Glen & Tyler's Paris Double-cross (Glen & Tyler Adventures Book 3)

by JB Sanders

  Tyler winced slightly. "Ouch. We were in a hurry. However, I would bring that to your attention." He pointed.

  There was a painting behind the main desk, discreetly lit from above. It was Glen and Tyler's portrait, and there was a copy of it hanging in every property Tyler owned.

  She looked, as did the guy with the cell phone. She glanced between the portrait and Tyler several times. The rich guy just went back to his cell phone.

  "Ok, I see a resemblance. And you certainly seem to have lit a fire under the staff here. Maybe."

  From behind them, Claude motioned to Tyler, standing at the now open double doors to the restaurant. Tyler gestured towards the doors, looking at the man with the phone.

  The guy shrugged, and started slowly walking that way. The security guys, Tyler's and the other guy's, quickly walked ahead to check it out.

  Glen made a mental note to have Tyler do something nice for Claude -- he'd gone above and beyond.

  In a moment, everyone but the security guys and the hotel staff were seated at a newly clothed table. There were a few candles lit, and a dim-but-pleasant spotlight bathed the table in quiet illumination.

  The woman looked surprised. "Well."

  "I am sorry. I'm afraid this whole situation is my fault."

  "If you're really the owner, it sure is." She folded her arms and tightened her mouth.

  "No, really specifically my fault, and I feel bad. They weren't supposed to let anyone use the Grand Suite. But I'm in town and I need it rather urgently."

  The woman turned a little red and sputtered. The young man with the phone looked surprised.

  "You bounced us?" He said. Glen revised his age estimate down a couple of notches, seeing the guy surprised and a little angry. It hit him suddenly who it was -- Jeb Storm, the business whiz kid who ran that social networking website, Socially Yours. Lately it seemed like everyone, their mother and their dog was on Socially Yours.

  Tyler cringed a little. "Yeah, I'm really sorry about that, but we put some special security features into the room--"

  James coughed.

  "--Which I can't tell you about, but I assure you they're really special. So we had to have it." Tyler shrugged apologetically.

  "Man, what the hell am I supposed to do?" Jeb said.

  "Look, Mr. Storm, let me make it up to you."

  Glen could only think: of course Tyler knows who he is.

  Storm sighed. "I don't know how. It's the best suite in Paris."

  "Yeah, like I said, they were supposed to keep it open for me." Tyler tilted his head thoughtfully. "How about I give you a whole floor to yourself?"

  Storm shrugged. "Yeah, I guess that'll work. Like you, we just need the security space." He looked at one of the big guys, who nodded. Storm looked back at Tyler. "Sure, whatever."

  "Look, seriously, I feel bad I bounced you. It's a dickless rich-guy move, and it's not me. Don't worry about paying for your stay here, food, whatever, and I solidly owe you one."

  Storm cracked a half-smile. "Ok, now I'm really feeling the apology. I don't suppose we could get a quick meal while we're here?"

  Tyler looked over at Claude. "Did Chef Pierre go home?"

  "No, sir. I mean, yes, but he lives in the hotel. I'm not sure I can convince him to come down just for one meal..."

  Tyler smiled. "Offer him an Alba white truffle, one point seven kilos, to use however he wants -- for the restaurant, for his personal use, whatever -- if he'll cook one great meal for a discerning gourmand with whatever he has in the kitchen." Tyler nodded at Storm.

  Claude nodded and walked away swiftly.

  Glen shot Tyler a questioning look, and whispered. "We have a truffle?"

  Tyler grinned back. "We will after I win it in the silent auction at the Billionaire's Club."

  Storm set down his phone, clicking it off. He looked tickled. "How'd you know I like the fancy stuff?"

  "Well, when I knew we had to bounce someone, I found out who I was bouncing and did a little research." Tyler blushed slightly. "Plus I did a paper on you in graduate school."

  Storm looked a little embarrassed. "Oh. That conversation never gets any less weird."

  "How many times for you?"

  "The research paper thing? Yours makes fifteen."

  Tyler shook his head. "I'm only up to two. But then I've only been super-rich for like a little over two years. I've hardly had time to do anything."

  "Bollocks! I've seen what you've got up to lately. Your charity thing is going gang busters."

  "Thanks. Your Reading is Critical group really turned around Chicago."

  Glen folded his arms and gave Tyler a look.

  "What?" Tyler said.

  "Do you two want a little alone time?" Despite his tone, Glen couldn't help smiling.

  Tyler snorted. "Oh, please, this guy only dates super models -- and only the woman-kind, thank you very much."

  "As if that would stop you from flirting with him." Glen turned to Storm. "I think he had a little crush on you in college."

  "Uh, that's ... thanks?" Storm seemed a little lost.

  "Oh, don't mind him." Tyler shot Glen an exasperated look. "He's just feisty tonight. We've just flown in from London, hung around two hours in a police waiting room and his brother's in some trouble."

  "Oh, uh, sorry." Storm looked a little lost.

  From the kitchen, there were noises, and some shouting in French, mostly "get out of my way!" and "imbecile!".

  "So, you in town for the Billionaire's Club stuff?" Jeb asked.

  Tyler sighed. "I wasn't planning on going, but since we're in town already, I'll probably drop in for one or two things."

  "It's not as stuffy and irritating as it sounds." Then Jeb laughed. "Ok, it is, but the food is always exceptional and one or two of the rich guys are actually pretty nice."

  "Really?"

  "There's you. I mean, despite the thing with the suite." Storm tucked his phone away. "There are a few other internet billionaires who show up. I can at least talk to most of them. The old guard are pretty much all business types who make shark lawyers look nice, or they're the type who inherited everything and seemed determined to spend it all this year."

  Tyler gave Storm a look.

  "Oh, not you." Storm looked sheepish for a moment. "I mean, you're spending it alright, but not on parties and drugs." Storm looked at his assistant. "I'm just making it worse, aren't I?"

  She made an long-suffering face and nodded.

  The door from the kitchen swung open and a man in white, with a white chef's hat, pushed a cart into the room.

  Tyler stood up, and put out his hand. In flawless French, he said: "Chef Pierre, thank you for your valuable time. I greatly appreciate what you do here."

  The man was florid, large and looked to Glen vaguely like Gerard Depardieu. He gave Tyler a frowning look. Then he shook his hand. "You're welcome, Conrad. Don't make a habit of it."

  "Of course not. This is an extraordinary situation. This is Jeb Storm -- and your doubtless amazing efforts in the kitchen are part of my apology to him for bouncing him out of his rooms."

  "Ha!" Pierre looked at Storm. "This is the gourmand? He doesn't look old enough to grow hair."

  Tyler coughed. "Ah, yes, well. He's only twenty-eight, but by the time he was twenty-three, he'd made ten billion dollars. No where near as stupid as he looks."

  Pierre snorted. "Doesn't speak French, though, does he?"

  "No."

  "Too bad." Chef Pierre pulled a covered plate off the tray, and placed it in front of Storm. Pierre pulled the cover away. In heavily accented English, he said: "Steak au Poivre, with salad in an aged balsamic vinaigrette and roquefort cheese crumbles, and pomme frites."

  Storm looked delighted. "Wow! Is that your cognac and green peppercorn cream sauce?"

  "Oui."

  Storm bounced up and down in his chair. "Awesome!"

  Chef Pierre looked less annoyed and maybe even slightly pleased. He removed several bottles of wine from
the cart, and poured a glass for everyone. "This is a 1996 Domaine Leroy Clos de Vougeot Grand Cru."

  Storm just sighed, and sniffed the glass with his eyes closed. His bad mood had visibly evaporated.

  A plate was placed before everyone else at the table: Glen, Tyler, Tim and Jeb's personal assistant.

  Tyler looked up at Pierre. "Chef, would you do us the honor of joining us?"

  Chef Pierre nodded, as if one of greater nobility had acceded to a request from one of lesser. He pulled up a chair, and poured a glass for himself. Then he turned to the kitchen door and shouted: "Maurice! I'll eat in here."

  A moment later another chef from the kitchen, with a smaller hat, brought in a plate and set it before Chef Pierre. The contents of his plate looked different.

  "Pardon, Chef Pierre, but what is that you have?" Storm looked over curiously.

  "Onglet aux échalotes."

  "Oohh." Storm looked on appreciatively.

  "What's that?" Tyler eyed it curiously, but didn't slow down on his steak.

  Storm gave an almost French little bow towards Chef Pierre. "It's the very rarest of cuts of beef. There are only two such pieces of meat on one cow, and it's generally reserved by the butcher for his own use, or by the very greatest of Chefs. It is the emperor of steak dishes."

  Tyler eyed Chef Pierre, who returned his look with a grin. It was obvious the man was relishing the irony of eating better than the billionaires.

  As they ate, with some gusto, one of Tyler's security guys came in from the lobby. He leaned over to Tim and whispered a few things.

  Tim leaned over to Glen and Tyler. "First, the security guys have the suite ready. Second, Antoine is in the lobby asking for Glen. Should they do a pat down and show him in?"

  Tyler looked at Glen, who nodded. "Yeah, pat down. Get him a chair, too, if you would."

  Tim nodded, grabbed a chair, and put it next to the table. Then he went out to the lobby.

  "Chef Pierre, could I ask one more small favor? Do you have any extra for one more guest?"

  Chef Pierre frowned, reached into the cart and pulled out another covered plate. He put it in front of the new chair. In French, he said: "There won't be any second helpings now. You're a demanding American asshole, you know that Conrad?"

  "Oui." Tyler said, smiling.

  "Though, feel free to call me again, if you have more gifts like that truffle." Chef Pierre sniffed.

  A man in motorcycle riding leathers came tentatively into the room and then over to their table. Glen and Tyler both stopped eating to watch him walk over, and not just because he was Lance's new beaux. The man was stunningly good looking. He had dark wavy hair, one forelock dropping charmingly across his forehead. The leather outfit didn't really hide anything, either, and there was plenty to look at. He wore a tight white t-shirt under the leather jacket, and it showed off his perfectly sculpted chest. He had soft brown eyes, which right then looked uncertain and anxious.

  Antoine looked around the table and settled on Glen immediately. "Glen?"

  "Yup, that's me." Glen stood and offered his hand. They shook. Antoine had a nice firm grip, though he did sweat a little. "Join us?"

  "Uh, if that's OK?" Antoine's English was good, but he still had a very attractive French accent to go with it. He sat, and set his motorcycle helmet on the floor.

  Tim put a glass in front of him, holding it by the stem, and poured some of the wine.

  "How is Lance?" Antoine said, looking at Glen, his eyebrows knit together.

  Glen mentally added points to Antoine's overall score for asking that question before anything else, even before the food or the wine. "As well as we can expect. He's in his own cell, which is a relief. Our lawyers have already talked to him."

  Antoine breathed a sigh of relief and reached for the wine. Glen added more points. Antoine looked around. "Isn't this restaurant closed?"

  "It is." Tyler put in. "We know the owner."

  "Oh." Antoine seemed a little subdued.

  "Sorry, introductions," Glen said. "Antoine, this is my husband Tyler Conrad," Antoine popped up to shake hands, offering his first faint smile, which caused Tyler to blink. "Tim, our adjutant and factotum. This is the renown Chef Pierre. And our guests Jeb and -- ."

  "Jessica," Tyler supplied.

  Jessica, Jeb's assistant, looked a little startled. Glen guessed it was because she hadn't been introduced by name, though of course Tyler had gotten it when he'd done research on who they were bouncing.

  "How, uh, how bad is Lance's trouble? Do you think you can get him out?" Antoine looked worried, though not as anxious as before.

  Tyler set down his fork. "Probably. But we haven't talked to the judge in charge of the case, so we don't know what they have for evidence."

  Antoine nodded, a little sadly, and half-heartedly ate something from the plate. He chewed distractedly for a moment, then looked down in mild wonder at the food. "What is this? I thought it was Steak au Poivre, but it is too, how you say, amazing."

  "Steak au Poivre, prepared the right way." Tyler gestured at Chef Pierre. "The Chef was kind enough to make us a special meal."

  Antoine switched to French. "I've never tasted anything so good." Antoine was fervent.

  "Merci." Chef Pierre said primly. He cut another piece from his own steak and ate it somewhat smugly.

  "So, Antoine, where are you studying?" Tyler put a piece of the superbly cooked meat in his mouth and regarded Antoine. Glen had to choke back a laugh when he realized that Tyler was doing the Suspicious Dad routine on Lance's boyfriend.

  Antoine swallowed and shrugged. "I pick up courses when I can afford them; mostly I'm apprenticed to a master portraitist. He gives me exercises and sometimes his lesser commissions."

  Tyler nodded. In his jeans and t-shirt, he somehow managed to give off a Supreme Court vibe. "Where did you meet Lance?"

  As evasive as the first answer felt, the smile that lit up Antoine's face looked as genuine as any Glen had ever seen. "The Louvre, in the Post-Impressionist galleries. He was looking at a Seurat, and doing the mambo."

  "Mambo?" Tyler quirked an eyebrow.

  Antoine's grin got brighter. The man's whole face seemed to glow for a moment. "It's when tourists or art students go up to see the dots, then back to see the picture, and then up to see the dots again. He did it a few times, and I couldn't stop myself: I made fun of him." Antoine looked around the table guiltily, blushed, gestured at Glen and then at his own hair. "It is, you know, the red hair..."

  Tyler sighed, cutting into his steak. "Oh believe me, I know. I, too, suffer from that disease." He shot Glen a warm smile, then looked back at Antoine. "So, do you know anything about these charges against Lance?"

  Antoine's eyes glanced around and then back to Tyler. "No. It's ridiculous. As if Lance would ever do such a thing." Antoine made a dismissive gesture. "The police are wrong."

  A beep-beep noise came from Antoine's direction. He pulled out a cheap cell phone and glanced at the screen. He immediately stood up, nearly knocking over his chair. His face was pale. "Sorry, work. I have to go." He nodded at Glen and Tyler, and then generally around the room. "Thank you for the food."

  Antoine didn't waste any time leaving.

  Tyler turned to Tim, and nodded. Tim hopped up, pulled a plastic bag from his jacket pocket and fitted it very carefully over Antoine's wine glass. He left the room with it.

  Jeb Storm swabbed the last piece of his steak around in the frankly amazing sauce. "Do you fingerprint everyone you run into?"

  Tyler half-smiled. "No, just the one's dating my baby brother-in-law."

  Storm nodded. "Ah, just checking. I almost feel left out."

  "Don't. We lifted your prints from the suite and made sure you really are Jeb Storm." Tyler paused while Jeb looked surprised and Jessica looked outraged. "As well as background checks on your staff, of course."

  "Seriously?" Storm said.

  Tyler leaned back from the stupendous meal. "Oh, very seriously. You would not be
lieve the crazy things some people have done to get near me or cause me harm. And this thing with Lance has me extra paranoid."

  "Anything I can do to help?"

  "Do you know the Minister of the Interior's personal cell phone number?" Tyler said, and made a gesture. He was obviously being sarcastic.

  "Uh, hmmm, no, but hang on." Storm pulled out his phone and bent over it, tapping the screen and murmuring to himself.

  Storm looked up. "Yes, actually, I do happen to have his cell phone number. He has it on his Socially Yours page."

  Tyler quirked an eyebrow. "Seriously? What kind of high government official publishes his secret personal cell phone number on his social networking page?"

  "Oh, he didn't. It's only available to his close friends." Storm shrugged. "Or, you know, me."

  Tyler grinned in that dangerous way that only he could. You wanted to help him and get out of his way at the same time. "You have access to everything on Socially Yours? That's...amazingly handy."

  Storm nodded. "Yeah, it's nice. As long as I get your name right, I can just go 'sure, I'll call you'. And I can. Do you want the number?"

  "Yes, please."

  Storm read it off, and Tim tapped it into his phone. Then Tim rose and left, already talking to someone.

  "Thanks. We should hit the hay, but before we go, take this." Tyler passed him a small metal business card.

  "Is this a flash memory card?"

  "It's my private number, plus a unique security key so that when we talk, the discussion can be encrypted on whatever phone you're using, with the right software. Like I said, I owe you one. If you ever need help, call me."

  Storm regarded the card for a second, then looked up at Tyler thoughtfully. "You know, I think I'll save this for an emergency. I'm getting the impression you'd be the right people to call if I ever get into trouble."

  Glen stood up, too and grinned. "You ain't just whistling Dixie."

  ***

  "Wow, look at that view." Glen said in a hushed voice.

  The Grand Suite was indeed fantastic. It was like a baroque French palace on the top floor of the hotel. Every window had a startlingly exceptional view of Paris at night, like each was a professionally shot photograph meant for a postcard. The furniture looked like antiques, though certainly they had to be reproductions. Glen kept expecting to see footmen in powdered wigs suddenly appear to offer them champagne -- the real stuff, obviously, from Champagne.