The Client

by Gadziala, Jessica

  He seemed to do—and enjoy—it all. From VIP sections and fancy champagne to dive bars with live music.

  I guess one could call him an experience chaser. He was always looking for the next exciting thing.

  That meant that it was now my job to find things to do and see and experience in Paris that he'd somehow never done before.

  Decision made, I shucked off the dress, donning jeans and a tee, then making my way back out of the hotel, hitting the streets, talking to local late teen and early-twenty-somethings, figuring out what was hot, what was new, what might be just interesting enough to pique Fenway's interest.

  Then I would lead him there.

  And then to the next place.

  Until he just had to know where I was getting my information. Until he was itching for the next fix of something he'd never tried before.

  That accomplished, I made my way to my hotel, passing out fully clothed, starfished across the king-sized bed.

  I woke up to the sun streaming in through the blinds I'd forgotten to close the night before, foggy from jet lag, lingering dreams tugging at the edges of my consciousness.

  Hands digging into skin.

  Lips pressed into the dip of the neck, between the breasts, in my hipbone hollows, lower.

  And whose head did those lips belong on?

  Freaking Fenway Arlington.

  "Damnit, Raven," I hissed to my empty room.

  I really hadn't needed those ideas implanted in my subconscious. Though, clearly, the underlying sexual frustration had absolutely nothing to do with Fenway himself, but rather the fact that I wasn't even sure how long it had been since I'd known the touch of a man.

  Four months?

  God, longer?

  I was pretty sure it was longer.

  No wonder I was having sex dreams.

  Well, that was just going to have to wait until this job was over. It was too important. I didn't need any distractions. Not even of the one-night-stand variety.

  Annoyed at my mind, my body, and Fenway Arlington, for no other reason than he partook in that sex dream, I rushed through a shower, putting painstaking care into my outfit in case the man in question was snooping around even this early in the day. I sought those pastries I'd denied myself the day before, grabbing a coffee to go with them, and took my breakfast to a local park, avoiding the typical tourist traps in favor of something more honest.

  Even as I sat there, though, I felt an unwelcome loneliness settling onto my shoulders, making them slump, weighing me down.

  It was especially strange given how accustomed I had become to my own company, how comfortable I was with silence, with private experiences that I would never be able to properly share with someone who hadn't been there to share them with me.

  "How nice of you to secure our picnic spot, darling," a newly familiar voice called a second before dropping down beside me on the grass, an actual real-life picnic basket set down in front of him.

  My gaze took in his outfit first—a pair of dark wash jeans and a white linen button-up shirt.

  It was almost startling to see him not wearing a suit, given that every glimpse of him on his social media included that very outfit of choice.

  My head craned up to take in his face, half hidden by designer shades, and I found myself oddly disappointed not to see his light brown eyes.

  But only because not seeing them made it harder to read him, of course. No other explanation made any kind of sense.

  "What the hell are you doing here?"

  "Is that any way to talk to your tour guide?" he asked, pulling open the basket. "One who brought some very nice champagne?"

  "I don't need a tour guide," I insisted. "And it is eleven in the morning," I said to the champagne.

  "Is it? Huh," he said, tucking the bottle away, coming back with a thermos instead. "Then coffee it is. You look like you need a refill. No, no. I insist," he brushed me off when I tried to object.

  "Why are you stalking me?" I asked, taking the coffee, but setting it on my side.

  You never took a sip of something you didn't prepare yourself, or watch being prepared. That was basic Girl Safety 101.

  "Stalking is a judgmental word. I like to think of it as research from a distance."

  "And yet here you are. Brushing my shoulder," I told him as he moved to sit, giving me absolutely no space, but I was too stubborn to move away first. I had a feeling he was banking on that.

  "See, Wasp, I was up all night. Tossing and turning, unable to rest easy knowing that you clearly did not come to appreciate how wonderfully charming—and not to mention devilishly good-looking—I am."

  "So you followed me."

  "Yes," he agreed, nodding. "But I brought snacks," he added, lifting the picnic basket as proof.

  "Snacks make it right?"

  "Snacks make everything right," he insisted, tone mock-serious, face grave.

  "You're ridiculous."

  "-Ly charming."

  "What?"

  "Your sentence trailed off. Clearly, you intended to say I am 'ridiculously charming."

  "You're something, that's for sure," I told him, shaking my head.

  "You can't tell me you're not at least a little curious about what I have in here."

  "With your current creep-level, I wouldn't be surprised if it was the severed head of your previous victim."

  "Hmm," he said, shuffling through the contents. With the lid lifted, I couldn't see anything within. "Nope. No severed heads. Or other body parts. But we have three different kinds of cheese, crackers, croissants, and grapes."

  While I was not someone who begrudged themselves a minor sweet treat every now and again, I should have known that it had been a bad idea first thing in the morning on an empty stomach. The cheese and bread might help me feel less queasy about my earlier indulgence.

  Besides, it was all about the give and take with this sort of job. You had to let them think they had you every now and again.

  "What kind of cheese?"

  "Well, let's see," he said, reaching in to pull out hunks of cheeses on actual porcelain plates.

  "Did you... did you steal the place settings from your hotel?"

  "I was in a rush."

  "They didn't chase you down about it?"

  "They will charge my room."

  "Oh, right. They are likely used to your antics by now."

  "How do you know I have had any antics?"

  "Because you are stalking me and trying to schmooze me with stolen food. And you're acting like none of this is a big deal."

  "Oh, Wasp, darling, that is where you are wrong. I am taking schmoozing you very seriously. Reblochon?" he asked, holding a wedge of cheese up to my lips.

  I hated being fed like I was a child. It disgusted me. Yet... my lips parted, allowing him to press the small wedge within.

  "Yeah, that might be more of an acquired taste," he agreed when my lips twisted. "Come on, have some champagne like a real French woman."

  Choking down the cheese, I scraped my tongue against the roof of my mouth. "I'm pretty sure the French don't drink champagne in the morning, Mr. Arlington."

  "No?" he asked, turning to a man walking down near his side.

  "My good sir," he called, getting the middle-aged man's attention. "Would you care for a glass of champagne?" he asked, waving the bottle at the stranger who let out a rapid string of French. I made exactly no words out save for American.

  Unfazed, Fenway slipped into flawless French right back.

  "Voir cette belle femme?" he asked, making the man stop, turn, and look over at me before giving Fenway a nod. "J'essaie de l'impressionner. Aidez-moi ici."

  To that, the man's lips quirked up, and he gave Fenway a nod.

  "Oh my God, how do you have champagne flutes in there? Are those real glass?" I asked when he reached into the basket again, producing three flutes.

  "They attach to the lid," he told me, shrugging, as if this was something everyone knew about picnic baskets. Hell, I act
ually picnicked more often than I ate inside my skoolie, and I didn't even own a picnic basket. "See? he asked when he popped the champagne, gave it to the man, and he gulped it down before handing back the flute, giving Fenway a knowing look, then heading on his way.

  "What did you say to him?" I demanded, small-eyeing him as he poured me a glass, making my mouth water.

  See, what Fenway didn't know—couldn't possibly know—was that I was a sucker for champagne. I could drink down a glass of wine if need be, but I would always prefer something with bubbles if I could have it. I also typically liked it pink like that old movie I saw as a kid that I thought was so classy and cool. You know, the one with the socialite in training and the playboy who met on the boat and went to Italy together? Such a classic.

  "I was honest," he told me, holding out the flute. "I told him that I was trying to impress a beautiful woman, and asked for his help doing so. What?" he asked when I felt my lip curl. "What could I have possibly said?" he asked, shaking his head as I moved to stand, grabbing my coffee cup, turning to walk away.

  I had been falling for it.

  For just a moment there.

  That charm he kept mentioning.

  He had it. In spades. And it was convincing.

  Convincing enough to start to fool an actual, real-life conwoman.

  Then he had to go and ruin it.

  Of course, I was happy for it to be ruined. It wasn't like I was enjoying it. This was a job, after all.

  But I was annoyed at myself for getting a little wrapped up in the moment. In the scene.

  Of course he was just like all the rest.

  They all were the same.

  Different faces, different names, same toxic personality traits, same disappointing infatuation with superficial things.

  New, sparkly, and symmetrical.

  That was what guys like Fenway—and I was becoming increasingly convinced, all guys—were after.

  I trudged back to the hotel, annoyed at myself for getting worked up. This was the same old, same old. There was nothing new or unexpected to get frustrated over. It was certainly nothing to screw up a job over.

  Then again, no one said it was screwed up. The plan was always to leave abruptly, always leave them wanting more, always needing to continue the chase. It was no fun for them once they caught you.

  So maybe this outburst worked in my favor.

  I would just start again later. Get dressed up nicely. Make a show of doing some window shopping, getting seen in case he was in the area. Then making my way to the destination, something I hoped Fenway hadn't experienced yet.

  Then things would be back on track.

  Or as on track as they could be when that freaking annoying boyish smile of his kept flashing across my vision.

  What the hell was that about?

  FOUR

  Fenway

  I'd had women turn me down before. When you hit on most of the ones you crossed paths with, chances were, you would know rejection more than a few times. No matter how rich you were. No matter if you were born with good genes.

  That said, I'd never had someone abruptly jump to their feet and rush away when we'd been in the middle of a seemingly amicable conversation.

  My penchant for screwing up on epic, possibly life-ending scale aside, I was not a glutton for punishment. And I respected a woman's right to turn me away.

  Normally, I took that on the chin, and moved onto the next.

  Why, then, was I changed into a suit and lingering around her neighborhood 'for coffee' when there was a much better cafe closer to my hotel, you might be wondering?

  Yeah, well, I was wondering that as well.

  Yet there I was.

  Like a lost puppy looking for its owner.

  There were other streets to walk down.

  Planes to catch.

  Yachts to board.

  Sights to be seen.

  Yet there was no denying the only one that seemed important right that moment was any one with her in it.

  Absurd and over the top?

  Absolutely.

  Though no one would ever call me boring and sensible anyway, so maybe it wasn't as out of character as it felt.

  There was an awkwardness, an uncertainty, building in my stomach as I walked down the street for the fourth time, my third coffee sparking off of fried nerve endings.

  I was about to give up hope, go drown this uncomfortable sense of self-actualization in one-too-many drinks at the closest bar, maybe take a woman back to my hotel to try to drive out images of my ornery mystery woman.

  And then there she was.

  Like a kick to the gut in a cerulean blue silk dress that flirted with lines of propriety with the shortness of the hem, the way the bodice hung a bit loose, allowing it to drape just low enough to make it clear she couldn't be wearing a bra with something like that on.

  I'd somehow missed her long legs in both my previous perusals of her body. The first night, I'd been focused on her bare back, her almost other-worldly stunning face. The next time, I'd been distracted by her hair, by the way her brows reacted to everything she heard or said.

  But long they were, slightly tanned, toned without being bulky, made to look even longer by the six-inch heels on her feet.

  Her hair was left down as she seemingly always wore it, flirting with her shoulders, kicking up at the ends with the breeze.

  I let her make her way halfway down the street before rushing across, coming up behind her, grabbing her hand, then swinging it between us as I fell into step with her.

  "Seriously?" she asked, not sounding surprised by my sudden appearance, and not pulling her hand right away either.

  "You almost left without me, darling."

  "I almost escaped you, creeper," she shot back, letting me swing our arms two more times before yanking her hand from mine, curling it into a fist so I couldn't claim it again.

  "So where are you taking me?" I asked, clasping my hands behind my back.

  "Straight to the police station, possibly."

  "No. You're far too enamored with me to do something cruel like that."

  "Don't you have a private jet to catch or something?"

  "I have not a care in the world. Save for the overwhelming sadness I feel over your rejection."

  "Somehow, I think you will survive," she told me, rolling her eyes. "I have plans tonight. So go pester some other woman."

  "Oh, my darling Wasp, you are the only woman I want to pester, though."

  "Gee. Whatever did I do to get so lucky?" she quipped.

  Ignoring that, I pressed on. "Where are we having our second date?"

  "We haven't had a first date."

  "Sure we did. We had cheese and champagne. Rubbed shoulders with the locals. It was absolutely a date."

  "I am going to the theater," she informed me. "You are not invited."

  "You know what I like about theaters?"

  "I don't want to know."

  "They are public places. Two people who happen to be there—not on a date—can still somehow end up sitting side-by-side and enjoying the experience together. The woman might even take solace in a sympathetic shoulder should the movie break her heart."

  "Nothing breaks my heart," she told me, giving me brief eye contact.

  "I don't doubt that. Fine. Maybe the movie will be terrifying, and you will need to hide your face in my suit fabric."

  "I don't scare all that easily."

  "What if I get scared, then?"

  "It's not a scary movie they are showing tonight. It is your average, everyday drama."

  "Sounds splendid."

  "Splendid?" she shot back, brow raising.

  "Yes, splendid."

  "No one says the word 'splendid'."

  "Oh, but I do."

  "Of course you do," she said, turning down a side street.

  We fell into companionable silence. Her, because she didn't seem inclined to speak to me, and me, because I didn't want to screw things up before we got to
the theater.

  "I've never heard of this place," I admitted when we stood out front, looking up at the neon red sign.

  Le Brady.

  "Not the best tour guide, after all," she told me, moving inside, leaving me to follow behind. Which I did. Gladly.

  The inside was what you might expect from any typical arthouse theater anywhere in the world. A small, long room with only maybe fifty to seventy-five very tightly-packed seats. These, in red, staring at the projection screen

  It was empty when we moved inside. Tuesday nights weren't a big going-out night for locals, and this place wasn't on any of the tourist type articles on places to visit.

  I'd toured this city countless times since I turned eighteen. I'd never even looked twice at the building.

  "It's nice to find new places in old cities," I told her. "That's why I like visiting New York. Every time you go, it can be brand new."

  "Because hundreds of people have lost their businesses," she insisted.

  "That's one way to look at it."

  "You can't possibly be optimistic all the time," she told me.

  "Why not? There are plenty of things to be optimistic about."

  "The earth melting? Wealth disparity? Turtles with straws stuck up their noses? Destruction of the rain forest? Racism?"

  "Beautiful countries, beautiful women, beautiful music, great food."

  "It is important to be realistic."

  "Yes," I agreed, nodding. "But it is just as important to see some good in life too. Otherwise, what the hell is the point of it all?" To that, she had nothing to say. "You know what?" I asked, pausing, making her ask.

  "What?"

  "I think you're not nearly as jaded as you pretend to be. I think you just want me to think you are, so I lose interest."

  "Why are you so interested? In a city full of other women. Why me?"

  "Why not you? I think we could have some fun. If you would let yourself."

  "What kind of fun?"

  "Come with me, and you can find out," I suggested.

  "We are watching a movie."

  "After."

  "Go where with you?"

  "Hop on a plane, then on a yacht."

  "You can't be serious."

  "Rarely, but in this one instance, I happen to be. Pack your things. Meet me at the private airstrip."