The Art of French Kissing (8 page)

Chapter Seven

S
o who was that reporter guy last night?” I asked the next morning after Poppy and I arrived at the office. I’d finally put up a few photographs in my cubicle—one of my nephew, Odysseus, one of me with my mother, and one with me and Poppy from a decade ago.

“Which one?” Poppy asked absently.

“The dark-haired guy with glasses who was staring at me like I was lying?”

“You
were
lying,” Poppy reminded me.

“Yes, but
he
wasn’t supposed to realize that,” I said.

Poppy shrugged. “He always seems to suspect something,” she said. “Frankly, he’s rather a pain. He’s a reporter for the UPP wire service. His name is Gabriel Francoeur.” She pronounced it
fran-KOOR
.

“Is that the service that provides stories to newspapers around the world?”

“Right,” Poppy said. “Like the Associated Press. But with better international distribution. Especially in Europe. In other words, Gabriel Francoeur can single-handedly make or break Guillaume Riche. Which means that for the next few weeks, he’s your new best friend.”

“He was kind of cute,” I said, glancing away.

Poppy looked at me sharply. “Yeah, but he’s a pain in the arse.”

I ignored her. “He barely had an accent. Is he American?”

Poppy shook her head. “No, French, I think. He must have lived in America for a while, though. He does have your Yankee accent, doesn’t he?”

Just then, there was a loud buzzing sound from overhead. I jumped, startled.

“What was that?” I asked.

Poppy sighed. “It’s our front door. I keep asking the building to get that bloody buzzer fixed. It sounds like an air raid siren.”

“I didn’t even know we
had
a buzzer,” I said. After all, this was my fifth day here, and not once had anyone appeared at our front door.

“I’m sure it’s a delivery,” Poppy said. “I’m expecting a shipment of eight-by-ten glossies of Guillaume. Can you answer it? I’ll get my checkbook. The copy shop always sends the photos COD.”

I crossed the tiny room and pulled open the front door. I blinked a couple of times at the tall dark-haired figure with glasses in the hallway before I registered who he was.

“Well, speak of the devil,” Poppy said somewhere behind me.

“You two were talking about me, were you?” Gabriel Francoeur said with an innocent grin, glancing past me and into the office. “I’m sure you were saying only wonderful things.”

“Ah, you know me too well,” Poppy said drily.

Gabriel refocused his attention on me. “So,” he said. “You’re Emma. Guillaume’s new publicist.”

“You’re quite observant,” I said, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. I couldn’t shake the feeling of transparency I’d had last night with his eyes boring into me.

Gabriel studied me for a moment and then smiled slowly. “I pride myself on my powers of perception,” he said.

“Do you?” I asked, trying to affect boredom. I couldn’t help but notice his evergreen eyes and the way they sparkled behind his glasses when he looked at me.

“I do,” Gabriel confirmed with a nod. He raised an eyebrow. “In fact, one of the things I happened to notice last night was that your little story about Guillaume didn’t completely add up.”

I struggled not to blush. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I responded stiffly.

“I’m sure you don’t,” Gabriel said, looking amused. We stood there staring at each other for a moment until I began to notice the little waves in his thick hair, and the way I could already see a dark shadow beneath the surface of his strong-looking jaw, although he had clearly shaved this morning. I could feel heat creeping up the back of my neck. I shook my head and glanced away.

“So,” Gabriel finally said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “Are you going to invite me in?”

I opened my mouth to say no, but somewhere behind me Poppy preempted me.

“Of course,” she said smoothly. She elbowed me in the back. “Come in, Gabriel, of course.”

He nodded, glanced down at me with a smile, and walked into the office, brushing against me a bit as he did. I felt a little uninvited shiver run down my spine. Geez, I was
attracted
to him. How was that possible?

“I don’t know why we need to invite him in,” I muttered to Poppy as Gabriel settled himself into
my
seat at
my
desk, without even asking.

“Because
,
”
Poppy whispered, leaning close into my ear, “he basically holds Guillaume’s career in his hands. We have to be very, very nice to him.”

“Even if he’s a jerk?” I whispered back, eyeing him warily. He ignored us and leaned in to look more closely at the photos on my desk.

“Even if he’s a jerk,” Poppy confirmed.

“Good to know,” I said. “Because he is.”

“Is what?”

“A jerk.”

Poppy looked at me closely. “Methinks thou doth protest too much,” she said with some amusement.

I made a face and took a few steps closer to Gabriel.

“You’re in my chair,” I said bluntly, pointing to the seat he had made himself comfortable in.

“Oh,” Gabriel said. He smiled at me for a moment and then stood up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. I didn’t see anywhere else to sit.”

“I didn’t realize you’d be staying that long,” I said.

“What Emma is trying to say,” Poppy interrupted smoothly, stepping in front of me, “is that we would be pleased to help you with whatever you need so that you can be on your way.”

She elbowed me in the ribs, and I shrugged. Gabriel, with all his dark-haired, green-eyed good looks, was starting to make me uncomfortable.

“Ah, I see,” Gabriel said. He glanced at Poppy then returned his gaze to me, where it lingered a moment longer than it had to. “Well, ladies, I was just stopping in as a favor, actually.”

“A favor?” Poppy and I said in unison. We stared at him incredulously.

He looked a bit taken aback by our reaction. “Hey, I can’t be a nice guy?” he asked.

“There’s a first time for everything,” Poppy muttered.

Gabriel looked wounded. “Now that’s not fair, Poppy,” he said. “I’m just doing my job.”

“And we’re just doing ours,” I said.

Gabriel glanced at me and nodded. “I know,” he said. He hesitated a moment and then locked eyes with me. “That’s why I thought you’d appreciate knowing that Guillaume has a big night planned Sunday at Buddha Bar. You may want to, er, keep an eye on him. He always gets himself into trouble there.”

“He’s
never
gotten into trouble there,” Poppy corrected quickly.

“Ah, so the fire in the men’s room there last month?” Gabriel asked.

“Not his fault,” Poppy said, too quickly.

“And the sexual harassment charges from the waitress?”

“A mistake, obviously.”

“Hmm,” Gabriel said. He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “That’s interesting. How about the drug dealer who was arrested there and told the police he’d sold to Guillaume just the night before?”

“He doesn’t do drugs,” Poppy said, her voice tight. Oddly, Gabriel still looked amused.

“How is it,” I interrupted, “that you somehow know that Guillaume is going to Buddha Bar Sunday night?”

“I have my sources,” Gabriel said, fixing me with an even stare.

I cleared my throat. “And you’re just here out of the goodness of your heart?”

He laughed. “Not entirely,” he said. “I was sort of hoping that you two might remember this next time around. And that you might consider being a bit more honest with me in the future.”

“That’s it?” Poppy asked.

“Well, that and an exclusive first listen to his album,” he said. I could tell he was trying to sound nonchalant. “So that the UPP gets first dibs on reviewing it.”

Poppy shook her head. “You’re a real piece of work, Gabriel,” she said.

He shrugged. “I’m just doing my job.”

“To be honest,” Poppy said, “I don’t actually believe that you have a source that says Guillaume will be at Buddha Bar. I think you’re making it up.”

Gabriel looked a little troubled. “Okay,” he said. “Suit yourself. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He glanced at Poppy and then turned his attention back to me.

“Emma,” he said. “It was a pleasure to meet you. Officially, anyhow.”

He extended his hand. I reluctantly slipped my hand into his, noticing immediately how warm and big it was. I expected a handshake, but instead, he raised my hand to his lips and kissed the back of it.

“Ladies,” he said, nodding at us as he lowered my hand slowly. He hadn’t broken eye contact, and I was startled to feel my heart beating more rapidly. My hand still tingled where he had kissed it. “I’m sure I will be seeing you again soon.
Au revoir.
”

With that, he backed out of the office, pulling the door closed behind him.

“Jerk,” Poppy muttered once the door was shut.

“Yeah,” I said, absently holding my hand up to examine the spot where it had just been kissed. “What a jerk.”

Poppy took me to dinner after work that night to celebrate the fact that I had saved her from getting fired the night before—at least temporarily. After first courses of escargots and green salads with a Dijon dressing, I had coq au vin and noodles while Poppy had a steaming bowl of cassoulet—a French stew of beans, sausages, chicken, duck, and tomatoes. We split a bottle of house red and shared a crème brûlée for dessert.

“That’s the best chicken I’ve ever had,” I said in awe, patting my full stomach as we left.

Poppy grinned at me. “This isn’t even a particularly good restaurant,” she said. “I suspect you’re going to like France very much, dear Emma.”

I was tired after dinner, but Poppy insisted that we go out again.

“You’re never really going to get over Brett, are you, if we sit around the flat moping?” she asked, linking her arm through mine and pulling me along the street. “Besides, it’s a Friday night! The perfect night to go meet guys!”

“How do you figure?” I was almost afraid to ask.

“According to
Take Control of Your Lover’s Soul
, Fridays are
the
night that men are most psychologically primed to meet women,” Poppy said. “It’s something about the negative endorphins in their bodies after a long day of work as well as the positive endorphins in their bodies because they know they have two days of relaxation coming up.”

I rolled my eyes. She had a theory for everything.

Against my dwindling protests, we wound up at another English-language pub, the Frog & Princess, a microbrewery tucked away in a back alley in the sixth arrondissement near Saint-Germain-des-Prés.

“So what’s the deal with Guillaume?” I asked as we settled into seats at the bar, each of us clutching a glass of Maison Blanche, one of the Frog & Princess’s house brews. Around us, a Justin Timberlake song blared from the speakers, and a handful of college-age blond girls in jeans gyrated on the dance floor, which was ringed with nervous-looking guys clutching beers like lifelines. Again, except for the smoke and plethora of smoking Frenchmen, it felt suspiciously like I was back at a bar in the United States.

“You’ve been dying to ask me that all day, haven’t you?” Poppy said.

I nodded and smiled. “Maybe. So what’s the story? Why does KMG put up with stunts like last night?”

“Because he’s really something special,” Poppy said. Her face softened a bit. “You haven’t seen him perform yet. But don’t worry. You’ll understand when you do.”

“I don’t know about that,” I said. Although I had to admit that hearing the “City of Light” single had blown me away.

Poppy shook her head. “No, believe me. You think you hate him now. I know; I felt that way, too. But as soon as you see him perform, trust me, you’ll fall just a little bit in love with him. That’s his charm. That’s why he’s going to sell millions of records all over the world. That’s why he’s going to be a bigger star than David Beckham.”

“You’re comparing him to a soccer player?”

Poppy feigned horror. “A soccer player? First of all, it’s called
football.
Second, my dear, David Beckham is so much
more
than a football star. Just as Guillaume Riche is so much more than simply a singer. He will be a household name. Little girls everywhere will have his poster on the wall.”

“Or post offices will have his wanted poster,” I grumbled.

“Oh, he’s harmless,” Poppy said dismissively. She laughed, but I could detect a hint of nervousness behind her smile. “He just keeps us on our toes.”

“Yeah, about that,” I said slowly. “What about what Gabriel Francoeur said? About Buddha Bar?”

“He was just trying to get under our skin,” Poppy said quickly.

I hesitated. “Are you sure? I mean, he seemed pretty confident.”

“That’s Gabriel for you,” Poppy said. “He’s just messing with our heads. He doesn’t have any inside source. That’s nonsense.”

“He
did
seem to know an awful lot about things in the past that never made the papers,” I said carefully.

Poppy shrugged. “So he’s a good reporter. Fine. But we cover all our bases so that even when he’s right, his editors won’t risk going with the story because we make him sound wrong. I know it drives him crazy. This is probably just his attempt to get even.”

“Probably,” I agreed after a moment. But I wasn’t entirely convinced.

“You’re moping,” Poppy accused me an hour later as she returned from the bar, where she’d been flirting with a tall blond guy. She was holding two beers, one of which she handed to me.

“I’m just tired,” I said.

“No,” Poppy said. “You’re moping. About Brett. Who is a complete tosser.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. Poppy was so matter-of-fact.

“He’s not a tosser,” I protested weakly. “We just weren’t right for each other.”

“Oh, come on,” she said, rolling her eyes. “If he didn’t want to be with you, he’s a wanker. Plain and simple. You’re fabulous. And anyone who can’t see that is completely useless.”

“Well”—I mustered a smile—“I’ll drink to that.”

“That’s the spirit!” Poppy exclaimed. “Cheers!” We both took a long sip, then Poppy spoke again. “Look, I’ll make you a deal,” she said. “If I can get you a date within the next thirty minutes, you have to give this thing a try. You have to start dating again. Not to fall for some smooth-talking French guy, but because it’s fun and they know how to say all the right things, and believe me, they know how to kiss. And right now you need that.”