The Art of French Kissing (16 page)

Gabe turned left onto my street and came to a stop along the curb.

“Wonderful,” he said. “Thanks, Emma. Will you be there?”

“Will I be where?”

“At the interview.”

“Oh,” I said. I unbuckled my seat belt. What, did Gabe think I was as crazy as Guillaume? I wasn’t going to leave my client alone with some muckraking journalist! “Of course I’ll be there.”

“Great,” Gabe said again. “I’ll look forward to it, then.”

I sighed. What was I supposed to say? “Um, thanks for the ride.”

“No problem,” Gabe said. “You’re on my way home anyhow.”

I gritted my teeth and stepped out of the car.

“Talk to you tomorrow, Emma!” Gabe said cheerfully as I shut the door behind me. I stood and watched him as he pulled away from the curb and disappeared down Avenue Rapp without looking back.

Chapter Twelve

A
fter a few more days of working long hours to prepare for the junket and to do more preemptive damage control by sending out releases about all of Guillaume’s great charity work, Poppy and I spent the weekend shopping, eating out, and, of course, flirting with strangers Poppy had picked out at bars, although Poppy abandoned me briefly for a Saturday night date. Despite myself, I was starting to enjoy feeling attractive to Frenchmen. It
was
good for my confidence, in a way I had never expected.

On Tuesday, Guillaume and I arrived by taxi at Café le Petit Pont, the same place Poppy had taken me on my first night in Paris, for the interview I’d reluctantly promised to Gabe.

“I promise we’ll keep this short,” I said to Guillaume as we sat down at a table in the outside courtyard, facing the river. “We just have to appease this Gabriel Francoeur guy, and maybe he’ll leave us alone.”

“I’ve heard he’s terrible,” Guillaume said with what appeared to be an expression of amusement on his face.

“The worst,” I muttered. I glanced around and saw that most of the people near us were staring at Guillaume, who seemed oblivious. Several tourists were surreptitiously snapping photos, and others were holding up cell phones to capture his image. No matter how many times I’d been responsible for my Boy Bandz clients in public, I’d never quite gotten used to the attention that fame brought with it.

“What’s wrong?” Guillaume asked me after a moment, leaning across the table.

“Nothing.” I shook my head. “It doesn’t bother you? All these people staring and taking your picture?”

Guillaume glanced around, as if noticing for the first time that we weren’t entirely alone in the restaurant.

“Oh,” he said. “I guess I don’t even think about it anymore.” He smiled broadly and waved a few times to excited fans. Then he turned his dazzling smile back to me.

When our waiter arrived with a basket of French bread, we both ordered café au lait, which arrived within seconds. Amazing the kind of service you got when you lunched with a superstar.

“Okay,” I said once we’d each taken a sip. “Gabriel will be here in twenty minutes. We need to go over some things first.”

“Whatever you say, beautiful Emma,” Guillaume said, flashing me a winning smile. “Then perhaps we can make sweet music together again, you and me?”

I rolled my eyes. He was so strange sometimes. “No, Guillaume.”

He pouted. I ignored him.

“So I think it goes without saying that you can’t admit to Gabe that you were drunk on any of the occasions he’ll be asking you about,” I began.

Guillaume recoiled in mock horror. “Drunk? Me? Never!”

“Riiiiiiight.”

“Really, Emma, excessive alcohol consumption is wrong,” Guillaume said. He batted his lashes sweetly. “Drug use is wrong.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m sure Gabe will be won over by your puppy-dog eyes.”

Guillaume looked confused. “Puppy-dog eyes?”

I realized the expression didn’t translate. “I mean, innocent expression.”

“I am innocent,” Guillaume said. “I’ve never hurt anyone.”

I thought about this for a moment. I supposed it was true. All of Guillaume’s antics seemed only to harm himself—and of course the PR people who had to clean up the messes he made.

“You know, Emma, your eyes look very blue when you smile,” Guillaume said softly, gazing at me so intently that I started to squirm. “They are beautiful. Like little pools of sparkling Mediterranean water.”

I could feel my cheeks heating up. “Okay, Guillaume,” I muttered. “Let’s just stick to preparing for this interview.”

He leaned over closer. “But you are so lovely, Emma,” he said, still staring into my eyes. I felt my heart hammering in my chest. Sure, he was insane. But he was also gorgeous. And there was something about being gazed at by the most handsome man you’d ever seen that made your heart go pitter-patter, even if he was completely nuts.

“Guillaume, cut it out,” I said, hating that he could certainly see that my cheeks were on fire.

“Cut it out?” He looked confused. It was another expression that didn’t cross the language barrier.

“I mean, stop it,” I clarified. “We’re here to talk business. I don’t know why you’re saying these things all of a sudden.”

“I just say what’s in my heart, beautiful Emma.” He smiled softly at me, and I tried to tear my eyes away.

I cleared my throat loudly and took a big sip of my café au lait, burning my tongue in the process. I coughed and tried to recover quickly. “Okay,” I said, all business again. I avoided Guillaume’s eyes. He was still staring at me in that unnerving way. “Here’s what you need to say: You need to mention how excited you are to be reaching such a broad English-speaking audience. You need to say how wonderful it is to be helping to bridge a cultural gap with music. You need to talk about how ‘City of Light’ is about finding love in Paris and how you haven’t found your own special woman yet.”

“But
you’re
very special, Emma,” Guillaume interjected.

“Please stop.”

“I can’t stop my heart from beating for you, can I, Emma?” Guillaume said, reaching out to fold his hand over mine. I yanked my hand away as if his touch had burned me. He grinned.

“Be serious, Guillaume,” I mumbled.

“Okay, I am totally serious now,” he said, furrowing his brow.

“If Gabe asks you about any of the recent incidents you’ve had—the hotel room, the Eiffel Tower, or the whole rope thing the other day—just laugh and explain that it was all a misunderstanding,” I continued, trying to sound as businesslike as possible.

“It
was
all a misunderstanding,” Guillaume said.

“Right.” I nodded. “Good start. Just explain that the hotel was nothing—simply me and Poppy working with you, with our clothes on. The Eiffel Tower was research for your video shoot. And the rope thing was a joke gone wrong. Okay?”

“Whatever you say, beautiful lady,” Guillaume said.

“Oh, and one more thing. I know you and Gabe are both French. But can you speak in English, please? So I can make sure to stop Gabe if he’s asking anything inappropriate?”

“Anything for you, my dear,” Guillaume said, bowing his head. “I can never refuse the requests of a beautiful lady.”

Before I had time to respond, I spotted Gabe striding confidently through the front door of Café le Petit Pont. He was scanning the room for us, and I had to admit he looked really good. He was dressed in a pair of dark jeans and a pale green button-down shirt that made his green eyes stand out sharply behind his glasses, even from across the room. I felt a little shiver run through me, and I pinched myself to get rid of it.

Guillaume waved. Gabe spotted us and came over.

“I’m sorry I’m a few minutes early,” he said as he reached the table. He shook hands with Guillaume and then with me. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything, like, for instance, the two of you plotting what you’re going to say to me.”

I glared at him. Guillaume laughed.

“You’ve always been so skeptical, Gabe,” he said, raising a finger and moving it side-to-side in a
tsk-tsk
motion. I glanced between the two of them.

“You already know each other?” I asked. Somehow I had expected that Gabe knew Guillaume only from afar, or perhaps from a few brief interviews during the past year. But they were behaving as if they had met many times in the past.

“Let’s just say we go way back,” Gabe said drily, shaking his head. He sat down in the chair between Guillaume and me and ordered a kir royale from the waiter.

“Ah, drinking in the afternoon, are we?” Guillaume said, leaning back in his chair and inspecting his café au lait with disdain. He grinned at Gabe. “A man after my own heart.”

“Says the alcoholic,” Gabe muttered.

“He is not an alcoholic,” I said quickly, “and I would appreciate you not joking about such a serious matter.” I was already getting a headache. I shot him a withering look.

“Right,” Guillaume said stiffly. I could tell he was fighting back a grin. “I am not an alcoholic. Everything that has happened has been a—what did you call it, Emma?—a misunderstanding.”

I glared at him. “It
was
a misunderstanding,” I said through gritted teeth.

Gabe stared at me for a long moment. Then, thankfully, he switched gears. “So, Guillaume,” he began, looking away from me and focusing on Guillaume, his pen poised over a pad of paper. “Tell me about your debut single, ‘City of Light,’ and why it’s the ideal record to cross over to English-speaking listeners.”

I breathed a sigh of relief as Guillaume started rattling off the perfect answer, describing how love is the universal language and how the song is, at its core, about falling in love, no matter where it takes place, or in what language. His answer was so perfect, in fact, that I was a bit transfixed myself, even though I knew Poppy and I had practically spoon-fed him the words.

Gabe took Guillaume through several questions about the album, his appeal to English-speaking audiences, and his music career.

The questions were surprisingly innocuous, and I was just starting to get comfortable when Gabe rapidly switched tracks.

“So these three recent incidents—the Hôtel Jeremie, the Eiffel Tower, your little high-wire act over Rue Banville—you claim they were all innocent mistakes?” Gabe asked, leaning forward. I cleared my throat loudly in an attempt to remind him not to press too hard.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Guillaume said, shooting me a look. “You journalists are always getting it wrong.”

Gabe, clearly sensing a challenge, arched an eyebrow and went in for the kill.

“Oh, so
we’re
the ones getting it wrong?” he asked, looking half amused, half pissed off. Uh-oh. “So I suppose it’s relatively commonplace to get locked in the Eiffel Tower without your clothes. Or to get caught in a hotel room with a bunch of naked girls. Or to get drunk or high or whatever and convince yourself that it’s just a fantastic idea to hang upside down over a city street fifteen stories up.”

“It was thirteen stories,” Guillaume said, waving a hand dismissively. “And things aren’t always what they appear.” I looked back and forth between them nervously. So far, Guillaume seemed to be doing fine. His answers were nonchalant, nondefensive. Perfect. Then he glanced at me. “Besides,” he added. “I have the beautiful Emma here to always come to my rescue.” He smirked at Gabe.

I turned toward Guillaume and fixed him with a glare. What was he doing?

“Yeah, well, maybe if you could control yourself, she wouldn’t have to keep disrupting her life to help you,” Gabe snapped immediately.

“Who says it’s a disruption?” Guillaume shot back.

“Guillame—” I started.

“Well, I’d say that making a woman risk her life to come get you down from a stupid high-wire act is a disruption,” Gabe said.

“Gabe!” I interrupted hastily. Guillaume was still smirking, and Gabe looked peeved. “That’s my job. Don’t worry about it.”

“Yeah, Gabe. We were singing a duet!” Guillaume said. “Emma loved it! Why are you so uptight? Is it because you haven’t had a girl to sing a duet with in years? Are you jealous?”

Gabe’s eyes flashed angrily, and he said something to Guillaume in rapid French. Guillaume laughed and answered. Whatever he said made Gabe look even angrier, and he barked another few unintelligible phrases at my annoying pop star.

“Guys?” I interjected. “Could we switch back to English?”

“Sorry, Emma,” Guillaume said. “I was just telling Gabe here that I
do
respect you.”

“And I was telling him that he obviously doesn’t,” Gabe retorted, his face stormy. “Because if he did, he wouldn’t be making your life so difficult.”

“Now, Gabe,” Guillaume responded slowly. “Aren’t
you
the one who’s making Emma’s life difficult? By hounding her so much for an interview with me?” He had a point. I glanced at Gabe, but Guillaume wasn’t done. “In fact,” he continued with a little grin, “just a few minutes before you got here, Emma was telling me you were, how did you say it?
The worst
, I think she said.”

Gabe flinched and glanced at me. I felt the blood drain from my face.

“Guillaume!” I chided. He was smirking at Gabe now, pleased to have elicited a reaction. “I didn’t mean it that way, Gabe,” I tried to explain. “Just that you were hard to deal with sometimes.”

“I wasn’t aware I was such a problem, Emma,” Gabe said stiffly. “I certainly apologize.”

Guillaume hooted with laughter.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Emma!”
he mocked.
“I’ll never bother you again!”

“Guillaume!” I exclaimed.

“Don’t worry, Emma, it’s fine,” Gabe said stiffly. “He’s just being
un imbecile.
” He pronounced the word the French way, but it wasn’t difficult to guess at the meaning.

“Gabe!” I exclaimed. I’d never had a reporter talk to a client that way before—particularly not a client who was already such a big star.

“Don’t worry, babe,” Guillaume said, patting me on the arm and glowering at Gabe. “I can handle this.”

Gabe retorted with something in French that I didn’t understand, and Guillaume responded in French, too. The two men went back and forth for a moment with Guillaume smirking, Gabe glaring, and me trying desperately to interject, when finally Guillaume interrupted Gabe in English.

“That’s it. Interview’s over,” he said abruptly, glancing at me. “I’m tired. Time to go home.”

Gabe checked his watch. “But I have five more minutes,” he protested.

“No,” Guillaume said. “I believe your watch must be slow. Right, Emma?”

I sighed and looked back and forth between the two men, both of whom were gazing at me expectantly. I felt exhausted.

“Look, Gabe, if Guillaume says he’s done, he’s done,” I said finally. “I’m sorry.”

Gabe started to protest, but I held up a hand. “Guillaume,” I said. “Since you did guarantee Gabe thirty minutes, and we’re only at twenty-five now, would you answer one more question for him please?”

Guillaume tilted his head to the side, closed his eyes as if in deep thought, then nodded. “Yes. Okay. One more question.” He opened his eyes and looked at Gabe.