Finding It (11 page)

“
Parlez-en à moi
, Vivia?” Luc’s low, husky voice is like foreplay, slow and seductive. “
Qu'est-ce qui s'est passé ce soir
?

“What happened tonight?” I repeat his question in English, a feeble stalling tactic. “What do you mean?”

Luc stares at me.

My nerves kick into overdrive and I start blathering. I tell Luc about Detective Inspector Mangina, the bogus stalking charges, my serendipitous encounter with Poppy, Big Boss Woman’s ominous-sounding text, the Brava party, and scoring interviews with the newest Bravalebrities and Bishop Raine. Omitting only one teensy-weensy detail—Bishop sticking his tongue down my throat—because it’s a trivial detail, really.

I mean, Bishop’s kiss meant nothing. Nothing. The kiss was probably just all part of his Yeah, Baby-Rock Star shtick. Sticking his tongue down someone’s throat is just his enthusiastic Mockney way of saying hello. That’s my story, at least, and I am sticking to it.

Luc is still staring at me, like he knows I am holding back, like he knows Bishop and I played hide-and-seek with our tongues in the VIP lounge at Boujis.

Ridiculous. He couldn’t possibly know. Could he? Maybe he can smell Bishop’s cologne, or lime water, or my rotten stinking guilt.

Please God, please let me get away with this one little indiscretion and I promise I won’t kiss another man as long as we both shall live. Amen.

Luc’s lips pull up in a wicked, sexy smile. He crooks his finger and beckons me come.

Thank you, Jesus!

Sex, Lies & Louboutins

“
Mon Dieu
,” Luc whispers against my mouth. “Do you know how damned sexy you look in that dress? I can’t decide whether I want to rip it off you or make you wear it for the rest of our lives.”

Our lives. My stomach flips. My stomach always flips when Luc kisses me, or looks at me, or talks to me, or…

He is still sitting on the wingback. I am straddling his legs, my miniskirt pushed high on my thighs, my arms around his broad shoulders. Not to be pervy or anything, but I fell in love with Luc’s backside the first time I saw it riding at the head of my “honeymoon” bike tour. Broad shoulders, tapered waist, sculpted ass, muscular legs flexing with each push of the pedal. Just remembering that day makes me horny.

I scoot closer to him, press my breasts against his chest, and flick my tongue over his lips. If that’s not an invitation to tear my beaded dress from my body, I don’t know what is.

Luc groans low in his throat. “Wrap your legs around me.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” I murmur, wrapping my legs around his lean waist. “What took you so long?”

Luc grins.

He carries me to the bed as if I am nothing more than a sparkly dress and pair of empty Louboutins, his arm muscles flexing around me, his broad hands cupping my bum.

He removes one hand from my bottom and sweeps the flowers off my pillow. And then we are on the bed, frantically tearing at each other’s clothes, driven by a feverish desire to press our bodies together.

I try to kick off my heels.

“
Non
,” Luc moans, against my mouth. “Leave them on. They drive me wild.”

We make love—Luc still in his suit, me naked except for my Louboutins—until our bodies are slick with perspiration and our chests heave from the exertion.

Luc falls onto the bed beside me and we listen to the sounds of our ragged breathing and London’s late night traffic outside the window. Drowsy from the champagne, wrapped in a contented post-conjugal relations cocoon, I am about to drift off when Luc gets out of bed.

“Where are you going?” My words tangle together.

“I will be right back,
mon cœur
.” Luc leans down and kisses me, his tongue circling my lips. “I just have to get something.”

When he climbs back into bed beside me, he has removed his suit, turned off the lamp, and closed the curtains against the loud London night sounds. It’s dark, but I don’t need the light to recognize my lover’s hard body.

He pulls the blankets over us and I snuggle against him, resting my head on his shoulder. It’s the best pillow in the world.

“Happy Anniversary,
mon cœur
,” Luc says, pressing a kiss to my temple. “One year ago today, you walked up to me in your ridiculous pink riding gear and walked away with my heart.”

I love when he kisses my temple and I love when he calls me
mon cœur
. My heart.

“Happy anniversary, Luc. I love you.”

“When you didn’t show up in Paris, I was afraid maybe…” He clears his throat. Several seconds pass before he speaks again, his voice thick with emotion and heavily accented. “I was afraid you had fallen out of love with me.”

Tears fill my eyes. I have been a crap girlfriend, leaving Luc alone in Paris on our anniversary to pursue a story about shallow fame-whore reality television stars.

“That’s not possible, Luc.” I roll onto my side, facing him. “I will love you forever.”

Luc is strong, confident, and in possession of just a little of the arrogance that comes with being a noble-born Frenchman, so seeing him being vulnerable feels strange. I am usually the vulnerable, anxious, emotionally needy one.

“Does that mean I don’t need to worry about you running off with Bishop Raine?”

Ouch. What is that sharp pain in my chest? Guilt?

Before we met, Luc was engaged to a French woman who cheated on him and then told him she had only wanted to marry him because of his title, so I shouldn’t be surprised at his fears about my fidelity.

“Bishop?” I laugh softly and nuzzle his cheek with my nose. “Why would you even worry about him?”

“I know all about your secret affection for the rock men.”

“The rock men?”

I rest my head on Luc’s chest and listen to the steady thump-thump-thump of his heart. His tanned, muscular chest smells like male sex. He always smells good.

“Ronnie Radke. Chet Michaels.”

“Bret,” I laugh, kicking my heels off and pressing my cold feet against Luc’s warm legs. “Bret Michaels.”

“So you admit it, then? Your secret passion for the rock men?”

“Rockers,” I correct, trailing a path through Luc’s chest hair with my finger. “In the past, I did have a crush on some rock stars, but that was before you.”

“
Bon
,” Luc murmurs, pressing another kiss to the top of my head. “I was starting to think I would need to buy a pair of those hideous leather pants and learn to play the electric guitar.”

“No leather pants?” I laugh. “
Merde
! Now what am I going to get you for Christmas?”

“I can think of a few things,” he chuckles, slapping my bare bottom. “None of them involve me wearing leather.”

We both laugh. When Luc speaks again, his tone is serious. “Vivia, I need to say something.”

“Mm-hmm?” I yawn and wiggle closer to his warmth. “What is it?”

“I don’t like the idea of you going to clubs and spending the night drinking with strangers.”

What the Fred Flintstone? My eyes snap open. I squint, trying to read his expression shrouded in the darkness, to determine if he meant to sound like a circa-1950s domineering husband.

“What does that mean?”

“Only…” Luc hesitates.

“Yes?”

“You are a beautiful, bubbly woman, traveling alone in a foreign country. I wouldn’t want anyone to misinterpret your open and friendly nature as, as…”

“As what, Luc?”

“Flirtation.”

This is how it begins. The slow, steady loss of my independence in exchange for a wedding band. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes popping Prozac over the baby carriage.

Indignation and outrage bubble inside me, threatening to boil over. I am tempted to scald Luc for possessing such a chauvinistic attitude, but I remember my flirty exchanges with Bishop and turn down the heat of my indignation to a slow simmer.

“Let me understand this, you are telling me not to do my job because someone might misinterpret my behavior as slutty?”

“
Non
!” Luc holds me tighter. “I am not saying that,
mon amie
. I would never say that.”

I relax a little.

“What are you saying then?”

“
Merde! J'ai fait une bourde
.” Luc runs a hand through his hair. It’s a Luc-ism I love. “That came out wrong.”

“I’ll say.”

“What I meant to say is, please be careful.” He squeezes me. “I could not live with myself if anything terrible happened to you.”

I kiss his collarbone and promise not to do anything stupid or needlessly dangerous.

We fall asleep, foreheads together, legs and arms entwined.

Sometime just before dawn, Luc rouses me from a deep champagne-induced sleep by kissing me. He is on top of me, using his arms for support, but I can feel his erection pressing firmly against my abdomen.

“Again?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“So soon?”

“It’s never too soon,
mon cœur
.”

He slides down the bed and puts his head between my legs, kissing my thighs, teasing me with his tongue, his teeth, until I grab him by the hair and pull him back up.

“Now, Luc,” I moan, wrapping my legs around his waist. “Make love to me now.”

He pushes inside me slowly, inch by thick, throbbing inch, all the while murmuring endearments to me in French. I climax before he pushes all the way inside me—a deep, powerful, dizzying orgasm that stirs a torrent of emotions within me.

“Luc! Luc!”

I say his name over and over, tears spilling down my cheeks. I hate when I orgasm-cry . It makes me feel like a weak, clingy female.

“I am here,
mon cœur
,” he whispers in my ear, wrapping his arms around my waist, holding me tight against his body. “If you want me, I will always be here.”

I Kissed a Girl

I wake a few hours later to the sound of my iPhone blowing up. I assume the incessant blinging is my mum texting me her usual maternal inquiries and admonitions. Don’t forget to go to Mass. When are you moving back to San Francisco? Are you ever going to settle down and give me grandbabies?

I open my eyes, blinking as bright mote-filled light streaming from between the curtains blinds me.

“
Merde
,” Luc mumbles. “
Je déteste ce telephone
.”

He rolls to his side, affording me a delicious view of his lovely backside, and grabs my purse from the floor. He rolls back and hands me the purse.

“Please make it stop,
mon cœur
.”

I pull my iPhone out of my purse, enter my passcode, and stare in shock at the text and e-mail icons.

Seventy-two texts. One hundred and three e-mails.

I haven’t gotten this many messages since the Jett Jericho photo went viral.

Oh shit!

Oh fuck!

A cement lump forms in the pit of my stomach as I try to recall details from the previous evening. Boujis. Booze. Bad music. Nothing terrible happened, did it?

A flashbulb pops in my brain and a still frame of Bishop bending me over his arm and thrusting his tongue between my lips comes into focus.

Oh shit!

I click open the text message app and my fears are immediately confirmed. Somehow, the world has learned of my indiscretion.

So much for answered prayers!

Text from Camilla Grant:

Vivia, it’s your mum. Anna Johnson posted a photograph on the Facebook of you kissing that raunchy comedian. She said it’s gone epidemic. Again, Vivia? Again?

No. No. No. No. This isn’t really happening. Not again. And what the fuck is wrong with Anna Johnson? My mum’s arch nemesis and nosy neighbor must have me on Google Alerts.

Text from Stéphanie Moreau:

Whatthefuckwereyouthinking? Have you seen the picture yet? Has Luc seen the picture? You do realize he was going to ask you to marry him this weekend?

What the what? I look at Luc, dozing beside me. Luc is going to propose this weekend? He said something in a text, but I didn’t take him seriously. I thought he was just teasing. I shift my gaze to the nightstand, to a small blue velvet box resting on the nightstand. A ring box.

Oh my freaking God! Luc
is
going to propose. To me. This morning. Tears fill my eyes and clog my throat.

Text from Poppy Worthington:

I feel positively dreadful! This is my fault. Please call me. I will do anything I can to make this right with your Frenchman.

Maybe the situation isn’t as bad as I imagine. I type “Bishop Raine photo kiss” into the search bar. My search reveals a surprising—or unsurprising—number of relevant photos, including a small poorly-lit snapshot of Bishop kissing me. The headline above the photo reads, “Bishop Raine’s New California Girl.” I click on the link and speed-read the article.

Bishop Raine’s New California Girl

By James Adair

Bishop Raine kissed a girl and he liked it! Kitty Kat’s ex was spotted creating fireworks in one of London’s hot-hot-hot nightclubs last night with a sexy redhead.

According to an eyewitness, Raine pinned the girl against the wall and kissed her passionately for several minutes.

Another anonymous witness identified the redhead as GoGirl! columnist Vivia Grant. This witness said Ms. Grant was the aggressor, not notorious womanizer Raine.

“She flirted with him all night,” the anonymous witness said. “She called him a sex machine and said she wanted to imprison him in her mini-dress.”

Raine has had a reputation as a…

The rest of the irresponsibly researched and poorly written article is a recap of Bishop’s dating history. Frankly, I don’t give one Sanskrit tattoo that he dated a supermodel and Yoga guru. All I care about is the egregious attack on my character and what Luc will say when he reads the yellow journalism.

I did not call Bishop Raine a sex machine, nor did I say I wanted to imprison him in my mini dress. As if!

Text to Poppy Worthington:

Do you know who took the photo and how it ended up on the Internet?

I know the answer before Poppy’s text hits my phone: the bobblehead bitches. Who else would have snapped the humiliating picture and sold it to the tabloids? Wynona Pathlow?