by Vivian Wood
“Ah, here we are,” he said. He said something to the driver in French, and the driver pulled over.
They both got out, Cam marveling at the sheer size of the Arc de Triomphe. It was a gray cement arch, at least 150 feet tall and almost as wide. It was covered in elaborate figures of the soldiers it celebrated from the French Revolutionary and Napoleonic Wars, or so her guidebook told her.
“God, it’s huge,” she said, as they approached it.
“It is,” he said, looking up. “It makes one feel small, doesn’t it?”
She smiled at the fact that his British accent meant he could get away with saying such a dramatic thing. “It does.”
They walked right under the monument, marveling. There were plenty of other tourists there, but not so many as to make it seem crowded.
“We should go to a museum tonight, instead of the Eiffel Tower,” he said.
“Really?” she said.
“Yeah, don’t you think?” he asked. “We can see the Eiffel Tower by driving by it. We can’t see the Louvre from the outside.”
“I’m down for whatever you suggest,” she said with a grin.
Cam oohed and aahed for another half an hour. Smith was perfectly patient with her, getting a cab when she was ready to go. He gave the driver a long string of instructions, then nodded to her.
“He’s going to drive us by the Eiffel Tower.”
They sat for a couple of minutes, silently absorbing the city around them.
“Ahhh, look,” she pointed at a stately-looking old building. “Everything in this city has so much history.”
“That’s very true,” he said. “A lot more than any place in the US, anyway.”
“Oh, I can see the Eiffel Tower!” she said.
“It’s just lighting up, now that it’s getting dark,” he observed.
She sat back, dazzled by the whole thing. The tower was so much taller than she’d imagined, every steel beam decorated with lights. It was gorgeous really, everything she’d ever hoped it would be.
They moved past it, and Cam realized she’d been holding her breath. She exhaled slowly and watched as the city slid by the cab’s window.
“I’m hungry,” she said, wrinkling her nose.
“Me too,” said Smith. “There are a few restaurants near the Louvre. Why don’t we grab something to eat before we see the art?”
“Sounds good,” she said.
He smiled, and their eyes met. For a second, she thought that he was going to lean in and kiss her, but after a moment he turned away. Her heart skipped a few beats, regardless.
Smith said something in French to the cab driver. The cab driver let them out in front of a restaurant called Le Rose, a quaint little café with seating out front.
“It’s pretty nice outside. Should we eat out here?” Smith asked Cam.
“Sure,” she said.
“This looks like an order up front kind of place. How about I go inside and get us some snacks? You can stay out here and settle in.”
“Okay,” she said, pointing to a wrought iron table. “I’ll be right at this table.”
He headed inside, and she made herself comfortable at the table. He returned a few minutes later with a tray of food. He set it down.
“Hold on,” he said. He went back inside, then came out with a bottle of champagne and two glasses. “Ta-da!!”
“Nice!” she said, leaning forward to inspect the tray of food while he worked to open the bottle. “What is all this?”
“Let’s see,” he said, popping the bottle of champagne and pouring two glasses. “We have a baguette, and a couple kinds of cheese. I think that’s brie and that’s sheep’s milk cheese. Then there’s ham, and butter. I also got a few pieces of chocolate.”
“Holy crap,” she said, her eyes wide. “All this and champagne, too?”
“Never say that I wasn’t a giving and festive boss,” he said, sitting down. He raised his glass to hers. “A votre santé.”
“Cheers,” she said, clinking her glass against his.
They both took a sip. Cam laughed at the sweet taste of hers, and at the bubbles that tickled her nose.
“Alright,” he said, taking a piece of baguette and digging in.
“Alright,” she echoed, setting down her glass and doing the same.
She put some ham and brie on her baguette. She bit into it, then moaned.
“Oh my god,” she said between bites. “It’s so good! The brie is really creamy.”
“You should try the butter,” he said, offering it to her.
She laughed. “You’re trying to make me fat!”
“Hey, I’m just offering,” he said. He eyed her. “Besides, putting on a couple pounds wouldn’t kill you.”
“What?” she said. “I’m your executive assistant. You’re supposed to encourage me to be thin. It makes you look more powerful.”
He cracked up. “Is that right?”
“I think so.”
“Mmmm,” he murmured. “No comment.”
She sipped some champagne and looked at him. Seeing him at ease and smiling was odd, after he’d tried to seduce the flight attendant and then called her unprofessional for kissing him. On top of all that, he’d given her the cold shoulder since they got here and compelled her to work from dawn to dusk.
“You’ve been really hard to work for this week,” she said, taking another bite of her baguette.
His chewing slowed. He swallowed, then nodded.
“I know. I’ve been a bastard.”
He stuck another piece of bread in his mouth, watching her.
“Is it because of your father?” she asked, canting her head. “He seems to think that pushing us closer together is a good idea.”
Smith slowly nodded. “That’s part of it, yeah. It seems wise to keep you at arm’s length.”
She toyed with her wine glass, making a face.
“Because we were together?” she asked.
“Because—” he said, then paused to pull his thoughts together. “Because I grew up in this rich kid bubble, where I got everything I wanted. And I went into the military to cure that, to experience the opposite of that. Deprivation.” He ran his hand through his hair. “My father tricked me into leaving the Special Air Service. So I’m doing this job, and trying to dodge the traps he’s set for me, the easy life he thinks I should have.”
He took a breath, then looked her right in the eye.
“You’re part of that, I’m afraid,” he finished softly.
Cam shifted in her seat, taken aback by his honest revelation.
“Oh,” she said. “I mean… oh.”
“I’m sorry if I was a complete bastard this week.”
He looked forlorn.
“It’s forgotten,” she said. “As long as you’re nicer to me from now on.”
He nodded. She felt a moment of inspiration.
“Hey. How about we just… start over?” she asked. “As if it’s the first time we’ve laid eyes on one another.”
His mouth kicked up on one side.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Here. Hi, I’m Cam. Cameron. I’m from Massachusetts originally. And I like punk rock music and working to make my loft more habitable.”
He extended his hand and took hers. A fission of energy skittered across her skin, but she ignored it.
“Hi. I’m Smith. I’m from London originally. I was in the military, now I’m not. I like punk, too.”
She grinned as they shook hands for another second, then she withdrew her hand.
“See?” she said. “Perfectly civil.”
He grinned, his dark hair falling in his eyes. She wasn’t going to swoon over that, though. She jumped up.
“Let’s go,” she said. “Bring the champagne bottle. We can drink while we walk.”
He picked up the champagne bottle. She made quick work of the tray, disposing of everything but the glasses.
“Ready?” she asked.
“Of course.”
&
nbsp; “Which way is the glass pyramid thing that I see every time someone mentions the Louvre?”
Smith pointed. She headed that direction, walking slowly.
They didn’t talk much, just enjoyed the sights and the bottle of champagne. They made it a couple of blocks before she finished it off.
“Ah, well…” she sighed, throwing it in the first bin she saw.
Cam turned back to him to ask a question, but he surprised her by sliding his hand behind her head. He kissed her fiercely. She was shocked at first, her hand hitting his chest. But his lips were firm and warm against hers, his scent in her nose.
She caved. Her hand grasped the lapel of his jacket as she pulled herself closer. Her breasts brushed against his chest. He gripped her hair and she let out a gasp, then kissed him harder.
She knew that she shouldn’t be doing this, but a part of her whispered, So what? Be naughty for once in your life.
At length, he broke the kiss, leaning his forehead against hers.
“I wish we were near the hotel,” he whispered. “And I wish this wasn’t so…”
He stopped and shook his head. She smiled.
“Wrong?” she suggested. “That’s usually what they say about employer-employee relationships.”
He laughed, stepping back. “That’s one way to put it.”
She looked at him for a moment, standing there so tall and handsome. He’d said his father had picked her, laid a trap for him. She wouldn’t be the one to make him step in it.
“Well,” she said, gesturing. “Don’t you have some art to show me?”
The corners of his mouth lifted.
“I guess so.”
He headed down the street, leaving her to follow.
7
To say the least, Smith was conflicted.
He looked down at his scotch, idly swirling the amber liquid around in the heavy crystal tumbler as he sighed, thinking about Cameron.
Smith snorted to himself, taking a large sip of his drink. Thinking about her was all he seemed to do anymore.
After he’d kissed her, on the Pont des Arts of all places, Cameron had been seemingly content to pretend as if the moment had never happened between them, going about the rest of their night of sightseeing as if they were no more than professional acquaintances on a business trip together.
Which is what you bloody well wanted, you tosser. So what’s with all the brooding?
“Fucking hell,” Smith groaned to himself, leaning his head against the back of the leather armchair he was sitting in and closing his eyes, annoyed with himself.
He and Cameron had just gotten back from Paris that morning. Having wrapped up the remainder of their business there the day after visiting the Louvre, they’d pleasantly parted ways on the tarmac after a relatively uneventful plane ride home, which is how Smith now found himself sulking alone in his study.
Things between them had been far more cordial after their little talk outside the cafe, and the impromptu kiss that had followed. Smith had been surprised to find that--sexual interactions aside--he rather enjoyed Cameron’s company.
For her part, Cameron seemed to feel much the same about him. She chatted and joked with him more easily, lightening the pressure and mundanity of their work by simply being there with him. Smith had the distinct impression that somehow, despite their sordid history, they were becoming... well, friends.
Which was just ridiculous. Smith had friends, and he had women, but never before had those two circles overlapped for him. He was finding the parameters of their new relationship even more frustrating than they had been before. He just really didn’t know what to do about it now.
Intuitive as she was, Cameron had seen straight through the momentary passion of their kiss on the bridge, to the underlying issues of their work relationship and his father’s inappropriate meddling in Smith’s affairs that were hidden beneath. She’d been the one to back off, not him, and that fact bothered him as much as it made him relieved. This woman was doing things to his resolve to keep his work and private lives separate that Smith didn’t fully understand himself, and it was driving him mad.
Smith’s eyes snapped open as he was hit with a sudden idea. He stood up, draining the rest of the scotch from the glass as he reached into his pocket for his cell phone.
What he needed was a distraction. Something to take his mind off of the redheaded temptress that was disrupting the meticulous order of his life, and he needed it now.
Smith scrolled through his contacts, selecting his friend Jake’s number as he wandered out of the study and down the hall toward his bedroom so he could change clothes.
Jake answered on the third ring.
“Smith! What’s up, man? It’s been a while.”
Jake was talking loudly, so as to be heard over what sounded like club music in the background, which Smith took as a good sign.
“I’m looking to have a little fun tonight, mate,” Smith said, sliding on a pair of black boots. “You know where that might be, yeah?”
“Sure, man. Come on down to Ninth Circle. I just got here, and I gotta say, the place is crawling with hot pussy tonight.”
“Perfect,” Smith said, going over to the mirror to check his hair. “I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
Smith got off the phone, turning back to the bed to grab his leather jacket from where he’d tossed it earlier. He slid it on and headed for the elevator doors of his penthouse, prepared to do whatever it took to get Cameron out of his head, if only for a night.
“I love your accent,”the brunette that was currently sitting on his lap whispered in his ear, her breath hot against his face. “It’s so sexy,” she purred seductively, trailing a long red fingernail down the side of his neck.
The contact made Smith’s skin crawl, and not in a good way as the woman was probably intending. He reached up, clasping her hand in his, unable to go on letting her touch him, but not quite big enough of an arsehole to just dump her on the floor outright.
“How about I go get us a couple more drinks?” he murmured, deftly sliding out from beneath her and standing.
He released her hand, looking down at the nameless woman sitting alone in the booth he’d just vacated. Her eyes were dark and full of carnal promise as she gazed back up at him, her painted lips pursed in a playful pout.
She nodded, her eyes traveling up and down his body, leaving little to the imagination about what her intentions with him were upon his return.
“Hurry back,” she said, leaning forward just enough to give him an eyeful of her sizeable cleavage in the slinky black dress she was wearing.
Smith repressed the urge to roll his eyes at the thinly veiled attempt to bait him, and turned away from her without another word as he made his way toward the bar at the front of the club.
Smith had been to Ninth Circle countless times before, but this time was different, he admitted to himself. The press of scantily clad bodies on the dance floor and the sounds of drunken conversation over the loud pulsing music didn’t hold their usual appeal. The acrid smells of sweat, sex, and spilled alcohol lingered heavily in the air, making him wrinkle his nose with distaste.
Had this place always seemed so... desperate? Or was Smith just drunk enough to start feeling profoundly sorry for himself?
Smith sidled up to the bar, preparing to wave down the bartender for another drink, when his eyes landed on a head of bright red hair standing a few feet down from him.
Smith felt his heart lurch in his chest with a mixture of surprise and giddy anticipation.
It can’t be Cameron, can it? I mean, what are the chances…
He was just about to walk over to investigate for himself, when the woman turned around to face his direction.
“Sir, what can I get you to drink?”
Smith was vaguely aware that the bartender was talking to him, but he was too overwhelmed with disappointment at the revelation that the redheaded woman wasn’t Cameron to care.
Did I want it to be
her? Wasn’t the whole point of coming out and getting hammered so that I could forget about her to begin with?
Christ, what is wrong with me?
“Sir?”
“He’ll have a Four Horsemen; make it two of them,” a male voice answered for him. “You’ll have to excuse my friend here. He’s easily distracted by pretty things.”
An arm came down heavily across his shoulders, forcing Smith to tear his eyes away from the redhead as he turned to face Jake and the unamused bartender. The bartender rolled his eyes and went off to make their drinks as Jake chuckled at his own joke.
“I never pegged you for the sort to stare wistfully at women from across the bar,” Jake teased as the bartender brought over their drinks, setting them down silently and moving on to serve other patrons. Jake lifted one of the glasses, taking a sip as he eyed the woman he’d caught Smith looking at. “You got a thing for redheads now or something?”
Smith shook off Jake’s arm, reaching for his own drink. “Fuck off,” he grumbled, taking a large gulp.
Jake laughed, playfully holding up his hands in surrender. “Easy, man, I was only kidding.” His expression sobered a little as he crossed his arms, leaning against the bar as he hooked an eyebrow at Smith. “What’s got you so pissy? When I left you earlier, you had that hot chick wrapped around you like a fucking python. Did she leave without you or what?”
Smith shook his head, his eyes studying the grains of the wooden bar. “No, I’ve just got... work shit on my mind.”
Jake laughed again. “Yeah, I kind of figured as much when you called me out of nowhere. But, you know, a beautiful woman all over me usually does the trick when I’m trying to take my mind off of things.”
Smith couldn’t very well tell Jake that his “work shit” involved him being obsessed over an employee he had slept with, and that he couldn’t take his damn mind off of her because he kept thinking he saw her face everywhere he went.
So instead, he just shrugged, knocking back the rest of his drink in one go. “I don’t know, Jake. I think I’m just gonna go back home.”
“Aw, come on! The night is still young,” Jake protested, clapping his hand on Smith’s shoulder. “There’s still plenty of time to forget whatever’s gotten you so worked up.”
