained it. But she had a feeling more than the job was at stake. It was as if the moment they’d left the office, Beauvais had turned on the seduction mode—gifts, wine, endearments. She didn’t like to think he had an agenda, but something had changed.
His hand went to her elbow, directing her toward the awning-clad entrance. A flash startled her and her hand went to her eyes.
“Don’t cover your face. They’ll need a good picture.” Beauvais held her still for a moment as he waved to the photographer. Then they were ushered into the foyer by the doorman.
“What was
that
all about?” Nikki closed her eyes for a moment, trying to dispel the white spots still obscuring her vision.
“You may scoff at efficiency, but
that
was the most direct way to reach your sister. The tabloids will print a picture of the two of us and she’ll know you’re with me.”
With
him? “Why would Jessica read the tabloids?”
He lifted one sardonic eyebrow. “Because your sister thrives on celebrity gossip. Who do you think she taps to fund all her causes?”
“And you’re a celebrity?”
Even the doorman turned around to look at her as Beauvais shook his head with an exaggerated sigh. “I guess not to Americans.” Without elaborating, he guided her to the hostess stand with an intimate touch to the small of her back.
The hostess greeted Beauvais with a broad smile and a kiss on each cheek. She still held his arms as she gazed at him adoringly. “Gérard, it has been much too long.”
“Yes, it has, Claudette. This is my assistant,
Mademoiselle
Sommers.”
Claudette turned to Nikki, leaned in and pressed each of Nikki’s cheeks with her own. “
Bonjour, Mademoiselle
. Welcome. You are a very lucky woman to spend so much time with Gérard.”
“I don’t know if she’ll say lucky by the end of the day,” he interjected.
“If she doesn’t, then come see me.” With a laugh, the woman smiled broadly at Nikki, putting her at ease. “I’ve put you in the garden room.” She turned to Nikki with a wink. “Very private.”
Nikki felt as if she were floating to her seat. Lit by flickering gas sconces on dark chocolate walls and tea lights scattered over white linen-covered tables, the back room exuded romance. Glass doors overlooked an illuminated garden with a splashing fountain. The only other couple there ignored their entrance, very intent on their own conversation. Nikki slid into a caramel-colored, U-shaped leather banquette. Gérard followed, his thigh pressing against hers for only a second, making goosebumps rise on her arms.
“A bottle of champagne,
s’il vous plait
, Frédéric.”
“A glass of water for me,” Nikki piped up.
Beauvais’ eyebrows rose in what Nikki was starting to recognize as one of his standard forms of commentary. If he thought to get her drunk and take advantage, he had another thing coming. Her brain already felt fuzzy.
She looked about the room, admiring the paintings of long-ago city scenes, but still felt Gérard’s presence like a banked fire. Yet, she resisted the temptation to scoot closer.
The waiter brought bite-size
fois gras
appetizers before they even had a chance to look at the menu.
“An
amuse bouch
,” he informed her.
“I know that. I watch the Food Channel.”
A laugh burst out of Beauvais, sounding like the Sun God parting dark clouds. The sudden warmth made her reach for her glass and take a large gulp. Maybe the alcohol would turn off her senses, including the embarrassment at feeling like a country bumpkin. “What is so funny? I’ll have you know the Food Channel is very educational.”
“I have no doubt.” He was still chuckling as he took a sip of his own champagne.
Nikki admired the simple move of his Adam’s apple and had a fleeting urge to nuzzle his neck. Dear God, this was not good. She turned to her plate. “Do you have cooking shows here?”
“But, of course.” Before he could elaborate, the waiter set before them a vision of glistening black and white. “Scallop with cauliflower and black truffle sauce.”
She took a tentative bite, then another larger one as Beauvais gauged her reaction.
“Good?” he asked.
She nodded. “I could lick the plate.”
“Lick whatever you like.” He took a drink, his gaze teasing over the glass as she felt her cheeks bloom with heat.
Beauvais set down his flute and turned to her, one hand lifting a stray tendril behind her ear, then grazing her lobe. “So why don’t you tell me why you’re really here.”
Nikki gulped the cool, fizzy champagne and the waiter instantly refilled her glass. Perhaps it was time to confess. “I’ve wanted to come to Paris ever since I was a little girl. Mimi would tell me stories of working with Emmaline and I dreamed of coming to see the shop under the shadow of the Eiffel Tower.” She took another hefty swallow. “I’ve practiced and practiced at home, but learning from the masters, that’s something different
. . .
” The words flowed like the bottomless glass of champagne. Learning pastry seemed like such a paltry goal compared to the big doings of Beauvais’s company. She gave a slight hiccup and covered her mouth in mortification. “Excuse me.”
“And you thought this job would lead to . . .?” His question hung there, waiting to be finished. She couldn’t think as his fingers traced the shoulder stitching of her blouse.
“Greater opportunities!” Nikki blurted out, just as the chef appeared at their table.
Beauvais stood, clasping the chef’s hand as they greeted each other warmly.
“Gérard, you old dog. Does everyone speak to you of opportunities?” He winked at Nikki. “Give the woman anything she wants. So? Have you read my proposal?”
“I have, chef. It looks very promising.”
The chef shook his head. “Never a guarantee, is there? How is my friend Jean-Luc? You need to learn how to cook so he can come back to work for me.”
“And spend all my money here? I don’t think so.”
The chef said his goodbyes and their waiter described each dish as it came to their table, pouring a different wine for every course.
“You don’t cook?” she asked.
Beauvais shook his head. “I’m too busy. And if I relied on my own skills, I’d be subsisting on fried potatoes and poached eggs.”
Nikki gave a little snort of a laugh. “That sounds like a hang-over meal.”
He glanced down at her with those sexy, smoky dark blue eyes, smiling at her as if she were the most entertaining dinner companion he’d ever had. “Perhaps I’ll make you one tomorrow morning.”
Nikki sat up straight and reached for her water glass, bobbling it up to her lips. “I’m fine.”
Did he say morning?
“Gérard!
C’est quelle surprise
.” With the intimacy of a good friend, an elegant woman took a seat in the booth next to Beauvais, her shiny silver hair swinging against her jaw. Nikki gasped at the sudden press of his thick thigh against her own. Thank goodness he was distracted by the woman’s greeting as they kissed on each cheek.
“Gérard,
mon cher
. I haven’t seen you in ages. In person, that is.” The woman laughed, and Nikki found herself mesmerized by the woman’s immovable face. “You were perfectly horrid to Chef Denacka last week. I heard he threw a knife at his sous chef in the restaurant afterward.”
“The man deserved it for serving garbage. He knows better.”
As Nikki made to move away, Beauvais’s hand clamped down on her thigh underneath the tablecloth. He immediately removed his palm, but Nikki could still feel the imprint of his heat. She longed to press the cold glass of water against her forehead, but settled on a gulp instead.
“And who have we here?”
Beauvais made the introductions with a nod of his head. “Aimee, this is Nikki Sommers, Jessica’s sister. Nikki, meet Aimee VonDorling.”
The woman took Nikki’s hand in a bone-crushing grip, gold bangles clattering over Beauvais’s plate between them. “VonDorling of the
Provence VonDorling’s
.” The woman suddenly switched to English, with a condescending tone, as if Nikki wouldn’t be able to understand a word otherwise. “The same Jessica who ran your foundation, Gérard?”
Gérard nodded, stone faced.
“My word, lose a few pounds and you’d be the spitting image of your sister.”
Nikki gave the woman a semblance of a smile.
Lose a few pounds indeed. This woman would blow away in a strong wind.
“Sommers? Isn’t Jessica’s name Nichols?”
“I took my grandmother’s name.” She wasn’t about to tell this horrid woman the full story of being stepsisters.
“I don’t blame you. Nikki Nichols sounds like a call girl. I must dash. Call me, darling.” With another flurry of kisses over Beauvais’s cheeks, VonDorling vamoosed and Nikki was very happy to see her go.
“Don’t mind her. She’s American.”
Nikki bristled until Beauvais stage-whispered, “But she wants to be French, so she’s very rude.”
Nikki smiled, relieved Mrs.
Von-Boring
was not a good friend. With Gérard leaning so close to her, her senses pulsed on high alert. She squeezed her earlobe trying to distract herself from the desire to have his hand on her thigh once again . . .
Stop it, control yourself
.
Taking a sip of wine, she closed her eyes, visualizing her body an icicle, impervious to his touch. It didn’t help, as she then imagined his hot hands melting her into a puddle. Her eyes popped open as Gérard shifted. He was so very different than the wicked Monsieur Beauvais she’d imagined.
Wicked.
Now that was a thought. She watched his large hand twirl his wine glass.
“You talk about your sister very little.” He turned to Nikki as his other hand slid over the top of the banquette.
His eyes met hers and already she could feel her whole body changing shape under his gaze, not a dissolving piece of ice, but more like an egg white whipped into peaks, her breasts at attention, her . . .
“Nikki, are you listening?”
“Sorry.” Her glass suddenly felt very heavy. The effects of spending the night in the train station and having a day topsy-turvy with emotions had exhausted her. She was ready to fall over and go to sleep. Into the sweet pillow of Gérard’s arms. They hadn’t talked about sleeping arrangements. And why was he asking about Jessica? Especially after that remark of ol’ biddy VonDorling. Had Jessica been one in a long string of Gérard’s lovers? She would ask him. Nikki turned and clutched her wine glass. She took another swallow.
Such lovely wine in France
. Gérard, no Beauvais, no
Monsieur Beauvais
took it gently from her grasp and set it firmly on the white tablecloth.
“Your name matches you. Gérard.
Gérard
.” She rolled his name around like candy over her tongue. “It sounds like a soft growl. Do you make noise like that when you make love?”
He rubbed his chin, chuckling. “I rather think of it as an American cheer. Rah, rah and so forth. Perhaps the noise made
after
making love?”
Oh dear. Oh dear. Oh dear
. She had crossed the line. He was smiling, but it was one of those lion smiles. The satisfaction of knowing he could smash her with one paw. She sat up and smoothed back her hair, knocking him in the chin with her elbow, making his teeth click together.
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” She rubbed at his jaw as if her hit was a gravy stain she could wipe away. Bristles of evening whiskers scraped her thumb before he clasped her hand in his. She yanked away, feeling the imaginary building of the meringue again, wanting oh so desperately to fling herself upon him. Sitting back, she bit her lip—hard—to force herself to refocus.
Nikki blinked. “Right. Where were we? Jessica? Yes.” She let out her breath in a whoosh. “I don’t know Jessica very well, now.” Nikki sighed and sat up straighter, putting her elbows on the table. Remembering her manners, she abruptly took them off and sat back, only to be engulfed in Gérard’s presence again as his arm curled closer on top of the banquette.
“And why is that?”
“She left home when I was thirteen. She was nineteen. Five years ago, she moved to France. Poof!” Nikki waved her hand in the air. “Kept in touch through email.” She peered up at Gérard.
Such lovely hair
. “I kept telling Mimi she could find Emmaline through the internet. She didn’t believe me. But we found her. Used to read about you, too.” Nikki cocked her head, studying him. “You’re different than I expected.”
Gérard’s expression went blank and Nikki wished she could swallow her words. She had a tendency to run on at the mouth when she was drinking.
No kidding
. And she couldn’t stop.
Oh, who cares?
He’d find out all this stuff, eventually.