by Letty James
“She’ll wear them now.” Beauvais tossed her shoes in the trash. With a strangled cry, Nikki leapt off her chair and snatched them out.
“You can’t just throw these out. They’re my—” She stopped before she said lucky shoes. As a gift from Mimi, they had great sentimental value. “Most comfortable shoes,” she blurted out.
The most sophisticated man she’d ever encountered rolled his eyes, but he relented, and a clerk scurried to put them in a bag for her. He held out a hand to help her off her knees. Twice in one day she’d been in this position. Last time, she’d been more embarrassed than anything. This time, she took his hand warily, not trusting her fantasies to stay under control if she touched him. His warm hand engulfed hers, the touch of skin on skin more electrifying than anything her puny imagination had conjured. She snatched her hand back, only to wobble on her new heels and smack her hand against his chest.
Big mistake.
His hand slipped around her waist to hold her steady. The woodsy tang of his cologne made her want to bury her nose under his tie like a forest creature burrowing into a warm nest.
“Thank you,” she whispered against his chest.
“De rien,” he said. Nikki could feel the rumble of his voice against her ear. It’s nothing?
Oh, it most certainly was something. She just didn’t know what yet.
Watching Nikki put on lipstick made Gérard want to moan. Seeing her slick it on over lush, full lips, the slight scent of vanilla wafting from her, those green eyes meeting his innocently in the mirror, had him fisting his hands against his sides to maintain control. All day he’d watched her scurrying around the office, smiling up at deliverymen, bending over to place packages on the coffee table in his office. He even envied the papers she clutched to her breasts when she talked to him. For the first time in his life, he couldn’t concentrate for more than minutes at a time.
While Marco ushered Nikki into the waiting car, Gérard sent a text message canceling his dinner conference with possible vendors. He didn’t need her meeting anyone until he discovered her agenda. Settling into the seat, he studied the woman next to him as she fiddled with the hem of her outdated cape. It was about time he grilled her on why she was really in Paris.
“Your former boss gave you a glowing reference. He said your sudden departure surprised him.” Gérard didn’t quote the whole message the man had emailed him. Indiscreetly, her boss had mentioned Mademoiselle Sommers had given up her entire life—job, house, car—to travel with her lover. Apparently a man he did not hold in high regard. Gérard found himself not liking the man, either.
“Mimi, my grandmother, left me a bit of money and it seemed the right time in my life to do some traveling.”
“But you stopped in Paris?”
“I’ve always dreamed of living here.” She worried her bottom lip delightfully and Gérard bit his tongue to stifle the urge to lean over and taste her delectable mouth.
“It’s dangerous to travel alone.”
“I didn’t. I mean, I am now. I left . . . the others in Amsterdam.” She stumbled over her words and Gérard waited for her to spill her secrets. But Mademoiselle Sommers merely turned her face to the window as her fingers picked at the hem of her cape.
Others, being her former lover, or her sister, or perhaps both? Maybe they were all in cahoots to swindle him. Gérard’s intuition told him Nikki was innocent, in more ways than one, but he’d been fooled too recently to trust his gut this time. He hated that he was questioning his instincts.
The passing lights lit her face, her lips curved up with pleasure as she studied the buildings around them. “The city is so beautiful. So full of history.”
“And where is home?”
“You caught me. I don’t have one.” She glanced over at him. “It used to be a little town in Georgia. Just big enough, Mimi used to say. Enough people so there would be something interesting going on. But it never seemed interesting enough to me. Not like Paris.”
“So you create your own interest, non?”
She merely smiled in response.
He suspected Nikki might have been bored, but no one around her could be. That, she certainly had in common with her sister. They both dragged people into their little fantasy worlds. Didn’t she know the grueling life of a pastry chef? The long hours, the physical grind, the constant criticism, and above all the attitude that it was not real cooking. She’d stood up to his criticism at Madame’s patisserie, but that was nothing compared to what would happen to her in a professional capacity. And he ought to know. The tougher he was on a chef, the better the public liked it. He shook his head. Clearly, she had no idea who he was.
Gérard leaned over, his shoulder touching Nikki’s as he pointed out the window. “There’s one of my favorite places, Musée Jacquemart. A small museum built by a couple with a passion for art and each other. The façade is unassuming, but the backside is beautiful.”
Nikki stifled a giggle. “You could say that about a lot of women, too.”
Gérard smiled down at Nikki. Her champagne-induced giddiness presented an advantage, but he found himself unexpectedly reluctant to exploit it. “You, chérie, will never have that problem.”
She shook her head, her smile gone. “Please don’t flatter me, Monsieur Beauvais. It is totally unnecessary in our situation.”
“I have found that flattery can make certain situations much more enjoyable. If one is to be civilized. Do you believe man to be ultimately civilized or savage?”
Nikki bit her bottom lip, pulling it between her teeth, only to release it wet and inviting. Gérard’s hand curled against the leather seat, restraining himself once again.
“Civilized, of course, Monsieur Beauvais.”
Wrong answer, thought Gérard. Wrong, wrong answer.
Chapter 5
The car pulled up to a restaurant fronted with gleaming carved wood and etched glass. Lit by soft gaslight, the windows reflected a cozy glow. Potted palms caught Nikki’s eye and she noticed the name, familiar to any reader of American gossip magazines. Here is where celebrities had romantic tête-à-têtes.
“We’re having dinner here?” Nikki clutched Beauvais’ arm in apprehension, then dropped her hand as awareness flooded through her of the flesh and muscle beneath the fabric of his jacket.
Beauvais smiled down at her. “It’s one of my favorites. There’s no better way to get a sense of French cuisine.”
No better way, indeed! Nikki hoped she didn’t make a fool of herself gawking at everything and everybody. She timidly returned Beauvais’s smile and reached for the door handle. He took her hand in his.
“Patience, ma petite, Marco will get the door.”
Nikki sat back, embarrassment bringing her down to earth with a thud. Beauvais squeezed her hand in what she imagined was pity.
“I’m used to doing the driving.” Nikki pulled her hand away and clenched it at her side, once again feeling worlds apart from the man sitting next to her.
“I find having a driver much more efficient in the city.”
“Is that your motto—efficient?”
Before he could answer, Marco had opened the door and Nikki jumped out of the car, taking a deep breath of Parisian air. Wired on adrenaline and alcohol, Nikki’s nerves simmered. She hugged her arms tightly to her chest, trying to contain herself. Mimi warned constantly about her sassy mouth. She didn’t need to lose this job the same day she’d obtained it. But she had a feeling more than the job was at stake. It was as if the moment they’d left the office, Beauvais had turned on the seduction mode—gifts, wine, endearments. She didn’t like to think he had an agenda, but something had changed.
His hand went to her elbow, directing her toward the awning-clad entrance. A flash startled her and her hand went to her eyes.
“Don’t cover
your face. They’ll need a good picture.” Beauvais held her still for a moment as he waved to the photographer. Then they were ushered into the foyer by the doorman.
“What was that all about?” Nikki closed her eyes for a moment, trying to dispel the white spots still obscuring her vision.
“You may scoff at efficiency, but that was the most direct way to reach your sister. The tabloids will print a picture of the two of us and she’ll know you’re with me.”
With him? “Why would Jessica read the tabloids?”
He lifted one sardonic eyebrow. “Because your sister thrives on celebrity gossip. Who do you think she taps to fund all her causes?”
“And you’re a celebrity?”
Even the doorman turned around to look at her as Beauvais shook his head with an exaggerated sigh. “I guess not to Americans.” Without elaborating, he guided her to the hostess stand with an intimate touch to the small of her back.
The hostess greeted Beauvais with a broad smile and a kiss on each cheek. She still held his arms as she gazed at him adoringly. “Gérard, it has been much too long.”
“Yes, it has, Claudette. This is my assistant, Mademoiselle Sommers.”
Claudette turned to Nikki, leaned in and pressed each of Nikki’s cheeks with her own. “Bonjour, Mademoiselle. Welcome. You are a very lucky woman to spend so much time with Gérard.”
“I don’t know if she’ll say lucky by the end of the day,” he interjected.
“If she doesn’t, then come see me.” With a laugh, the woman smiled broadly at Nikki, putting her at ease. “I’ve put you in the garden room.” She turned to Nikki with a wink. “Very private.”
Nikki felt as if she were floating to her seat. Lit by flickering gas sconces on dark chocolate walls and tea lights scattered over white linen-covered tables, the back room exuded romance. Glass doors overlooked an illuminated garden with a splashing fountain. The only other couple there ignored their entrance, very intent on their own conversation. Nikki slid into a caramel-colored, U-shaped leather banquette. Gérard followed, his thigh pressing against hers for only a second, making goosebumps rise on her arms.
“A bottle of champagne, s’il vous plait, Frédéric.”
“A glass of water for me,” Nikki piped up.
Beauvais’ eyebrows rose in what Nikki was starting to recognize as one of his standard forms of commentary. If he thought to get her drunk and take advantage, he had another thing coming. Her brain already felt fuzzy.
She looked about the room, admiring the paintings of long-ago city scenes, but still felt Gérard’s presence like a banked fire. Yet, she resisted the temptation to scoot closer.
The waiter brought bite-size fois gras appetizers before they even had a chance to look at the menu.
“An amuse bouch,” he informed her.
“I know that. I watch the Food Channel.”
A laugh burst out of Beauvais, sounding like the Sun God parting dark clouds. The sudden warmth made her reach for her glass and take a large gulp. Maybe the alcohol would turn off her senses, including the embarrassment at feeling like a country bumpkin. “What is so funny? I’ll have you know the Food Channel is very educational.”
“I have no doubt.” He was still chuckling as he took a sip of his own champagne.
Nikki admired the simple move of his Adam’s apple and had a fleeting urge to nuzzle his neck. Dear God, this was not good. She turned to her plate. “Do you have cooking shows here?”
“But, of course.” Before he could elaborate, the waiter set before them a vision of glistening black and white. “Scallop with cauliflower and black truffle sauce.”
She took a tentative bite, then another larger one as Beauvais gauged her reaction.
“Good?” he asked.
She nodded. “I could lick the plate.”
“Lick whatever you like.” He took a drink, his gaze teasing over the glass as she felt her cheeks bloom with heat.
Beauvais set down his flute and turned to her, one hand lifting a stray tendril behind her ear, then grazing her lobe. “So why don’t you tell me why you’re really here.”
Nikki gulped the cool, fizzy champagne and the waiter instantly refilled her glass. Perhaps it was time to confess. “I’ve wanted to come to Paris ever since I was a little girl. Mimi would tell me stories of working with Emmaline and I dreamed of coming to see the shop under the shadow of the Eiffel Tower.” She took another hefty swallow. “I’ve practiced and practiced at home, but learning from the masters, that’s something different . . .” The words flowed like the bottomless glass of champagne. Learning pastry seemed like such a paltry goal compared to the big doings of Beauvais’s company. She gave a slight hiccup and covered her mouth in mortification. “Excuse me.”
“And you thought this job would lead to . . .?” His question hung there, waiting to be finished. She couldn’t think as his fingers traced the shoulder stitching of her blouse.
“Greater opportunities!” Nikki blurted out, just as the chef appeared at their table.
Beauvais stood, clasping the chef’s hand as they greeted each other warmly.
“Gérard, you old dog. Does everyone speak to you of opportunities?” He winked at Nikki. “Give the woman anything she wants. So? Have you read my proposal?”
“I have, chef. It looks very promising.”
The chef shook his head. “Never a guarantee, is there? How is my friend Jean-Luc? You need to learn how to cook so he can come back to work for me.”
“And spend all my money here? I don’t think so.”
The chef said his goodbyes and their waiter described each dish as it came to their table, pouring a different wine for every course.
“You don’t cook?” she asked.
Beauvais shook his head. “I’m too busy. And if I relied on my own skills, I’d be subsisting on fried potatoes and poached eggs.”
Nikki gave a little snort of a laugh. “That sounds like a hang-over meal.”
He glanced down at her with those sexy, smoky dark blue eyes, smiling at her as if she were the most entertaining dinner companion he’d ever had. “Perhaps I’ll make you one tomorrow morning.”
Nikki sat up straight and reached for her water glass, bobbling it up to her lips. “I’m fine.” Did he say morning?
“Gérard! C’est quelle surprise.” With the intimacy of a good friend, an elegant woman took a seat in the booth next to Beauvais, her shiny silver hair swinging against her jaw. Nikki gasped at the sudden press of his thick thigh against her own. Thank goodness he was distracted by the woman’s greeting as they kissed on each cheek.
“Gérard, mon cher. I haven’t seen you in ages. In person, that is.” The woman laughed, and Nikki found herself mesmerized by the woman’s immovable face. “You were perfectly horrid to Chef Denacka last week. I heard he threw a knife at his sous chef in the restaurant afterward.”
“The man deserved it for serving garbage. He knows better.”
As Nikki made to move away, Beauvais’s hand clamped down on her thigh underneath the tablecloth. He immediately removed his palm, but Nikki could still feel the imprint of his heat. She longed to press the cold glass of water against her forehead, but settled on a gulp instead.
“And who have we here?”
Beauvais made the introductions with a nod of his head. “Aimee, this is Nikki Sommers, Jessica’s sister. Nikki, meet Aimee VonDorling.”
The woman took Nikki’s hand in a bone-crushing grip, gold bangles clattering over Beauvais’s plate between them. “VonDorling of the Provence VonDorling’s.” The woman suddenly switched to English, with a condescending tone, as if Nikki wouldn’t be able to understand a word otherwise. “The same Jessica who ran your foundation, Gérard?”
Gérard nodded, stone faced.
“My word,
lose a few pounds and you’d be the spitting image of your sister.”
Nikki gave the woman a semblance of a smile. Lose a few pounds indeed. This woman would blow away in a strong wind.
“Sommers? Isn’t Jessica’s name Nichols?”
“I took my grandmother’s name.” She wasn’t about to tell this horrid woman the full story of being stepsisters.
“I don’t blame you. Nikki Nichols sounds like a call girl. I must dash. Call me, darling.” With another flurry of kisses over Beauvais’s cheeks, VonDorling vamoosed and Nikki was very happy to see her go.
“Don’t mind her. She’s American.”
Nikki bristled until Beauvais stage-whispered, “But she wants to be French, so she’s very rude.”
Nikki smiled, relieved Mrs. Von-Boring was not a good friend. With Gérard leaning so close to her, her senses pulsed on high alert. She squeezed her earlobe trying to distract herself from the desire to have his hand on her thigh once again . . .
Stop it, control yourself.
Taking a sip of wine, she closed her eyes, visualizing her body an icicle, impervious to his touch. It didn’t help, as she then imagined his hot hands melting her into a puddle. Her eyes popped open as Gérard shifted. He was so very different than the wicked Monsieur Beauvais she’d imagined.
Wicked. Now that was a thought. She watched his large hand twirl his wine glass.
“You talk about your sister very little.” He turned to Nikki as his other hand slid over the top of the banquette.
His eyes met hers and already she could feel her whole body changing shape under his gaze, not a dissolving piece of ice, but more like an egg white whipped into peaks, her breasts at attention, her . . .
