The Laws of Seduction: A French Kiss Novel

by Jones, Gwen

  “Exactly,” he said. “Which I’m sure you hardly think me capable.”

  “So naturally, she’s lying,” Julie said. “Now why would she do that?”

  “I don’t know.” He wished he did. “But I’ll be sure to let you know when I find out.”

  “Of course,” Julie said, “but for now, we need to do better than that.”

  “Where’re we going?” Denny asked. “I’m guessing not the Four Seasons.”

  “We’re going to my house,” Charlotte said. “Turn up Fourth Street.”

  “On the other hand . . .” Julie’s face lit. “Now there’s a story more like I’m used to. Why would the biggest feminist in town be playing for the other team? And for an alleged felon, no less?”

  “I resent that,” Rex said.

  “No offense intended,” Julie said. “But I only think in tabloid headlines. So Charlotte, give me an exclusive. Why did you decide to lawyer for this man? Especially if it means risking the wrath of your supporters who will obviously see it as a betrayal?”

  “Then it’ll be they who’re the real opponents of equality,” Charlotte said. “I fight for justice on both sides of the gender line. It’s as simple as that.”

  “What a headline. I love it!” Julie said, her eyes lighting. “Why this is even better than the twelve-year-old who chews nails. Imagine the two of you, double-teaming it. Like Susan B. Anthony and Dominique Strauss-Kahn.”

  “It’s hardly like that,” Charlotte said, her eyes narrowing.

  Julie looked to Rex. “You must be paying her a boatload of money. Get it?” She prodded his knee. “A boatload!”

  He regarded her blandly. “Très amusant.”

  “The next block,” Charlotte said to Denny. “That one with the blue door.”

  Denny pulled to the curb, Charlotte practically leaping out. Julie looked to her from the window. “So no joke—you’re really and honestly his lawyer?”

  It’s a good thing she’s a woman and Marcel’s sister-in-law, Rex couldn’t help thinking. Because if Julie were a man, he wouldn’t be responsible for what he’d do next. “Didn’t she just say that?”

  The reporter slowly shook her head. “It’s just too bizarre. Too bizarre.” She shrugged. “Well then, au revoir! And don’t forget to keep me posted.”

  Charlotte sighed, looking to Rex as the van pulled away. “We are so fucked.”

  Chapter Five

  Potent Potables

  REX LOOKED TOWARD the house. “You have anything to drink inside?”

  Charlotte turned from the stoop, key at the lock. “Coffee or tea?”

  Was she joking? “I said a drink.”

  “What do you expect, absinthe?” She glanced at her phone. “It’s ten a.m.”

  “Which makes it four in Paris and already too late for a champagne lunch.”

  “Champagne? As if we’ve anything to celebrate.”

  “Which is why we’ll make it scotch. Do you have any?”

  That pert little nose lifted. “What would you say to a Balvenie forty-year-old single malt?”

  “I’d say what are we still doing on the sidewalk?” Mon Dieu, she was a surprising woman. “Take me to it.”

  The inside of Charlotte’s closeted row house was a marked difference from Rex’s airy little waterfront home on Vallon des Auffes in Marseille. Instead of pastel shades and sun-washed tile, there were velvet curtains and a worn-looking sofa against dark paneling, the living room’s faded green carpeting bleeding into a dining room that didn’t appear to ever host a meal, its table cluttered with books, papers, mail, and a laptop. Charlotte shifted around equally overflowing chairs to a sideboard housing a rather interesting rye and malt collection, gleaming glassware beside it. Apparently, she took her liquor seriously, which pleased Rex to no end.

  “I know it’s messy, but believe it or not, someone comes and spruces up all the essential parts every Tuesday.” Then she winced. “At least they used to.” She poured two fingers into each glass.

  “So you’re joining me, I see,” he said.

  “With as much sleep as I got last night? I suppose it’s barely the shank of the evening after all. Ice?” she asked, retreating into the kitchen. When he declined she added, “Oh you Europeans. You like everything at room temperature.”

  “While you Americans”—he heard the clink of two cubes hit her glass—“like everything frozen.”

  “Not everything,” she said, handing him a glass. “Santé.”

  “Santé,” he said, clinking hers. He took a sip as well, savoring the smoke as it warmed his throat. “Ah, very nice.”

  She smiled over the rim of her tumbler. “Yes, isn’t it.”

  He came around the side, regarding her. “You surprise me. It’s the rare woman who appreciates a good scotch.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said, her mouth crooking ever so slightly.

  A shaft of sunlight through the window caught a streak of red in her hair. “As it was intended.”

  She flipped her hand toward the living room. “Shall we?”

  Rex waited until she sat on the sofa before joining her on a chair opposite. She leaned against the arm, crossing those impossible legs. “So . . .” he said, savoring another swallow.

  “So . . .” She took a demure sip as a few moments of silence yawned between them. “Perhaps this would be a good time to discuss the elephant in the room.”

  “Oh, right.” He looked around. “A rather big fucker it is, too.”

  “Freaking huge. Sucks all the air out of the place, doesn’t it?”

  “I think it needs a name. Why don’t we call it . . .” He thought a moment. “Rex.”

  “T-Rex,” she said, her eyes widening. “It’s that ginormous.”

  “It is.” He swirled his scotch, glanced into his glass. “Charlotte, I do appreciate what you’re doing.” Maybe he even felt a bit sorry for forcing her into it. “I don’t think I would’ve enjoyed being jailed at the consulate any more than I enjoyed my stay with the city police. Thank you.”

  “Oh don’t worry,” she readily assured him. “I’m going to enjoy being a millionaire.”

  That’s what he got for going soft. “Don’t order the Bentley yet, ma chérie. You still have to get me out of this.”

  “And I will. At least I’ll do my best. But you have to be straight with me. Because the minute you start taking me for granted I’m out the door.”

  “I’d have to be insane to do that,” he said.

  Her eyes flashed to his. “Yeah, well.” She sniffed. “Just so you know.”

  “I won’t forget.”

  “Good.” She took another sip, smiling cordially, but then the elephant returned, the air nearly vibrating around it. After a moment she said, “Perhaps you should continue where you left off. What happened after the police burst in.”

  “And ruin our scotch? Non. Perhaps we should first get to know each other a little better.”

  Again her eyes flashed to his. This time with heat. Not that it was an invitation. Not yet anyway. “And we will. After you tell me what happened.”

  He always operated on the principle to only divulge information on a need-to-know basis, and with Charlotte, he needed to know her a bit more. But since she was his attorney, she certainly had a point. “Well, the first thing I did was shut off my phone.”

  “Why?”

  “I was still recording, remember? And aside from the fact I didn’t want them to know that, I didn’t want to get myself on tape saying anything they could hold against me.”

  “Sound reasoning,” she said. “But who were you really protecting yourself from? The police, or . . .” She met his gaze. “Who was behind the door?”

  He took a sip of scotch. “Good catch, avocate.”

  “Who was it?” She leaned closer. “Tell me.
”

  Her eyes told him she had already guessed. “It was Lilith.”

  “She followed you.”

  “Oui.”

  “Well, it doesn’t take a detective to figure out why,” Charlotte said. “Ou un génie non plus.”

  “You know, I’ve been wondering—où avez-tu appris à parler si bien le français?”

  She laughed, swirling her drink. “Qu’est-il arrivé à l’anglais seulement?”

  Although nearly perfect, her American-accented français heated him as thoroughly as the scotch. “All right . . . where did you learn to speak French so well?”

  “I ought to ask you the same thing about your English.”

  “I asked you first,” he said, watching her throat as she swallowed. A very nice throat.

  “But if you want any more of that scotch you’ll be a good little detainee and do as I say.”

  “You have me there.” He loosened the top button of his collar. “I took my first English lessons in primary school, but I polished it on both sides of the Atlantic. At Cambridge, where I got my undergraduate degree, then for my MBA at Harvard—”

  “In Cambridge,” Charlotte finished. “My, my, Mr. Renaud. That’s rather redundant of you, isn’t it?”

  “Doing something well once is worth doing again, don’t you think?” he said. “And the name’s Rex, by the way.”

  “Rex . . . yes . . .” she said, sliding a leg under her, her face flushing slightly. She brushed a few loose curls from her eyes. “Rex it is.”

  “Now you,” he said. “Where did you learn to parlez vous?”

  “Ah-ah!” She waggled her finger. “Pas de français, Monsieur—er, Rex.” Apparently the scotch was going to her head. “Phew . . .” She laughed slightly, holding the glass against her cheek. “Apparently the scotch is going to my head.”

  “I was thinking the same thing.”

  She fanned herself. “Oh? It’s going to your head as well?”

  “The scotch?” He shook his head slowly. “Oh non.”

  She took another sip, her fanning speeding up.

  “Perhaps we should have some breakfast,” Rex offered. Perhaps I could eat it off your belly. “But first, answer my question.”

  Charlotte set the glass on an end table. “Well, if you must know, I’ve been speaking it since birth. Honed at my grandmother’s knee.”

  “Oh? Was she French?”

  “Oui—the Frenchiest. Ma grand-mère était une Parisienne.”

  “Really? From Paris?” Which explained Charlotte’s snobbery. Parisians were like New Yorkers. Everyone and everything outside their immediate orbit were les beaufs—trash—not so much a matter of money as style, of which the denizens of Paris thought themselves the official arbiters. As far as Rex was concerned, he was definitely one of les costume-cravate—the suits and ties, corporate entities who only cared about making money. Which, he had to admit, wasn’t too far from the truth.

  Until now. Since the night before, making money seemed to have lost a bit of its imperative. He looked to the avocate across from him. Since . . .

  “She was a war bride,” Charlotte continued. “My grandfather was one of the first American soldiers who marched into Paris after liberation. She ran out in the street and threw herself into his arms. He didn’t let go.”

  “How romantic,” Rex opined. “So she came back with him after the war?”

  “Yes. They were married in Paris, and they lived there for two years after, as my grandfather wound down the war and, I guess, set up the peace. My mother was born there, and she lives there now. Went back for good when I was still in high school.”

  “So you have dual citizenship,” Rex deduced.

  “I do,” she said. “I go to visit my mother and the rest of the family at least a couple times a year. As a matter of fact, my aunt wants to leave me her apartment in Saint Germain des Pres.”

  “The Left Bank?” He was impressed. “Très chic.”

  “I suppose, though she’s had it forever. But don’t get me wrong.” She used her glass for emphasis. “For all my French roots, I’m American to the core. The only left bank that means anything to me is here in Philly, as it’s only on the left when you’re looking from Jersey.”

  “New Jersey?” He laughed. “Are you seriously trying to compare that industrial wasteland to Paris?”

  “You really ought to get away from those container terminals a bit more,” she said, taking umbrage. “Off the flyover, it’s really quite a beautiful state.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” he said dryly.

  “You should because it’s true. That’s where I was born and where my grandparents came back to live.” She took another sip, looking away. “And where my grandfather was killed.”

  “Je suis tellement désolé.”

  “Merci, but I never knew him. It happened before I was born. He was an executive at a steel mill up the river in Roebling. Just as my mother was entering college, he was killed in an industrial accident.”

  All at once Rex felt his jaw tighten and spasm, the fingernails of his right hand digging into the chair’s frayed fabric. He bolted upright. “Would you mind if I poured myself a bit more?” he asked, taking one last gulp.

  “No,” she said, peering at him. “Go right ahead. Though you’re the one who said we should have something to eat.”

  “Just a bit more,” he said, already at the sideboard, his hand shaking as he tilted the bottle over the glass. “It’s just that good.”

  “Well . . . thanks,” she said, a bit warily. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”

  He sucked three-quarters of it back before he even set the bottle down, relishing the heat as it sank into his stomach. He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly, relieved he was out of her sightline. After a moment he felt better, setting the bottle back. He rejoined her.

  “So it seems your mother left you for Paris when you were still a schoolgirl,” he said as he found his seat again. “Mind if I ask why?” When she seemed taken aback, he shook his head. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to answer that.”

  “No, it’s okay,” she said. “I’m just a little surprised you’d ask. I guess you can say she left because of a broken heart.” She looked into her glass, swirling the ice a bit. “My father left her for another woman.”

  “I see,” Rex said quietly.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” she said, looking up with accusation. “You’re thinking—oh, those Americans. So prickly when it comes to relationships. But it wasn’t like that. My mother was oh-so-very French in her sensibilities. She would’ve overlooked his having a mistress. But it went beyond that. When he chose this other woman over her, he threw back in my mother’s face everything she was about.” She drained her glass, then, staring at it, jiggled the ice. “I think I’m going to need more of this myself.”

  “Do you think you should?” Rex asked.

  The look she gave him brooked no discussion.

  “Well, all right,” he conceded.

  Charlotte went to the sideboard and poured herself a bit more, topping off the little that was left in her glass. In all actuality, Rex thought she needed the trip to the sideboard more to ponder whether to continue, and it struck him how much that little gesture showed what they had in common. She returned to the sofa, facing him directly.

  “My father was a lawyer, as was my mother. As was her grandfather, as I am.” She laughed a bit. “I guess you can say law’s the family business. My grandmother’s family had quite a successful corporate law firm in Paris, where she was a legal secretary. But then the war came, and they lost everything. And after she married my grandfather and came back here, she took on the traditional role for American women at the time, which was being a housewife and raising a family, even though she had all this experience behind her. Then my grandfather was killed, just as my
mother was about to enter college, so she went back to work as a legal secretary. And then she received a large sum in compensation from the steel company.”

  “A settlement,” Rex said, taking a swallow of scotch.

  “That allowed my mother to return to college and go on to law school,” Charlotte said. “By this time my grand-mère was working for the district attorney’s office, where she became acquainted with a pretty cocky up-and-coming defense attorney by the name of Jake Andreko.”

  “Your father,” Rex said.

  Charlotte’s brow knit in anger. “Yes.” She took another sip, belting it back. “Look, I’ll cut to the chase as we should be talking about your case, not about my family skeletons. Eventually my mother graduated and passed the bar, and all during that time my father was pursuing her, so the day the letter arrived saying she passed the bar was the same day they got engaged. They had a huge church wedding and a honeymoon in Venice, after which Mom went to work for Jake’s firm which was, by that time, pretty successful. See, she was killing it in the corp law department, as this was the glory days of arbitrage, and Mom was as ruthless as they got. So while she raked it in representing companies eating each other alive, the firm got richer and richer and the ’rents couldn’t live life large enough. Until I threw a wrench in the picture.”

  “Your mother got pregnant.”

  “Exactly.” She laughed harshly. “I guess that’s when Mom had to put down the coke spoon.”

  Rex cocked a brow. “I get the impression you’re not your mother’s biggest fan.”

  “Let me put it this way. My mother never let me forget she had to start working part-time after I was born, while Dad went full-bore into more and more lucrative cases—rich men killing their wives, international embezzlement. All headline stuff, all Main Line, and boy, did his cock get big then.” She scowled into her drink. “After that he was home even less, and I think she resented me even more.”

  “So I’m going to take the leap and assume this is when he started taking on mistresses.”

  “Oh no,” she said with lethal emphasis. “This is when he started fucking anything with a pulse. Like the new clerk fresh out of law school.”