The Art of French Kissing (10 page)

Is this what I’d been missing in all those years of kissing Brett?
No wonder French kissing was named after these guys
, I thought. His lips were soft, and as his tongue gently parted my lips and probed my mouth, I could feel my toes curl up in pleasure.

“You taste like lemon,” Sébastien said as he pulled away.

“You taste like wine,” I said with a smile, blinking at him a few times and trying to regain my balance.

“You are so beautiful,” he said, his voice soft.

I could feel myself blush. “Thank you.” I couldn’t remember the last time anyone had said that to me. “May I ask you something?”

“Anything,” Sébastien replied with a charming smile. He ran a finger slowly down the bridge of my nose, ending at the bow of my lips. I could feel my whole body come alive with goose bumps.

“What made you talk to me at the café today?” I asked. “What made you want to stop reading your book and spend the day with me?”

Sébastien studied my face for a moment. “You seemed lost,” he said. “And,” he hastened to add, “very beautiful. I would have been foolish not to suggest us spending the day together.”

Although the words sounded vaguely rehearsed, they did something to me. I couldn’t seem to stop smiling. No one had said anything that romantic to me in a long time.

Thirty minutes later, we stood outside Poppy’s building, with Sébastien gazing into my eyes.

“May I come inside?” he asked, brushing the hair back from my face.

“My roommate is there,” I said, my voice full of apology. “It’s a really small place.”

“I cannot spend the night?” Sébastien asked. The question startled me. He’d been a perfect gentleman all day, and the only moves he’d made had been to hold my hand as we strolled and to kiss me after dinner.

“Um, no,” I stammered. “I mean, there’s really not room.”

“But you are American,” he said, looking baffled.

I’m sure my expression was equally confused. I had no idea what he was getting at. “What does that matter?”

“American girls are usually happy to spend the night,” he said.

I frowned. “What are you implying?”

He backed off. “Nothing, nothing,” he said hastily. “Maybe another day, then? When your roommate is out?” He moved closer and ran his thumb lightly along my bottom lip.

I didn’t know what to say. “Um, maybe.” After all, the kiss had been amazing, even if he was being a little pushy now.

“You will give me your phone number, then?” he asked.

I almost gave it to him. But then I paused. After all, what did I expect would happen with Sébastien? We’d had a nice day, but I wasn’t looking for a relationship, was I? I tried to keep Poppy’s words in mind. It was
okay
to go out with someone without turning him instantly into the man of my dreams.

“Why don’t you give me yours instead?” I asked. He looked taken aback, but he acquiesced, scribbling his mobile number on a piece of paper.

“You will call?” he asked uncertainly. “I hope you will call.”

“Maybe,” I said. I felt a bit mean. But at the same time, the noncommittal answer filled me with a little rush of power. Perhaps it was nice to know that I could go to bed tonight without a stomach full of butterflies, without wondering if the man would call
me.

“It has been a pleasure spending the day with you, Emma,” Sébastien said formally. He leaned in and kissed me again, a long, lingering, probing kiss this time. I knew it was supposed to make me change my mind. I knew I was supposed to grow weak in the knees and invite Sébastien in despite my earlier refusal. And I very nearly did.

After all, it was the perfect French kiss.

But perhaps that didn’t mean anything at all.

Chapter Nine

A
h, so you met Sébastien?” Poppy said, eyeing me in amusement the next morning.

I was confused at Poppy’s reaction. She’d been in bed by the time I arrived home, and I’d been eager to get up the next morning to tell her about my unexpected date the day before. Perhaps, I thought, she’d been right about the potential of these French guys after all.

“What?” I asked. “You know him? That’s impossible.” How could she know a person I’d randomly encountered in a city of millions?

“Let me guess,” she said drily. “He was tall with glasses. Sitting alone. Reading a novel. Told you he goes to a different café each week?”

I stared. Was she clairvoyant? “Yes,” I said. “But how . . . ?”

“I met him my second week in Paris,” she said, the left corner of her mouth curling upward into a smile she was clearly trying to fight. “I’d been taking a walk near Notre Dame, and it started to rain, so I ducked into Café Margot. He was there, reading a Gérard de Nerval book. The moment he realized I was British, he came right over.”

“What?” My mouth felt dry.

“I didn’t realize until I was telling my American friend Lauren about it that it’s apparently his routine,” Poppy said. “He did the exact same thing to her. Wined her, dined her, took her on a tour of Montmartre, got her drunk at that great fondue place up there. Is that what happened to you?”

“Yes,” I said, flabbergasted.

“Right. Me, too. And then he walks you home and asks if he can come in?” Poppy finished the story for me.

I gaped at her and nodded silently.

“Well, at least you were smart enough to say no,” she said. “I wasn’t as smart. He wound up spending the night.”

“You’re kidding,” I said flatly.

“Not at all.” Poppy grinned. “Nothing happened. But imagine how foolish I felt when I told Lauren the story and found out the same thing had happened to her.”

“Probably just about as foolish as I feel right now,” I muttered.

“Don’t feel that way,” Poppy said brightly. “That’s the game they play. They know exactly how to woo you. But as soon as they get what they want, they’re on to the next conquest. It just proves my point. You have to jump ship before you get too attached.”

I was feeling a little ill. “Are all French guys like this?” I asked in horror.

Poppy laughed. “No. I believe Sébastien is a rare case. But he’s a great example of why you can’t believe a word they say. Never. Men just want to tell you lies, whether they’re French or American or British. It’s universal. At least according to Janice Clark-Meyers, the author of
Different Language, Same Men.
”

I looked at her for a moment. “You sound awfully bitter,” I said carefully. “Darren must have really hurt you.”

Poppy looked away. “No. I’m just a realist.”

Poppy went out Sunday evening to meet some guy for drinks, and I spent the time finally unpacking my two massive suitcases, hanging clothes in my tiny wardrobe chest and putting away T-shirts, lingerie, and nightgowns in the little drawers under my bed.

I was lost in trying to decide whether to put my shoes under my bed or buy an over-the-door shoe rack somewhere when the phone rang, startling me.

“Emma, I’ve missed you,” said Brett’s familiar voice on the other end when I picked up. I froze, stunned. It had been nearly five weeks since I’d last seen him, and already his voice sounded unfamiliar to me. “Your sister gave me your number,” he added. “It hasn’t been the same here without you.”

I breathed into the phone. I didn’t know what to say. Had he, by some sixth sense, realized that for the first time last night, I’d fallen asleep without thinking about him? I’d just been getting used to a life without him.

“Emma? Are you there?”

“Brett,” I said finally, trying to keep the wobble out of my voice. “Why are you calling?”

“Because I miss you,” he said, sounding wounded. “Don’t you miss me?”

“No,” I said. There was silence on the other end, and I felt guilty—not just for hurting his feelings but because it was a lie. I
did
miss him. But that was pathetic, wasn’t it?

“I shouldn’t have said the things I did,” he said after a moment. “I was stupid, and I’m so sorry. It was all a mistake.”

I was silent. I didn’t know what to say.

“What about Amanda?” I asked finally.

There was silence and then heavy breathing on the other end of the line.

“You know about that?” he asked in a small voice.

I didn’t bother answering. “You’re such an asshole,” I said instead.

“Oh, Emma, I’m so, so sorry,” he said quickly, his words tumbling out on top of each other. “Emma. Please. Can you hear me? I’m sorry. More sorry than you know. It was just a mistake. A huge mistake. I was trying to get over you.”

“That’s an interesting technique,” I muttered. “If it doesn’t work out with your fiancée, screw her best friend?”

Brett sighed and continued. “Emma. Please. I don’t know how to tell you how sorry I am. But I love you. I still want to marry you. I just got cold feet, that’s all.”

It was exactly what I’d wanted to hear five weeks ago. But now his words just made me feel empty and confused.

“Emma, will you come home?” Brett asked. “Please? Give me another chance?”

I walked into the living room and sat down on the sofa, facing the window. Outside, mere yards away, the Eiffel Tower loomed like a reminder of all I had yet to discover in this city.

“No,” I said finally, trying to sound far more confident than I felt. “I think this is where I belong now.”

I hung up before he had a chance to protest.

“Well, it was what he deserved,” Poppy said at work the next morning as she leaned over me to grab a permanent marker from the other side of the conference table. We had arrived early to work on the layout for the cover of the press folder for Guillaume’s London launch. We couldn’t agree on the perfect photo to use; I wanted to use one where Guillaume was holding his guitar and smiling, while Poppy wanted to find one where he had on his signature sexy sulk.

“Are you sure?” I asked as I took a sip of coffee and studied the display of photos we had laid out in front of us. “I mean, maybe it just took him a little while to realize what a huge mistake he’d made. Maybe he
did
just get cold feet.”

“You were with the guy for three years,” Poppy recapped. She picked up two of the photos and put them in our discard pile. “You’ve been engaged for almost a year. And then suddenly he dumps you and tells you to move out? I don’t care whether he’s changed his mind or not. Is that really the kind of guy you’d want to be with?”

“I guess not,” I muttered. We worked in silence for a few minutes.

I tried hard to concentrate on the task at hand. Guillaume’s single was due to hit airwaves around the world that night, so it was a big day for us.
Focus on Guillaume
, I told myself.
Not on Brett.

“So,” I said lightly, trying to change the subject. “I guess Gabriel
was
wrong about Guillaume getting into trouble at Buddha Bar last night.”

“I told you he was full of it,” Poppy said.

“You were right,” I said. “How stupid of me to have believed him.”

“Not stupid,” Poppy said. “Just naive. You can’t trust these reporters, though.”

“I’m sure they’re saying the same thing about us,” I said.

Poppy grinned. “Yes, and they’re absolutely right.”

We finally agreed on a photo of Guillaume in a Cuban-looking military jacket with sliced-up sleeves that showed off his incredible arm muscles. In the picture, he was holding his custom-made red Les Paul guitar, which he had nicknamed Lucie, after his little sister, and he was giving the camera one of his signature smoldering looks that was practically enough to make any red-blooded woman melt on the spot.

“Okay, I’ve got to run to that lunch meeting in London,” Poppy said after we’d called the printer and added the photo to the layout we’d already given them for the press pack, which they’d have printed and ready for us by the end of the week. “Will you be okay on your own for the afternoon? You have plenty to keep you busy, right?”

Poppy had a one fifteen meeting in London with the president of the British Music Press Association that she’d spent the past few days preparing for. She’d catch the eleven thirteen Eurostar out of Gare du Nord in time to make it to a restaurant just outside the train station in London for lunch. She’d leave just after three to make it home in time for dinner. It was amazing how quickly you could hop between the two national capitals.

“Of course,” I said brightly. I’d been here a week now, and thanks to eight years of working in the industry, I certainly knew how to handle myself around a PR office. On top of that, I was getting excited about Guillaume’s London launch. It would be one of the biggest projects I’d ever been involved in, and I was proud of the work Poppy and I had already done. I had dozens of calls to make to American music journalists that afternoon, and I needed to verify some things with the London hotel where we’d be holding the event in less than three weeks.

“Okay, sweetie,” Poppy said, getting up to grab her handbag, which was a perfect-looking Kelly knockoff. “Wish me luck. I’ll have my mobile on if you need me.”

Thirty minutes later, I had made five media calls, all of which went well. I was particularly happy with the chat I’d had with a London-based writer from
Rolling Stone
, who had promised she’d be at the junket.

“Guillaume Riche looks just yummy!” she had exclaimed. “And the advance copy of the ‘City of Light’ single you sent me sounds amazing. You really have a star on your hands!”

The call had left me with a warm glow, which is exactly what I was basking in when my phone rang again. Assuming it was one of the British journalists I’d left a message for calling me back, I cheerfully answered the phone, “Emma Sullivan, Millar PR!”

A deep voice on the other end of the line blurted out several sentences in French.

“I’m sorry,” I said quickly, interrupting the flood of words. Even if I couldn’t understand the language, I knew he was upset.
“Je ne parle pas français.”

I was getting awfully tired of saying that.

“Who eez thees?” the voice asked in thickly accented English. “Where eez Poppy?”

“Poppy is away at a meeting,” I said. “This is her new colleague, Emma. I’m also working on Guillaume Riche’s English-language launch. Is there something I can help you with?”

There was dead silence on the other end.

“Yes,” the man said finally. “Emma, you must hurry. This eez Guillaume’s manager, Raf. I’m een Dijon, so you are going to have to help me.”

“Help you with what?”

“Guillaume just called me,” Raf said rapidly. “Emma, he somehow fell asleep een a storage room near ze lifts on ze second floor of ze Eiffel Tower last night.”

I gasped. “What?”

“I’m afraid eet eez true,” Raf said. “The morning cleaning crew discovered heem, and as you can imagine, he eez een a lot of trouble.”

I groaned. “Could it get any worse?” I asked rhetorically. Only it turned out the question wasn’t so rhetorical after all.

Raf paused for another moment.

“Well, yes, eet could,” he said with a sigh. “There eez one more thing I may have forgotten to mention. The young lady he was with clearly thought eet would be amusing to steal heez clothes while he slept. So eet seems he was een ze lift with just heez briefs when ze crew found him.”

“What?”

“Mais oui.”

“Where is he now?” I asked, starting to panic.

“He’s een ze Eiffel Tower security office being interrogated,” Raf said, his voice sounding weary. “But there eez a lot of press outside—ze same journalists who have been bothering heem for a week, mostly. You are going to need to get down there and do some damage control.”

Raf read me Guillaume’s mobile number and told me that the tower’s security manager had already okayed a press rep being allowed in to speak to him. I was to call him as soon as I got to the tower, and I’d be escorted up.

“Emma, there eez one piece of good news een all of thees,” Raf added at the end. “The security guards have not called ze police. They know who Guillaume is and prefer to handle this privately. So there may be some opportunity there for you to sort things out.”

“Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”

I hung up and pounded my head on the desk for a moment. This couldn’t be happening.

I dialed Poppy’s mobile number, but there was no answer. I tried again. Still nothing. I left her a panicked message explaining the situation. Then I dialed Véronique’s number. I was sure that she—or one of the company’s in-house PR reps—would know how to handle things.

“Well, you obviously need to take care of this,” she said calmly when I was done recapping my conversation with Raf. Why was it that the French never seemed to panic?

“Me?” I tried to stop myself from freaking out. “But I can’t reach Poppy!”

“Unless I’m mistaken,” Véronique said, her voice cold, “you are being paid as part of Guillaume’s PR team. So if you and Poppy want to keep your jobs, I suggest you hurry down to the Eiffel Tower to solve this little problem before word gets out. Or should I hire another PR firm that is more reliable?”

I sat there in shock for a moment before mumbling a reply, slamming down the phone, and hurrying out of the office.

“Oh, dear, Emma, I am so sorry I can’t be there,” Poppy whispered into the phone when she called me back fifteen minutes later. I was en route to the Eiffel Tower, and I’d broken out in a cold sweat in the back of the cab. “I’m already on the train. We’ve left the station.”

“I understand,” I said through gritted teeth. “But what am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know,” Poppy whispered back. “Lie?”

“Yeah.” I shook my head. “I’m going to get lots of practice with that here, aren’t I?”

“Look, I’ll call you as soon as I’m done,” Poppy said. “I’m so sorry to make you handle this on your own.”

I asked the cabbie to swing by the Celio store on the Rue de Rivoli on the way. He waited while I dashed inside to buy Guillaume a shirt, cargo pants, and flip-flops. I guessed on his size, assuming that even if the clothes weren’t exactly right, he’d appreciate wearing something other than his underwear when he was escorted outside.