Christmas in Paris: a collection of 3 sweetly naughty Christmas romance books 2017

by Alix Nichols

  I give him a noncommittal shrug.

  “Oh, and on top of that,” he says. “I take after Papa. He was a dedicated pleasure-seeker, and marriage didn’t change that. If anything, it made it worse. A man like that is unqualified to be a husband and unworthy of being a father.”

  I look him up and down and, all of a sudden, I’m ready to raise the matter of our exclusivity.

  Why now?

  I don’t have the foggiest, but I do know that I’m not going to ask for it. I’m going to demand it as a condition for our continued “visits.” For the first time in months, I’m all systems go, consequences be damned. If Raphael says no, which he most likely will, I’m prepared to walk away.

  “There’s something I need to talk to you about,” I say.

  “Sandro?” He cups my cheek. “I’m extending his contract by three months. If he can pull himself together, he’ll stay.”

  I give his cheek a loud smooch. “So there is a heart in that broad chest of yours!”

  Raphael puts his arms around me and grins.

  I take a fortifying breath. “The thing I wanted to discuss… It wasn’t about Sandro.”

  “Someone else I’m letting go of? Mia, my heart won’t stretch for two—”

  “I want us to be exclusive for as long as we’re visiting.”

  “Are you worried about catching a nasty disease?” He narrows his eyes. “May I remind you I never visit without protection.”

  “It’s not just that,” I say, racking my brain for a reason that won’t sound too pathetic.

  “Then what?”

  “You see, I’m not a sharing kind of person.”

  His eyes crinkle with a smile.

  I give him an it’s-the-way-it-is shrug.

  “OK,” he says.

  My jaw slackens. “Really?”

  “Uh-huh. It won’t be hard.”

  Now I’m not only astonished, I’m confused.

  “As much as I hate tarnishing my Casanova image,” he says, “the truth is I’ve been exclusive with you for a while. Not by design, mind you. It just… happened.”

  “Since when?”

  He rubs his chin. “Christmas.”

  “What?”

  He gives me the stupefied look of a man who just realized he’s a ghost. “I know. Wow.”

  “That can’t be true.”

  “And yet it is.” Raphael spreads his arms apologetically. “I’m just as shocked as you are.”

  I put my hands on my hips. “I don’t believe you.”

  “I’m not saying I haven’t spent time with other women since December,” he says. “But I didn’t sleep with them.”

  I peer into his chocolate eyes, incredulous.

  “I didn’t feel the need for a supplementary lover,” he says, giving me the funny look I’ve seen a couple of times before.

  Unlike all his other facial expressions that I know like the back of my hand, this particular look is a mystery to me.

  I simply cannot read it.

  Chapter 15

  “You’re a hamster,” Jean-Pierre says to Delphine.

  Her face falls. “Why?”

  The consultant gives her an are-you-dumb look. “Based on your responses to my questionnaire.”

  “Are you certain?” Delphine asks.

  “This test was developed by trained psychologists,” Jean-Pierre says, impervious to her distress. “Don’t blame the messenger.”

  Delphine purses her lips. “All right, I’m a hamster. What does that mean, exactly?”

  “You bustle about too much. Don’t work harder—work smarter.” He gives her a cheerful smile and moves on to the next victim.

  I hate this man.

  I hate this whole ego-crushing corporate retreat imposed on everyone by the newly appointed head of HR.

  It was announced to us as a “fun break from the routine,” which would make the DCA staff happier, more relaxed, and more effective. Participation was mandatory, though.

  Now I see why.

  So far our “break from the routine” has been a modern form of the medieval pillory with lots of public humiliation and no fun at all.

  We’re into the late afternoon of day one—thank heaven there’s only one more day to endure—and many of us are considering acute diarrhea as an exit strategy.

  As soon as we’d gotten off the buses this morning and dropped our luggage in the log cabins of this exclusive facility, the fun began. Jean-Pierre stuck a name tag with a celebrity’s name on it to everyone’s forehead and ordered us to mingle over coffee while asking indirect questions to figure out who we are. Those who asked, “What’s written on my forehead?” were subjected to torture by cookie deprivation.

  That was the icebreaker.

  After that, we did other exciting stuff such as egg catching, tree hugging, standing in a circle holding hands, and fly-fishing. But that’s duck soup compared to the highlight of the retreat, which is tomorrow afternoon. In what Jean-Pierre has described as the latest inter-rank bonding trend from Japan, subordinates will share a Jacuzzi tub with their supervisors and converse.

  Naked.

  Thankfully, same-sex only.

  And after taking a solo shower.

  I’ve decided my acute diarrhea will happen tomorrow right after lunchtime.

  Oh, and by the way, I’m a mole.

  Not in the sense of “spy,” as our Master Executioner Jean-Pierre pointed out after returning my verdict, but as in “a small burrowing mammal.” That’s because my test has revealed I’m too introverted and unforthcoming. According to our guru, one cannot be a good team player unless one adopts an open-door policy, including to one’s private life.

  “Did you notice,” I whisper into Delphine’s ear, “how the size of everyone’s totem animal is directly proportional to their position in the DCA hierarchy?”

  She considers my observation for a moment, and then her eyes light up. “Oh my God, you’re right!”

  She beckons Barbara and shares my finding with her.

  Barbara—who, incidentally, is a mouse—gives me a thrilled look. “But of course! Why didn’t I think of it? The three of us are rodents, Susanne is a zebra, Sandro is a giraffe and every manager is some kind of a large predator.”

  “This test was rigged,” Delphine says loudly.

  Several people turn around.

  She folds her arms across her chest and puts her chin up in defiance.

  I pull her to the side before someone from HR notices her rebellion. “Hang in there, Delph! Another half hour and we can go vent in the Chalet Bar.”

  “I’m so getting drunk tonight,” she declares.

  Barbara pats her shoulder. “Me, too.”

  “Me, three,” I say.

  At least a dozen people yell, “Amen to that!” and “Oh, yeah.”

  Sounds like we will have some team building, after all. Especially because most of the booze served at the Chalet Bar is free, courtesy of Le Big Boss. The food and snacks are complimentary, too. The cocktails are the only thing not complimentary. Except no one in my pay grade is stupid enough to order a cuba libre when they could gulp some free rum and wash it down with a free Coke.

  “Does anyone know if the CEO is here today?” Sandro asks, refilling Barbara’s wine glass.

  “Haven’t seen him all day,” she says.

  “Me neither.” Delphine holds her empty glass out. “Same as Barb’s, please.”

  “What about you?” Sandro points at my empty glass.

  “I’ve reached my limit,” I say.

  Delphine claps demonstratively. “How very disciplined of you.”

  “It’s a matter of habit,” I say.

  And of patently disastrous ramifications.

  Sandro sets the Bordeaux bottle on the table and pours both me and himself some Coke.

  That’s my boy.

  “I know Le Big Boss is in town,” Barbara says. “Which makes his skipping the team-building retreat weird.”

  What I know is th
at he didn’t want it in the first place. Raphael doesn’t believe in forcing his subordinates to spend their weekends in the countryside playing stupid games with colleagues in the hopes of conjuring up team spirit. He believes in giving them bonuses so they can take weekend trips and choose where they go and with whom.

  Or stay home and watch TV.

  All of us had one such bonus last Christmas, then again in April, and we’re hoping for two more this year. The collective torture inflicted on us this weekend was the brainchild of the new head of HR. The man was so convinced it would allow us to better ourselves and allow him to “figure out the team dynamic” that Raphael ended up caving on the condition he wouldn’t have to participate.

  He doesn’t know what he’s missing.

  Lucky bastard.

  “Maybe he’s staying away to avoid getting trapped by another gold digger,” Delphine says.

  Barbara’s eyes bulge out. “Do tell!”

  “You didn’t know?” Delphine frowns. “I thought it was common knowledge. That’s what every new recruit used to be told—unofficially—during the orientation week.”

  “I heard nothing of the sort,” Barbara says.

  “Me neither,” Sandro chimes in.

  Neither did I.

  “OK, listen up, children.” Delphine shifts on her barstool. “Once upon a time about five years ago, Raphael d’Arcy was famous for being the twenty-five-year-old prodigy who started an innovative little audit firm and grew it into a serious company two years later.”

  “That I learned during my orientation week,” Sandro says.

  Delphine arches an eyebrow. “Patience, young man. The part they didn’t tell you is that our whiz kid had another talent—getting any woman to sleep with him.”

  “That’s no secret,” Barbara says.

  “What’s wrong with young people today?” Delphine asks me.

  Rhetorically, I’m sure.

  Barbara rolls her eyes. “Why don’t you ditch the ‘old wise woman’ crap and cut to the chase? You’re only ten years older than us.”

  “What counts is that I’m old in the company,” Delphine says. “Anyway, I’ll give you the short of it if that’s what you want.”

  Sandro nods. “Yes, please. The shortest short.”

  “Five years ago,” Delphine says, “Raphael had a fling with an auditor at DCA. A month after he dumped her, she told everyone she was pregnant with his baby.”

  She pauses and studies our faces as if to survey the effect of her scoop.

  Barbara’s mouth forms a perfect O.

  Sandro winces. “Ouch.”

  I clench my fists and do my best to keep a poker face.

  “Raphael said he doubted it,” Delphine continues. “He asked her to do a prenatal paternity test. She refused, claiming the tests could be dangerous to the fetus.”

  “Did she do it after the baby was born?” Barbara asks.

  Delphine shakes her head. “It never got to that. She miscarried in her fifth month.”

  My nails dig into my palms, slicing my skin.

  “That’s when things got really ugly,” Delphine says. “Adele—that was the woman’s name—started hinting that her miscarriage had been caused by foul play.”

  “Like what?” Sandro asks.

  “She said she suspected a poisoned drink.”

  I force myself to open my mouth. “What did Raphael say?”

  “He denied it, obviously, and insisted she should get full blood work and every possible test that could prove her accusations. He said he’d cover all the expenses.”

  “Did she do it?” I ask, trying to contain the quiver in my voice.

  “Not as far as I know,” Delphine says. “Instead, she launched a new smear campaign. She told everyone at DCA she’d gotten pregnant after the CEO raped her.”

  “Bullshit,” I blurt before I can stop myself.

  “That’s what most people thought,” Delphine says. “It was just so over the top. Anyway, she never pressed any charges, and a month later she resigned from DCA.”

  Barbara leans in. “He must’ve paid her a lot of money to shut up.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” Delphine shrugs. “But the whole thing certainly shook him.”

  “How do you know?” Sandro asks.

  “You should’ve seen him then.” Delphine makes a sullen pout. “That’s what he looked like. Green face, sunken cheeks, no smiling. No jokes. He barely spoke to anyone.”

  “Well, looks like he’s over it now, judging by his constant good mood these days,” Barbara says.

  “I think so, too.” Delphine empties her glass. “But the whole thing does seem to have taught him a lesson. He hasn’t banged anyone from work ever since.”

  Sandro gives her a surprised look. “Really? Not once in five years?”

  “Not once,” Delphine confirms. “I know at least a dozen women in various departments who went out of their way to get into his bed. Nothing doing.” She yawns.

  “So we shouldn’t even bother, eh? “ Barbara says.

  My ears start to burn.

  “That’s a shame.” Sandro lets out a sigh. “Given his will-bang-everything-that-moves reputation, I was hoping he’d ask me to teach him the gay ways as a thank-you for giving me a second chance.”

  Barbara giggles.

  Delphine climbs down from her stool and yawns again. “Night night, children.”

  Thank God, she’s too wasted to pay attention.

  Sober, she would’ve never missed the bright red radish that’s sprouted where my head used to be.

  Chapter 16

  “A mojito and a single malt for table two,” I instruct Karim, omitting that the drinks are for the co-owner of our establishment and his fiancée.

  I don’t say it because I’m not sure.

  When the stern-looking man in his midthirties ordered the drinks, his voice was very similar to Sebastian d’Arcy’s, at least, the way he had sounded through closet doors. He resembled Raphael, too—dark haired, dark eyed and well built. Except where Raphael always looks as if he’s about to crack up, this man looks graver than a news anchor announcing an earthquake.

  To my surprise, he isn’t so serious anymore when I return to his table with the drinks.

  His fiancée, Diane—assuming that’s her—has just finished saying something. And it has amused her companion. A lot. His smile grows wider by the second until it’s a full-blown grin. And then it turns into rumbling, wholehearted laughter.

  It is Sebastian. He laughs the same way Raphael does.

  He leans forward and takes Diane’s hand. She gazes into his eyes with unabashed affection. His face has I-love-you written all over it.

  I set their drinks on the table and scurry away.

  Delphine, who knows everything about everyone, told me Sebastian’s fiancée used to be a checkout clerk at Franprix before he snagged her. Soon she’ll be the rolling-in-money Countess d’Arcy du Grand-Thouars de Saint-Maurice.

  Miracles do happen.

  Maybe—just once—a small miracle could happen to me, too? Maybe the Sword of Damocles that’s gotten so close to my neck I can feel its blade against my skin would vanish as if by magic. And never ever come back.

  A loud sneeze distracts me from my daydream. It’s Marcus, the night shift bartender, who has just come in and is heading toward the bar.

  “Hi, Mia,” he says before sneezing again.

  I say hi and follow him to the bar area.

  He doesn’t look good.

  “You should’ve called in sick,” I say, putting my elbow on the counter.

  “I did,” he says. “But Karim couldn’t fill in for me tonight.”

  “Sorry, mon pote.” Karim emerges from the staff room, already changed out of his uniform. “I’m in the early days of a relationship. Can’t risk her thinking I’m blowing her off.”

  Marcus nods. “I understand.”

  “But I called Raphael,” Karim says. “He’ll be here in half an hour or so.”


  Marcus blows his nose. “To do what?”

  “Give you a hand, mon pote. You look like you’ll need it.”

  I’m about to add that our customers will need it, too, unless they like germs in their drinks, but I bite my tongue. Poor Marcus is feeling bad enough as it is.

  Exactly half an hour later, Raphael shows up in all his perky, masculine glory. He smiles, positively thrilled as he removes his jacket and tie and rolls up his sleeves. How can anyone look like that after a fourteen-hour workday is beyond me.

  But, evidently, not beyond him.

  He says hi to Sebastian and Diane, shakes hands with a few other patrons, and then swaggers behind the counter.

  “Hello, Mia,” he says before giving the pasty-faced bartender a nod. “Marcus.”

  “Hi, boss,” Marcus and I say in unison.

  “Why don’t you come sit over here?” Raphael sets a chair under the wall-mounted wine rack and motions Marcus to it. “That way, you can be my prompter without scaring off our customers.”

  Marcus slumps down onto the chair and lets out a relieved sigh.

  The next few hours are a sharp learning curve for Raphael, who discovers how limited his cocktail-making skills really are. But he puts on a brave face and does his best to follow Marcus’s achoo-punctuated instructions. What he lacks in experience he makes up for in creative shaking techniques and humor.

  It also helps that whenever Marcus moans “Nooo, that’s too much rum (vodka, tequila, wine, syrup, sugar, lime, ice), Raphael just puts that cocktail on the counter next to a napkin that reads “Experimental / On the House.”

  A line of eager patrons has sprung up by that napkin, growing fast as the news of free cocktails spreads through the bar.

  Sebastian and Diane leave a little after midnight. By two a.m., the bar is finally empty and we can go home.

  Raphael calls two cabs—one for Marcus and the other for him and me. The poor rich man is without his car tonight. His Ferrari is at the mechanic’s and his company driver was sent home with the company car several hours ago.

  In the cab, I put my head on Raphael’s shoulder and doze off. It’s Thursday night, which means I have to be at the office at nine tomorrow morning. Any shut-eye I can catch between now and then is welcome.