by Alix Nichols
On a crispy morning in early January, I had found a handwritten note on my keyboard.
9 p.m., eighth-floor terrace (the very same, access through the meeting room). If you don’t turn up, I won’t bother you again and I won’t hold it against you. If you do, you might want to put in your office calendar: “A visit with the President of DCA.”
Olly
My first reaction was giddy joy.
The funny-guy-turned-great-kisser who’d been on my mind throughout the Christmas break had reached out. Woot woot! In just a few hours I was going to see him. And kiss him.
Indignation came as an afterthought. But once there, it took root and doubled in size with every passing minute.
The cheek of him!
By hinting at the ribald “visits with the president of the Senate” I had told him about, Olly was making his intentions crystal clear. Which was sort of rude. And too freaking self-assured.
It was also inconsiderate and ungallant.
He was basically inviting me for some hanky-panky out in the cold, right under our colleagues’ noses, and on our second date.
Or, should I say, our second meeting because neither occasion qualified as a date.
The bastard!
Why couldn’t he invite me for a drink first, like normal men would do, even when their ulterior motive is to get laid? I don’t expect a full-blown courtship, but there’s a certain way of doing things. There’s a set order, which prescribes that a couple have drinks and dinner together before scaling up to more intimate encounters. That dinner or three isn’t a pointless formality—it’s an opportunity to get to know each other and to establish trust.
I sighed in frustration, which was when it hit me: Olly must be married, just like Delphine’s Alberto.
So I decided I wasn’t going.
That was about four in the afternoon.
At seven-thirty, I was still in my office, finishing up perfectly non-urgent work and filing completely unimportant emails.
By eight-thirty, I stopped pretending I was’t going to the terrace and swapped that lie out for a more plausible but still ego-friendly justification. I was going, but only to give the cocky bastard a piece of my mind.
The moment I entered the meeting room, I spotted Olly on the other side of the sliding glass doors leaning over the parapet. Unlike the night of the Christmas party, the terrace was well lit now.
He slid one of the doors open and peeked in. “Lock the door behind you. We’ll want privacy.”
Seriously?
I did lock the meeting room door, though.
Under the bright neon light, Olaf the Snowman, whom I suspected to be good-looking, turned out to be a real hunk. And a dandy. He wore a well-cut dark wool coat and a scarf that was the quintessence of masculine elegance. Wind played with his floppy dark hair. As for his dimpled chin and mischievous smile… let’s just say I’ve never seen a sexier man in my whole life.
Chris Pine included.
As I crossed the room to the terrace, excitement and anxiety launched into a boxing match in my head, making me dizzy.
“Wow, you’re even prettier than I remember,” Olly said when I stood next to him. “Those eyes…”
He surveyed me appreciatively.
Anxiety won the match. “How about you give me your real name before I leave in…”—I looked at my watch—“exactly one minute.”
He cocked his head to the side. “Why would I do that if you’re leaving anyway?”
“To satisfy my curiosity.”
“What’s wrong with Olly?”
I glanced at my watch. “Fifty seconds.”
“Raphael d’Arcy du Grand-Thouars de Saint-Maurice,” he said. “I thought you knew.”
Oh, please. “Is that a joke?”
“No.”
He whipped out his phone, tapped, and then held it out for me. On the screen was the “Who’s Who” page of DCA’s website. I enlarged the photograph at the top of the list. The one that was captioned Founding CEO and Owner.
It was Olly, all right.
I mean, Raphael d’Arcy. Le Big Boss. The worst Casanova in town.
Fuck.
I glared at him. “Why didn’t you say anything when we first met? I feel like an idiot now.”
“In my defense, I was going to, but then you suddenly had to leave.”
Should I believe him?
“Besides,” he added, “My note did mention you were going to visit with the president of DCA.”
“I thought you were just being funny.”
“That, too.” His smile widened. “But I was also being truthful. Which means your accusation is unfounded, and you don’t have a good reason for leaving.”
Considering who this man was and what I knew about him, I had at least ten good reasons for leaving.
But not just yet.
“I’ll give you ten more minutes,” I said. “Provided you don’t attempt physical contact.”
He gave me a sad puppy look. “But I’m dying to kiss you.”
“That’s so not happening.”
“Why not?”
“First, because I have no interest in joining your army of conquests. Second, I don’t think it’s appropriate to make out in the workplace.”
“You’re right,” he agreed unexpectedly. “It isn’t.”
I searched his face for signs of sarcasm, but his expression was earnest.
I smirked. “Are you saying you’ve never visited with a subordinate?”
“I didn’t say that.” His face grew even more serious. “Despite what you must have heard about me, I’ve never… harassed anyone. The very notion is abhorrent to me.”
I hadn’t heard anything specific about him—apart from his playboy fame—so I was a little puzzled at his reaction.
“Rudy,” he said. “I want you to know I’m breaking one of my big rules just by talking to you here. But there’s something about you that’s too intriguing to resist.”
I kept silent.
“What I said in my note still holds.” Raphael adjusted his watch strap. “If you walk away right now, I’ll never bother you again, and there’ll be no reprisal whatsoever. You can be absolutely sure of it.”
Why, oh why didn’t I get out as fast as I could?
I have no rational explanation for that. Zero. Zilch. None whatsoever.
The irrational one is that my legs refused to take me away from the man I fancied so much.
More than I’d ever fancied anyone.
Chapter 7
Raphael’s smile returned. “Next time, I’ll take you to a more suitable location.”
“Define suitable,” I said before adding, “and, please, don’t take it as a yes.”
He gave me a small shrug. “My place, for instance.”
I rolled my eyes.
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Call me old-fashioned,” I said, “but I believe people should meet socially before they… ahem… visit the Senate. It’s called dating.”
“Would it count if I took you to dinner and then to my place?”
I shook my head.
“Three dinners?”
“No.”
“Five dinners and a concert at L’Olympia?”
“Stop bargaining—it’s useless.”
“Do you realize what you’re saying no to?” He cocked his head. “I’ve never taken anyone to five dinners plus a concert before taking them to bed.”
“I’m flattered, but no, thanks.”
He arched an eyebrow. “I can see what you’re doing here. You’re playing hard to get.”
“Honestly—no.”
“Am I so distasteful to you?”
That sad doggy expression again. He didn’t believe for a second he could be distasteful to anyone.
I held his gaze.
“Come on, Rudy,” he said. “I want to hear you say it. Tell me you don’t like me and you didn’t enjoy our kiss.”
“Olly,” I said. “I like you, and I en
joyed our kiss. Very much. I’d totally date you.”
He grinned.
“Raphael,” I said. “There’s no way I’m having casual sex with you, not tonight, not ever.”
He looked a little taken aback by my determination. “I wasn’t planning on us having sex tonight, anyway.”
“No? What was your plan then?”
“Just talking. Getting to know you better.” He gave me a small shrug. “Maybe a bit of cuddling and kissing those yummy lips of yours.”
He zeroed in on my mouth.
I stared at his, remembering our first kiss. Without asking permission, my tongue darted out and licked my lips.
Traitor!
“The closest to a visit I envisioned,” he said, “was to bare your chest for a sec and see if your breasts are shaped as I imagined them. I’ve done a lot of imagining after the Christmas party.”
So had I. About the shape of his… thing.
“You’re blushing. It’s sweet.” He brushed my cheek with the tips of his fingers. “Did I scandalize you?”
No, I did that myself, thank you.
“You make me sound like an ingenue.” I sneered for more effect, even as my cheeks flamed under his touch, which now involved more than just the tips of his fingers.
“Because you’re not,” he said, stifling a smile.
“No, Raphael, I’m not.”
And someone has proof of it.
I removed his hand from my cheek. “Your ten minutes are up. I’m leaving.”
“Wait!” He blocked my way. “Now that I know you like me and that you enjoyed our first kiss, I must kiss you one more time.”
“Not happening.”
“One last time.”
We stood so close to each other we were almost touching. His masculine scent invaded me, making my toes curl in my boots. Summoning what was left of my willpower to push desire back into the shadows where it belonged, I shook my head.
“Please?” His dark eyes held a genuine plea. “One kiss, and then I’ll be out of your hair. Forever.”
Just one kiss.
One delicious, hot, Olly-tasting kiss…
As if my body was detached from my brain, I leaned forward ever so slightly. Suddenly, his hands were in my hair and he was kissing me. There was nothing tentative about this kiss. Crushing his mouth against mine, Raphael held me tight and pushed his tongue between my lips.
He devoured me, his touch raw and blistering hot.
I kissed him back, hard, desperate to savor his taste. Closing my eyes, I tangled my tongue with his in a frenzied pas de deux. Blood pounded in my brain. Raphael’s tongue stroked against my palate, my tongue, the insides of my cheeks. He pulled it out to caress my lips and teeth and then penetrated my mouth again, making me moan with pleasure.
I was on fire, ravenous.
His mouth roamed my face and my throat, his lips searing my skin. I arched my neck, desire licking through me as I became aware of his bulge pressed against my tummy.
My breaths grew shallow.
Raphael’s were just as ragged when he backed me against the strip of wall between the two glass doors. I didn’t resist when he slid a hand under my coat and cupped one of my breasts. My vision blurred as I let him fondle and stroke it through the thin layers of my shirt and bra. When he rubbed my nipple with the pad of his thumb, I whimpered.
“The other one, too,” I begged.
He obliged.
When, long moments later, he grabbed my wrists and shackled them above my head, my core tightened, heavy with need.
He pressed the full length of his body against me, and I reveled in the heat coming off him, in his hardness, his strength. I quivered and groaned into his mouth when he took my lips again in a savage kiss.
But it wasn’t until his knee nudged my legs apart and I rubbed myself against his thigh, wild with lust, that I knew I couldn’t walk away from his offerings.
This wouldn’t be our last kiss.
Womanizer Raphael d’Arcy would add another trophy to his collection, and that trophy would be me.
Game over, Mia. You lost.
Chapter 8
I stare at the ten-page Middle East article I need to summarize for today’s bulletin and wonder what marked the point of no return in my fall under Raphael d’Arcy’s spell.
A bird twitters something incomprehensible but resolutely upbeat outside the window.
You’re not helping, little friend.
The obvious culprit for my undoing was the “last” kiss Raphael sweet-talked me into back in January. More specifically, my unexpected passion for it.
But it’s also possible that my fate had been sealed in December, when a snowman who went by Olly made my heart flutter. His banter made me laugh, and his sweet kiss made me giddy. I hadn’t felt that way in a very long time.
Not since the calamity.
In fact, it doesn’t really matter which of Raphael’s kisses did me in. What matters is that I couldn’t resist him then and I can’t resist him now.
Once a wench, always a wench, as medievals would say.
“What is your opinion, Mia?” Delphine asks, interrupting my musings.
“About the Middle East?”
“No, silly, about beauty.”
“Er…”
“She wasn’t listening to us,” Barbara says to Delphine. “She was focused on her work.”
Ahem.
“Barbara was saying beauty is useless in this day and age,” Delphine recaps for me.
“Not exactly.” Barbara raises her index finger. “What I was saying is that beauty was more important back when women had no rights.”
“Do you agree with that as a historian?” Delphine asks.
I smile. “Archival records and troubadour poetry would support that hypothesis.”
Barbara pushes her hair back and gives Delphine a smug little shrug. “Ha!”
“Fine,” Delphine says. “Maybe beauty is less important these days than it used to be, but it’s still great to have.”
“Sure,” Barbara concedes magnanimously.
“True beauty is like a Chanel bag,” Delphine says. “Very few own the real thing. Most of us can only afford counterfeits.”
“What do you mean by counterfeits?” I ask.
Delphine makes a sweeping you-name-it gesture with her hand. “Bleached hair. Contouring. Nose jobs. Breast implants.”
“Which only proves my point,” Barbara says. “Beauty is a nonessential luxury item. Like you said—a Chanel bag.”
“Except some women would die for it,” Delphine says with a wink.
Barbara shrugs a perhaps. “But I’m sure more women would die for a career or a legacy.”
“Pff.” Delphine waves dismissively. “Nobody’s willing to die to leave a good name, ma cocotte.”
I just might.
There’s little I wouldn’t I do if I could turn back the clock and make sure a certain drunken gang bang never happened. Or that it could be erased from my real-life timeline. And from the memory of everyone involved.
That fateful night had started innocently enough with some college kids drinking (OK, binge drinking), smoking pot, and having a good time. We’d finished our second year and were celebrating the achievement in a huge shared apartment in central Strasbourg. As the hour grew late and the bottles emptied, most people—including all of my friends—either left or dropped off in one of the bedrooms.
I was sleepy, too, and plastered under the combined effect of wine and weed in a way I’d never been before.
Why didn’t I just conk out like the others?
But no, I stayed awake, albeit teetering on the edge of consciousness. I didn’t even puke until after three young men undressed me and had sex with me on the couch. Consensual sex. Wasted as I was, I did participate—or, should I say, made pathetic attempts at participating—in the “fun.”
That I remember.
What I don’t remember is who those men were, if there were other people present,
and whether anyone filmed our antics.
It would appear someone did after all, judging by the letter I received last week.
It’s no biggie, I tell myself. We’re not in the Middle Ages or in Taliban-controlled Afghanistan. Even if some a-hole posted my foursome online for everyone to see, there’d be no Morality Police bursting in to arrest me and no outraged mob to stone me for slutty behavior. We’re in France, Toto. A country where women may get fined by gendarmes for showing too little skin on a public beach.
I must stay calm and carry on.
It’s the only sensible thing to do.
Rationalizing like this helps… somewhat, until notions like shame, public humiliation, and ruined academic career pop into my head. They attack on a level that’s too base for logical arguments.
But even those I can deal with.
What unravels me beyond the salutary reach of reason is the image of Màma and Pàpa receiving a tape from a “well-wisher.” Watching it. Recognizing their daughter. Taking the measure of the abyss between what they thought of her and what she is.
I plunge both hands into my hair and muss it, trying to reshuffle my thoughts.
Middle East, Mia. Concentrate on the Middle East!
That’s what pays my rent and makes sure I can stay in my PhD program and still be able to afford best quality Bolognese and carbonara for my spaghetti.
Raphael’s attention span in regards to women is about as long as Dory’s in Finding Nemo. He’ll get tired of me any day now. If, in the meantime, my work becomes sloppy, I’ll lose my job on top of losing my lover.
And, bam, no more enchanted nights and no more carbonara.
Speaking of carbonara, I had the best one ever the other day in a discreet Italian restaurant close to Raphael’s place. That sauce had the perfect ratio of parmesan, bacon, and pepper. As if that wasn’t enough, the fettuccine it accompanied was so good I would’ve enjoyed it with no sauce at all.
Eva will never hear this from me, but the carbonara they make in that place is better than hers.
I can make that affirmation because it’s the third time I’ve had it since the original epiphany back when Raphael and I were “dating.”
True to his word, he had taken me to dinner five times and then to a Daft Punk concert at L’Olympia. Only after that was I invited to “visit with the President of DCA” in his spacious penthouse apartment near Odéon.
