by Noelle Mack
Her concept furniture, rose-embedded Lucite armchair and all, had probably cost a fortune and so did the original photographic prints signed by the greatest master of the art.
Henri Cartier-Bresson was his favorite photographer. Odette must have thought he was making that up, along with his degree in marine biology. Not like he could sit around and talk ocean currents with her, right?
Good thing he hadn’t commented on the oddball paintings on the wall—she would have laughed.
Did he get to ask questions from here on in? Now that he thought of it, she’d deflected quite a few so expertly he hadn’t known she was shining him on.
Bryan looked down at his Newport Beach tank and neoprene jacket. Clothes made the man. She must have taken him for a studly surfer, and figured he had the brains of a boogie board. But he couldn’t forget the way she’d looked at him, clothed and naked…like he meant something to her.
Yeah. Sure he did. A fresh entry in her Filofax under M for Men. No, make that H for Hommes. Beach boy, American, subspecies, California. How many stars would she give him for the sex? One for each of their three days. Over and out.
Bryan was crushed just thinking about it. He turned around when he heard the clatter of cups and realized that the first girl was going off her shift, and a new one was just starting. Serious-looking, thick glasses, and was that a copy of Simone de Beauvoir’s essays she’d just set on the counter?
Yup. She would make a point of ignoring him.
Bryan opened up the Bonjour Paris website again, looking for more photos. Hell. There he was, grinning like a fool. That witchy interviewer had practically stuck the mike up his nose while he answered questions he only half-understood.
Smile and wave. He was waving to his mom. But he didn’t look too bright doing it. He photographed okay. No wonder the rich and powerful Odette Gaillard had mistaken him for a California gigolo with sand in his flip-flops. Weird that she’d wanted him anyway.
Christ. Was his name in the captions? What if the graduate admissions officers looked him up on Google and laughed their fucking heads off? No, he hadn’t broken any laws or revealed any personal parts, but if they had to chose between Joe Nerd and Beach Blanket Bozo, all other things being equal, they would chose Joe Nerd and not him.
He scrolled through all the photos and peered at the text. The interviewer had spelled Bryan as Brian and Bachman as Backmann. He was safe. He really couldn’t be angry with Odette. She’d had no way of knowing anything about him, and she’d only wanted to protect herself. That was understandable.
And she’d wanted him, gone out of her way to talk to him. Something he found even more flattering. Being taken for a boy toy by a hot, sophisticated Frenchwoman wasn’t the worst thing that had ever happened to him.
He didn’t have to mention the encounter when he e-mailed his mother. Gloria Bachman would be thrilled to hear that he’d won a ticket to an honest-to-God runway show. He’d send her the link to the website; she’d enjoy the pictures. She was that kind of mother. No matter what he got himself into, his mom kept right on thinking he walked on water.
Now, if there was some way he could take her on a virtual tour of a Paris fashion house…Odette could help with that.
No, he wasn’t going to guilt-trip her into it. Bryan had no idea how to even tell her that he knew who she really was.
The more he thought about it, the more he remembered how she’d looked when she came up to him at the back of the showroom, ignoring all the craziness onstage, and the glamorous crowd.
Almost like she didn’t want to be there either.
No one had recognized her when they’d gone clubbing—she’d blended into the raffish crowd like she belonged anywhere she wanted to be, drinking and dancing and living it up.
And after they’d ended up at her place, she’d really let down her hair. He would never, ever forget how they hit the heights of lust and came down again—or afterward. Odette had cuddled up to him like a stray cat who’d just found a friend.
It was strange, considering who she was, but he wouldn’t have changed a thing about their first encounter.
Bryan wondered if she would confess before Friday. Fuck it. He didn’t care. Rule one: life didn’t follow the rules.
He glanced at the street outside. The city looked rainwashed and sad, its workaday aspect revealed in the hurrying passers-by shielding themselves with umbrellas or folded newspapers. He wondered where Odette was and what she was doing.
Odette had entered her atelier later than usual, dressed more soberly than usual. She couldn’t wear sunglasses, not on a rainy day, and hide from the inquisitive stares. What had happened between her and Bryan Bachman was nobody’s business but hers.
But gossip traveled fast. She’d made herself conspicuous by disappearing and not taking the customary bow at the show’s grand finale . Well, she wasn’t going to take any questions about it.
“Bonjour,” she said to no one in particular, playing the role of lady boss as she strode by workstations cluttered with projects in various stages of development.
Marc popped his head out of his office to wink at her, but he didn’t say a word. Odette breathed a sigh of relief.
“The show went well, Madame.” Lucie bustled up before Odette could disappear into her own sanctuary. “Today the Japanese buyers are coming in. Their Harajuku flagship store is placing a big order.”
Odette gave a start. She’d forgotten about the meeting. That order ran into the millions. The Japanese loved French designer goods.
“Do they want the line we showed?”
Lucie sniffed. “Of course not. They insist on exclusivity.”
“Then we will use the new patterns as templates and tweak the fabrics and trim,” Odette sighed. “There is no time to create a completely exclusive line for them, not if we are to meet our loan obligations. We need that order, Lucie.”
Making millions meant borrowing millions. Her personal fortune was secure, apart from what she’d plowed back into the company, but the banks insisted on growth projections that she could not guarantee. Fashion was a risky business, even with a popular brand sold worldwide.
“Yes, we do.” Lucie made a few notes on her clipboard and bustled elsewhere.
Odette headed for her office. The sloping windows of the old atelier rose from the top of the wall in back of her desk to the point of the roof. On a fine day, they let in so much light that shades had to be drawn against it. On a gray day, the light was muted, almost sad.
Odette switched on her desk light, needing the touch of glowing scarlet that its beaded silk shade provided.
Her assistant came in. She could guess what Marc was going to ask. She was almost surprised he’d been able to wait five minutes.
Odette looked up at him and smiled.
“So,” Marc said nonchalantly, “how did your enchanted evening go? I didn’t tell anyone why you left.”
“They seemed to have figured it out. Did you take a bow for me?”
“Yes. The crowd called for you, though, when they saw the white satin set trimmed with real pearls—oo là là. The bride at the finale got a lot of applause.”
“Brides always do.”
“Yes. Did you have fun with with M’sieu Neoprene?”
“His name is Bryan Bachman. He is very nice,” Odette said primly.
“Ah. So nice you stayed up until dawn.”
“Not quite. The birds woke us up a little late.”
“How romantic. Breakfast in bed for two?” he purred.
“Yes, as a matter of fact.”
“I’m jealous. You look weary but beautiful.”
“I had no time to put on makeup, Marc. Take me as I am.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “I approve. You should go out with him again.”
“Why do you say that?”
She flipped open a ring binder packed with sales figures, sales projections, client comments, sketches, and everything else she could cram into it, flipping the page
s with the eraser end of her pencil.
“Because you work too hard, Odette. You need someone like him. A real California beach boy.”
“He is not a boy.”
Marc raised his eyebrows. “It is only a phrase. How old is he?”
“Twenty-five, I think. Or twenty-six. I cannot remember if I asked or what he said. That is my best guess.”
“And he is not from the beach?”
“He grew up near there. He has a degree in marine biology and he wishes to go to graduate school.”
Marc looked pleased. “A smart beach boy. Even better.”
“Too smart, perhaps,” she muttered. “Please, Marc. I have work to do.”
“Of course. I just wanted to satisfy my curiosity. And by the way—the fitting model will be in at noon. She called to say that she was throwing up.”
Odette made a face. “Disgusting. I wish they would not do that.”
“It is unfortunate. Should I have Lucie order coffee for you? Ah, no—you mentioned having breakfast.”
She smirked. “Yes. But thank you.”
Marc gave a nod and left her office.
Odette leaned back in her chair and looked up at the gloomy sky overhead. Then she glanced at her binder, not eager to immerse herself in spreadsheets. Fashion was no longer fun or creative. It was numbers-driven. Clients were nervous sheep, who wanted a sure thing they had never seen before.
There were times when she wondered if she should leave the business.
She put down her pencil and put her head in her hands, feeling a headache coming on. Odette reminded herself of how many people she employed and also of her charitable commitments. Walking away from her company was not an option at the moment.
Her night with the freewheeling American seemed to have shaken her up in more ways than one.
Pah. She was too old for romantic fantasies about a man changing her life. You are almost thirty, she reminded herself. That wasn’t old at all, though.
She wished she could take off and wander the world for a little while. With Bryan. Was it possible that he…well, what if he were to come back to Paris someday, when she was not so busy…
Odette felt a sickish sensation creep into her stomach. He really didn’t know who she was, but he was bound to find out sooner or later. She ought to confess as soon as possible.
Being successful was not a crime. Feeling flirty and wanting an uncomplicated encounter also was not a crime.
Sex with him had been extraordinary. Her unexpected feelings for him had overwhelmed her. What a mix. Tenderness. Curiosity. Passion. Was it because she’d set aside her identity that she’d felt so free?
All he had to do was type in her name on Google to find out about her. But then again, why would he? He had no reason not to believe her. She hoped.
If it came to that, she would explain as best she could. Make it up to him. Contribute a large sum to his favorite charity. Save The Oysters. She supposed they needed saving, along with everything else?
No. She had a feeling he could not be bought and she could not be such a hypocrite, because she ate oysters. Raw if not kicking.
Preoccupied, Odette chewed her pencil and pored over her binder.
The Japanese buyers had come and gone by the time Odette looked at her watch. She had five minutes to get all the way to Chez Prune in north Paris and meet Bryan.
“Lucie!” she called. “I cannot work late tonight! Where are you?”
The girl scurried to her door. “Here. Go.” She was holding Odette’s light coat, which she thrust out to her boss, along with an umbrella. “I will close up.”
“Merci!” Odette dashed down the winding marble staircase, swinging on the turns with one hand on the wrought iron balustrade. She dashed out the front door and looked frantically through the rain for a taxi.
There were none. Just the usual insane Paris rush-hour traffic. The streets were clogged with cars, weaving in and out, and cutting each other off. The driving rain meant everyone’s windows stayed rolled up, which muffled the curses.
She would have to walk until she could hail one. She unfurled the umbrella and started off, dodging right and left to get past people. Little by little, despite her haste, she relaxed.
There was something about a rainy night in a big city that she loved. Neon reflections on dark, slick streets, open umbrellas like giant dots of color against the gray—she slowed down to take it in. She would get a taxi eventually, Bryan would wait, she should not be so frantic—Mon Dieu, my shoes are soaked, she thought.
After several more blocks, her luck changed and she spotted a taxi. It pulled over. She got in, sliding her furled umbrella at her feet, and gave the driver directions.
Odette felt suddenly exhilarated. Her feet were cold and wet, but Paris in the rain was beautiful as ever, and she was going to meet her new lover—
Paris in the rain…it could be a perfect name for her next collection.
She had been considering a new type of gray silk, pleated so finely that it shimmered. The manufacturer had made variations on that theme, deeper hues shot through with flashes of silver.
Like lights reflecting on wet streets at night, if one were looking out a café window, protected from the storm…with a man one loved. She smiled a little wistfully.
Paris in the rain? You can’t slap a concept like that on fancy panties. On umbrellas, maybe. Not underwear. In her head, she could hear the grumpy voice of her sales analyst, a man who hated new ideas.
Zut. He might be right. Odette sighed and leaned back against the seat, grateful that the taxi driver wasn’t the talkative kind.
She leaned forward and tapped on the divider. “Here it is. Thank you.” She handed him the fare and a generous tip, then clambered out, forgetting the umbrella on the floor.
At the entrance to Chez Prune, Odette caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window and made an effort to pull herself together, patting her damp hair back. The long day at work and her lack of makeup showed. She certainly looked like a junior worker in a fashion house.
It didn’t matter. Prune customers were arty types, usually disheveled and prone to announcing that they didn’t give a damn about money, before they hit up their pals for a loan.
She looked for Bryan as she entered, not seeing him at first. Ah—there he was. His back was to her. He was wearing a heavy sweater and a different jacket was slung over the back of his chair. Of course—he must have gone back to his hotel to change.
He was alone. She was glad that no one had struck up a conversation with him—meaning no one female.
Odette knew she had no right to be jealous, but she was anyway. She came up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder.
“Hello,” she said. “Have you been waiting long?”
He got up and kissed her on the cheek. “No, not long. Mad dash through the rain for you, I guess.” He touched a straggling lock of her damp hair with an odd tenderness that touched her even more.
“For a little while. Then I got lucky. But guess what—”
The waiter came over, and asked what they wanted to drink.
“Calvados for me,” she said.
“What’s that?” Bryan asked.
“Apple brandy. It warms you up very nicely.”
“I’ll have that then.”
“Two calvados,” she told the waiter, who gave them a blasé nod and went away.
“So how was your day?” Bryan asked.
“Oh, much the same,” Odette said quickly. She could not imagine how she was going to tell him the truth. But looking into his eyes, she knew she had to.
“I just sort of wandered around,” he said.
“Not a good day for that.”
“No. I went into a café after a while. Checked my e-mail.”
“Ah. Did you tell, um, your friends about the show?” Odette looked up gratefully when the waiter returned with two glasses of apple brandy. She was going to need it. She picked up her glass and took a tiny but fortifying sip.
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“Actually, no. Just my mom. The girl from Bonjour Paris had promised to e-mail the photos her guy took. I couldn’t open them, so I pulled up the website and—”
Odette took a much bigger sip and coughed.
“There you were,” he finished.
For a long moment they just looked at each other. She didn’t see anger in his eyes at the way she’d misled him. But she was going to let him do the talking for the moment.
“Look, I understand why you wouldn’t necessarily want me to know that you were such a big deal.”
She nodded, unable to think of a thing to say. I thought you were sexy. I wanted you. I took a chance. All true, but too revealing.
“And if I’d been paying attention, I could have figured it out.”
“The misunderstanding”—she hesitated—“was my fault, not yours.”
He picked up his glass of brandy and took a healthy swig. “You know what? When I thought about it, I didn’t really care. We had a great time. I made it clear that I only had a couple of days in Paris.”
“Unfortunately.”
“What?”
“I wish you could stay longer,” she blurted out. “Forgive me for saying so.”
A slight blush colored his tan. “I’m not used to this.”
“And by that you mean…”
He shrugged. “Lust at first sight.”
Odette felt an infinitesimal crack open in her heart. A forgotten part of her had been hoping that love had something to do with this. Or would have. Evidently not.
Or not where he was concerned, anyway.
“Go on,” she said.
“I mean, what happened last night—was fantastic. I never had sex like that.”
“No? You are a skillful lover.”
He gave her a long look. “Thanks. I’m not too good at this stuff, though. Talking about it, I mean.”
“We don’t have to talk.”
“Yeah, well…” He folded his arms, and looked at her steadily. “I think we should. Even if we only have another day or so, we can get to know each other.”
