The Frenchman's Bride

by Imani King

“You look good enough to eat,” he murmured huskily.

  I chuckled happily. “Oh, hold it until we’re done.”

  “I’m not sure if I can,” he continued, allowing his eyes to conspicuously drift along my shape. “Maybe I’ll need to defile you in that dress, right here and now…”

  Grasping onto his tie and pulling him into a deep, passionate kiss, I whispered against his lobe, “Not until we get back, Blaine.”

  Blaine growled his discontent, but leaned back, straightening his tie. He offered his arm, and I strolled with him down towards the docks and to the parked black sedan.

  Our driver smiled politely, popping open the back passenger door for us. We climbed in and nestled up comfortably in the spacious backseat.

  “What should I be expecting?” I asked him after we had gotten on our way. “I don’t have any familiarity with film festivals, especially not one as decorated as this one…”

  “When we arrive, there will be a red carpet event. Actors, directors, and other celebrities will be photographed as they cross to the front doors. After we indulge briefly for the cameras, we’ll socialize in the main building before being shown to our seats for a film screening. There are a few dozen films being shown for various awards…we are only going to be attending a few of them.”

  “Why would you come, if you were only interested in seeing a couple of the movies?”

  “I’m here to make appearances and enjoy a few choice selections,” Blaine explained. “If I wanted to watch all of them, you and I would be here for at least two weeks, with very little time for anything else…and I’d be doing a lot more socializing than I particularly intend.”

  I nodded. That made sense.

  “So, what are we doing with the rest of our time?”

  “Enjoying the local cuisine and culture, I’d imagine. Cannes is no stranger to tourists and high-profile guests, and there are a few restaurants closed for the duration that are designated for our exclusive use.”

  We continued driving through the bumper-to-bumper traffic, his arm around my shoulder. After a short while, we pulled up to some sort of large commotion in front of a large venue – I spotted a red carpet through the crowd.

  “Looks like we’re here,” my host told me, his face the epitome of detached mischievousness. “After the cars ahead move forward, we’ll cross the carpet towards the festival.”

  “You said there were cameras, didn’t you?” I suddenly recalled, a feeling of dread forming in the pit of my stomach.

  “Yes,” he answered, not noticing my concern. “But we might be able to slip past the reporter that’ll be on the carpet…I suppose that depends on who precedes us on the floor. We’ll snap a few pictures and be on our way.”

  “Wait, there’s a reporter, too?”

  Before he could answer, our car came to a stop at the edge of the long, luxurious red carpet. My eyes drifted around him and towards the long aisle. More photographers than I had ever seen in my life were standing almost shoulder-to-shoulder on both sides, snapping an endless barrage of pictures of the celebrities that were still on the floor. I could see the reporter he mentioned, her microphone in the face of a dramatic actor who I vaguely recognized.

  “Alright now, just act natural,” Blaine whispered into my ear. “It’s going to be alright, and I’ll be right here…”

  I took a deep breath – and the driver opened our door.

  The daunting red carpet was laid out, slicing straight through the throng of the crowd. While the flurry of photographers snapped a cavalcade of photographs from behind the red velvet ropes, the chauffeur held the door open for Blaine to ascend out into the sunlight. As the crowd recognized him, he turned back for me: smiling, radiant, and ready to lead me towards this adventure.

  “Come with me,” he whispered. “Take my hand.”

  And then I did.

  The photographers swelled, and it was clear that everyone wanted to know who this mystery woman was – and particularly someone outside Blaine’s race. In that instant I realized that I would become a talking point for the tabloids, considering their infatuation for this man back home.

  I gulped. Kenneth’s going to know about this soon.

  Still, I pushed the thought away, smiling wide for the camera to show off my grin. Blaine, holding my hand, lent down and whispered into my ear.

  “You look fantastic. You’re doing great. Now just imagine me holding onto your thighs, down on my knees, with my eager mouth tonguing your sweet, delicious pussy…”

  Warmth radiated to both my face and my inner core. I must have looked completely flabbergasted, because even some of the photographers snapping pictures of celebrities down the aisle were turning their attention to me. I could hear the constant snapping of cameras as Blaine stepped in front of me, a mischievous smile on his face, and pulling me forward.

  “Come along now, Sierra…no need to hold back the procession, is there?”

  Despite my efforts, it was hard to forget those words with that smile plastered on his face. He stood tall and proud, his arm protectively wrapped around my shoulders as we posed together for the cameras.

  “And here, all the way from Pennsylvania, is notorious billionaire playboy Blaine Winguard! Blaine, you look positively stunning this year. And who is this delightful mystery woman on your arms? The viewers will want to know more!”

  “This is my companion for the festival, Sierra Simmons,” he replied nonchalantly. I was stunned by his complete imperviousness to this attention, and wondered if there was ever a time that this level of scrutiny had shaken him.

  “And Miss Simmons, how did you meet Blaine?” The correspondent jammed the microphone into my face.

  “Oh, on the Internet,” I smiled warmly.

  “You jokester!” She replied, laughing almost nervously. As she brushed her bangs from her face, the microphone returned to Blaine, who put on his politest smirk. “So, what’s the scoop, Mister Scandal? Anything juicy you can give me?”

  “I’m afraid that Sierra tells a better story than–”

  “Blaine? Is that you? Oh Blaine, you should have told me you were coming, I could have been all pretty for you!”

  The voice belonged to a tight little blond, sashaying her way towards us. She looked to be younger than me, with a flirtatious little smile on her face and…

  Oh god, I realized with horror. It’s Sophia Pains.

  I hadn’t expected to ever see her. The limber figure looked no worse for wear after their little run-in with the paparazzi…my mind went back to the photos I’d seen in the tabloids, that day that I’d interviewed for this entire mess to begin with. It felt so long ago.

  Sophia threw her arms around Blaine, planting a firm, lipstick-smearing kiss on his cheek. Surprised and bemused, he pulled back and wiped his face with the back of his hand, then glowered down at her.

  “Wait, Sophia? What are you doing here?”

  “I’m on the arm of Chet Robensky!” She jacked a thumb over her shoulder to the broad, muscular, overly tanned actor. I had seen Chet Robensky in a few movies – he was a big action star these days, having knocked it out of the park a few years ago with a surprise summer blockbuster – and the actor was looking more furious with every passing second.

  “Ah yes, Mister Robensky,” Blaine strolled over and extended his hand. Chet glanced down at it briefly, than turned his nose.

  “Nah…I’ve seen those tabloid pictures. You know Sophia and I have been a thing for a few months now…”

  “Is that so?” Blaine asked, aloof, as he withdrew his hand. I stood by his side and watched as he contemplated for a moment. “Well, I’m afraid I can’t keep up with every starlet would-be out there…I’m very sorry for any perceived sleight against your character. You are, in all likelihood, a rather upstanding gentleman I’m sure…but you might want to keep that one on a leash. She’s a little frisky.”

  Chet glowered with rage while the correspondent looked positively emphatic to be covering the mounting tension betw
een the two.

  “Now Blaine, apologize to him,” I demanded.

  “For what? I can’t help it if he–”

  “Now, before he decks you out!”

  Blaine turned to Chet, extending his hand again. “You’re right,” he remarked to me quickly. “I’m sorry, Chet. I honestly had no idea that the two of you were attached…I might have a reputation, but I don’t chase committed young things. Please forgive my transgression, and let me buy you a round if we see each other again here.”

  Chet fumed, his statuesque face hiding what must have been an astonishing amount of anger. “Let us hope we do not see each other again, hotshot,” he growled, surprisingly taking Blaine’s hand for a steady, powerful shake. “Sophia, we must be going…”

  “Of course, dear!” The young model smiled, flicking her fingers in a quiet goodbye to Blaine. While Chet’s back was turned, she pulled them back, making a Call me! gesture with a sexy little grin.

  It was my turn to be jealous, as Blaine pulled me aside and away from the correspondent, who was eagerly following and capturing everything.

  “Think it’s time for us to make less of a spectacle of ourselves,” he mentioned offhandedly, as if that whole thing was somehow my fault.

  I fumed as he pulled me towards the building, flashing a winning smile and a little wave at the photographers before guiding me inside the main venue.

  18

  Blaine

  * * *

  Brushing the surprise run-in with Sophia aside, I guided Sierra into the Cannes Film Festival proper. With my companion on my arm, I made appearances, speaking with actors and directors alike with whom I’d had the pleasure of working.

  The night went rather well after that sordid affair, all things considered. After some time to socialize and pick at the dozens of hors d’oeuvres trays, carried briskly across our gathering, we were guided towards the feature presentation of the night’s first selection.

  It was a Belgian romance, dubbed over in English: L'amour est un Baiser Premier, otherwise known as Love is a First Kiss. Usually, I didn’t care for foreign films – particularly romances – but this one was a promising start to the week. It featured a compelling storyline of intrigue, suspicion, and duplicity, with some stunning cinematography and powerful acting from its two leads – Jean Beauvente and Pierre la Fide, a pair of internationally unknown male actors. The intimacy between the two was captured on film in a tremendous setting that, while making me personally uncomfortable, told a compelling tale.

  After the standing ovation, we exited the film screening. The nature of the proceedings meant that the vast majority of us stayed to socialize again afterwards, although I was quick to decide to forgo that particular experience.

  “It’s perhaps a little crowded in here, wouldn’t you say?” I asked Sierra, who was still icy cool after seeing Sophia. “I’m sure that there’s more to do out there…”

  “Yes, let’s,” she answered absentmindedly.

  Great.

  After making a quick phone call to my driver, I grabbed us a pair of champagne glasses from the tray of a passing server. We sipped our fizzy, bubbly beverages while I awaited a response, and I kept an eye out for any other unwelcome surprises at the festival.

  Luckily, none came. A few actors and actresses stopped by to greet me and compliment Sierra on her fantastic attire, which graciously seemed to pull her from her funk. By the time I received the text, she was smiling and laughing with our latest pair of guests, a distinguished older actor and his blushing newlywed bride. They had worked opposite each other in four motion pictures – usually critically acclaimed indie films – and Sierra was doing a better job of cracking them up than I could have ever done.

  “I’m afraid that’s our ride,” I whispered into Sierra’s ear, and she nodded politely. Our companions lifted their chins with bated breath, knowing what my whisper meant.

  “Samuel, Petra, I’m sorry to say we must be going,” I smiled courteously. The two returned the gesture; the gentleman shook my hand briskly and patted me on the back, and the lovely lady planted a pair of air kisses on Sierra’s cheeks.

  “Oh, it is a pleasure to see you with such a delightful young woman,” Petra snuck in before I could leave. “You should bring her every year!”

  “Well, we will certainly see,” I answered with a smirk.

  Granting one last polite nod, I took Sierra by the hand and escorted her through the crowd to the side exit, waving politely at the last few celebrities who turned and recognized me.

  “So, what now?” She asked once we stepped into the open air in the secluded, quiet exit. The driver was parked right behind the gates, and I nodded at the pair of attendants as they unlocked and opened the iron doors for us.

  “Well, personally, I’ve been cooped up on that yacht for a little too long…I was thinking that we could enjoy some of the night life here. What do you say?”

  “What, in public?” Sierra remarked, tilting her head. “That sounds like a bad idea.”

  “No, it’s fine – there are a few venues closed off to the public, not far from here. We can change into something perhaps a little more…practical,” he remarked, glancing down at my flowing dress, “but we will be free from the paparazzi there.”

  “Well, alright then,” I replied as he held my hand, guiding me into the car. “Now that you’ve mentioned it, I’m famished. I could really go for something incredible to eat.”

  “And I know just the place,” I smiled to myself.

  Gaston was normally a quaint, small restaurant that served to the local Cannes community. However, when the festival came swung by every year, they closed their doors for several weeks and entertained any of the startlingly rich and famous who strutted into town.

  They also happened to be my favorite best bistro in the world, and knew how to serve up an incredible selection of regional French cuisine.

  Now clad in a sexy, form-fitting black dress, Sierra nursed what she confirmed was a delicious screwdriver. Meanwhile, I was enjoying a whiskey neat and a few bites of the toasted garlic baguettes that had been presented to our small, intimate two-top table.

  “This place has some fantastic atmosphere,” my company remarked as she gazed around the comforting tavern. “How old is this place?”

  My eyes trailed to the fascinating stonework, incorporating large, traditional chunks of the local environment. “You know, I’m not entirely sure…decades at least, perhaps even longer…”

  Our server, a charming, tall youth who had been whipped into the very image of professionalism, was at our table within moments. His charming accent wafted over his otherwise remarkably good English.

  “Monsieur, your ordehh will be ready promptly,” he smiled. “Apologies on the wait, yes? Would you or ze mademoiselle like anything else, perhaps?”

  “Thank you, Sebastian, but that’ll do,” I nodded.

  “Oui oui,” he bowed his head briefly, then scampered back off to check on another table nearby – an older couple, a director that I’d met in passing and his esteemed wife. They looked like nobility, the way that they held themselves and stuck up their noses at his presence.

  “Some people,” I thought aloud to myself.

  “What’s that?” Sierra asked, sipping her drink.

  “Oh, nothing,” I shook my head and banished my disdain. “Now, I’m intending for us to depart in about a week – something else has come up that I think you’ll enjoy. But for now…I’d like us to make an early departure.”

  “Suits me,” she replied kindly, glancing around at the stocked restaurant. “I’m not sure how comfortable I am around all these people. They come from such a different lifestyle. I know that they probably remember what it’s like to struggle, but I couldn’t begin to imagine how easy they have it – and what it’s like to be part of their world.”

  “Well, it’s not all roses for them,” I replied, waving the rim of my whiskey tumbler beneath my nostrils before taking a swing. “After all, all th
ose promotional appearances? Constantly cultivating their images, making nice with people they probably can’t stand, and then there’s the long hours and the uncertainty of the scripts crossing their hands…”

  Sierra listened quietly, but I was already lost in thought. “Go on,” she requested.

  I pulled back into the conversation, smiling and continuing on. “Well, if you’re talking acting, we’re discussing publicity, agents, and never knowing what the next script could do for your career. You have to carefully judge where you think the next role could take you – and a lot of it is intuition.

  “As far as directing or producing, you have to deal with unruly productions, actors and actresses with a surprising amount of baggage, tight deadlines, constant setbacks and budgetary demands, and then there are the executives above…”

  “And what’s the toughest part for you?”

  “For me?” I thought on this for a moment. What WAS the toughest part of this entire world for me?

  “Well…my penchants for troublemaking are a bit of a setback, I’ll admit. I’m thinking it’s about time that I let my reputation slowly die out, and I work on revitalizing the way that I’m seen in the public eye. Perhaps I’ll hire myself a good PR rep to handle that…but that’s going to come with a lot of hurdles and demands…

  Sierra seemed to contemplate my words. I was about to open my mouth and follow that up, but Sebastian returned with the entrees.

  “For you, mademoiselle, I have here ze Coq au vin, and for you, monsieur, I present ze Ratatouille Niçoise et Poulet. Bon appetite!”

  Sierra waved her hands over her gourmet beef stew, wafting the intoxicating aromas up to her face, while I similarly took in the enticing scent of my own stewed dish – primarily of a vegetable medley including bell peppers, zucchini, eggplant, garlic, onion, a hint of marjoram, and a few spices I didn’t recognize. The addition of poached, shredded chicken to the palate was a welcome addition that was only bound to bolster the dish.

  “Good lord, if this tastes half as good as it smells…”