Paris Is Always a Good Idea

by Jenn McKinlay

  Jason hesitated for just a fraction of a second, long enough for me to contemplate kicking him, and then took Jean Claude’s hand in a firm handshake.

  “You too,” he said. He didn’t sound like he meant it. “Chelsea’s got a big meeting tomorrow, super important, so you might want to make sure she’s home by midnight.”

  I turned so my back was to Jean Claude, and through gritted teeth, I growled, “Shut up.”

  Jason gave me an innocent look. Then he shrugged and said, “You kids have fun. I’ll just be here enjoying my wine all by myself.”

  He heaved a sigh that was so forlorn, I felt as if I were abandoning a puppy in the middle of the twelve-lane roundabout that circled the Arc de Triomphe. I shook it off. What had gotten into him?

  “Good night, Jason,” I said firmly. I took the arm Jean Claude offered, noting for the first time how beautiful his suit was. It was immaculately cut and hung on him as if it was bespoke, which it undoubtedly was.

  As Jean Claude led me to a waiting car, a sleek black sedan with a driver standing at the rear and holding the door open, he leaned close and asked, “Should we invite your friend to come along?”

  “No!” I said. Seeing his surprise, I realized I might have been too sharp and said, “I’m sure Jason would much rather prepare for tomorrow’s meeting.”

  A slow smile spread across Jean Claude’s lips. “Excellent, because I really didn’t want to share you.”

  He helped me into the car and slid in beside me. The driver shut the door and walked around the car to the driver’s seat. There was a bucket of champagne waiting, and Jean Claude lifted the bottle to uncork it. I was grateful, hoping it would take the edge off my nerves. As the lights of Paris swooped by, I caught a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower all lit up, and I felt the magic of the city slip in under my skin, making me hyperaware of everything around me, in particular the man beside me.

  He smelled of an exotic cologne, not overpowering, just hovering over his person. I had to press closer to breathe it in, and I could smell the subtle notes of bergamot and musk. It suited him, being masculine but not overbearing. He wore no tie with his suit, and his shirt collar fell open to reveal the strong column of his throat.

  He poured two glasses, handed me one, and said, “Une nuit inoubliable.”

  The words sounded delightful, but I didn’t know what they meant, so I held back my glass and looked at him in question.

  “An unforgettable night,” he said. Then he touched his glass to mine and moved so that his arm looped through mine, and we drank with our arms entwined. It was ridiculously romantic.

  The champagne was delicious as it fizzed against the roof of my mouth, waking up my taste buds and making my lips pucker with its tart sweetness. Jean Claude took this as an invitation to kiss me, and I welcomed it.

  His mouth slid gently against mine as if not wanting to smear my rosy lips. I wore a kissable lipstick, but I didn’t tell him this, preferring to ease into this new level of intimacy, like cooking a dish by turning up the heat in tiny degrees.

  When he leaned in to kiss me again, the car came to a slow stop, interrupting his progress. Jean Claude looked regretful, but I was surprised to find that I wasn’t. In fact, I felt a bit relieved. Despite being happy to see Jean Claude again, I didn’t want to rush into anything.

  The door opened and Jean Claude slid out. He turned and held out his hand, smiling at me as he said, “I promised you an unforgettable night out, and so it begins.”

  His strong fingers curled around mine, and I let him pull me to my feet. Instead of letting me go, he laced our fingers together and led me across the sidewalk toward the mansion that was ablaze with light ahead of us.

  I glanced back and saw our driver weave his way into the line of cars dropping off other guests, to park at the far edge of the long drive. Men in sharp suits and tuxedos and women in glitzy gowns swarmed the walkway.

  “Where are we?” I asked, leaning close to Jean Claude.

  “We are at the most exclusive party in all of Paris,” he said. “This is the home of François Moreau. He is a collector and an investor.”

  “Home?” I asked. I glanced up at the massive stone building. Each of its five floors had enormous arched windows, all of which glowed brightly in the darkness. I glanced at the roof and noted that there were gargoyles perched at each corner. Well, then. “What does he collect?”

  “Whatever strikes his fancy,” Jean Claude said. “Everyone here tonight is hoping that they will engage François’s interest and he will use his inherited billions to make their dreams come true.”

  There was a wistfulness in his voice that caught my notice. “And is that what you are hoping, that he will help you open your own design house?”

  “You remember my dream?” he asked. He looked truly touched. Then he smiled, glanced at me from beneath his eyelashes, and said, “You will help me, then?”

  “Of course,” I said. “Anything you need—I’d be honored to help you.”

  “I knew I could count on you,” he said. He kissed the backs of my fingers. “My beautiful girl.”

  I felt my face get warm. Being called a “girl” by any other man would have peeved me. Okay, perhaps it irked me just a little, but Jean Claude had that deadly French charm that flustered me to the roots of my hair. I was flattered by his attention and quite certain I would do anything I could to assist him.

  We climbed the stairs, joining the party, which was already in full swing. A butler greeted us at the open doorway and gestured for us to follow the other guests into the great hall. We crossed the marble foyer and walked through one of the many sets of open doors, into a room that was thick with people. A jazz quintet was playing in the corner, and waiters were hurrying about the room with silver trays loaded with champagne and tapas. Jean Claude grabbed two glasses and handed one to me.

  The interior of the mansion didn’t disappoint, being just as over the top as I had expected. The ceilings were decorated in ornamental plaster quadrants that each featured a ceiling rose and dentils that drew the eye up toward the center, where a row of enormous chandeliers sparkled, casting shimmers of light throughout the long room. Doors on the opposite side of the room were open to let in the cool night air and allow guests to step out onto the wide terrace that overlooked the immaculate gardens. It was like something out of a novel. I wanted to pinch myself. Was this really my life?

  Clusters of men and women chattered all around us, and I watched them, taking in the beautiful clothes, the excited laughter, the hugs and air kisses, and in one case the moue of disapproval from one woman to her man, who simply shrugged and downed his champagne.

  “Jean Claude!” A man approached us. He was older, easily in his seventies, with pale-blue eyes and a thick shock of white hair. He wore a black tuxedo, which, much like Jean Claude’s suit, was obviously tailor made, as it fit his slender shoulders, round belly, and short legs in a way that an off-the-rack tux never could.

  “François,” Jean Claude said. He smiled and broke into French so rapid that I had no chance to understand a word until he lifted my hand and said, “Ma belle, Chelsea.”

  I felt François studying me. He was smiling, but it was a calculated smile, accentuated by his very large, very white teeth. I wondered if being a billionaire made him weigh everything in dollars and cents, or in this case euros, and if so, whether he trying to determine what my value was. Despite what I brought in for the ACC, my personal assets were very middle class.

  It was a truth that made me feel like a fraud. I was wearing a gown that likely cost more than I earned over several months, and if I took away Estelle’s magic, I was not this pretty on an average day. Not even close. There was no way I belonged at this party with all these beautiful, glamorous people. Without a purpose, like working for the ACC, I felt as if I would be more at home in the kitchen.

  “Mademoiselle, it is a
pleasure to make your acquaintance,” François said. “You are as pretty as your picture.”

  I glanced at Jean Claude. He smiled at me and said, “Forgive me—I shared your photo from the studio yesterday with my friend François. I am just so happy to have you in my life again.”

  “That’s fine,” I said. Truly, I was flattered that my abrupt arrival in his life was of such significance to him.

  “He is a lucky man,” François said. He took the hand that Jean Claude had dropped and kissed the back of it. His lips were soft and fleshy and left a wet spot on my skin. It took all the good manners my parents had drilled into me not to pull my hand away and wipe it on my dress.

  “Thank you,” I said. I pushed myself to be friendly even though my instincts revolted. “The pleasure is mine.”

  He released my hand and turned back to Jean Claude, again speaking so rapidly in French that I was lost. Truthfully, I was relieved not to be the focus of his attention anymore. I got a weird feeling about Moreau, and I’d mixed and mingled with enough privileged males to trust my inner voice when it said, Danger.

  A displeased look crossed Jean Claude’s face, but then François pressed his point and Jean Claude nodded. I wondered if Jean Claude had been hoping to have François invest in his clothing line. If that was the case, it did not seem to be going well. I felt badly for witnessing his disappointment, so I turned away, taking the opportunity to examine the room with its towers of fresh flowers. Arrangements as big as small cars stood on pedestals, in an explosion of blue and white blossoms of delphinium, hydrangea, and lily of the valley all nestled by big leafy fern fronds.

  The wink and sparkle of the diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and sapphires at the wrists, ears, and throats of the women in attendance caught my eye. I wondered how much money was in this room in jewels alone. I thought of Jason’s outrage at how much cancer research could be funded with the money Severin spent on his oddities. I believed Moreau was much like Severin in wealth. It was hard to imagine having so much money and not choosing to pour every dime of it into fighting for the cure, but then, I knew that battling cancer was my issue.

  “Chelsea, mon chou, have I lost you?” Jean Claude asked.

  I turned to find him watching me. He had a speculative look in his eye that I couldn’t interpret. I wondered how his conversation had gone, but I didn’t want to pry.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I was soaking it all in.”

  He nodded and surveyed the room. He sipped his champagne, looking as if there was no other place in the world where he belonged. I admired that, because I felt as if there was no other place in the world where I could be more of an imposter. These were the sort of folks I approached in my slim skirt and blazer with a thick file in one hand and a PowerPoint in the other to coax a tax-deductible smidgeon of their wealth out of their coffers. I was not one of them. I did not fit in. These were not my people.

  As much as I loved Paris and was enjoying Jean Claude, I was abruptly hit by such a deep longing for my home in Boston that I almost excused myself to go call my sister Annabelle just to hear her voice. As different as we were, Annabelle had the ability to lift me when I started to get gloomy, and right now I really missed that about her. An image of her in that hideous sparkly pink flower girl dress flitted through my mind, and I found myself smiling.

  “Come, Chelsea—let me flaunt the most beautiful woman here,” Jean Claude said. He slid his arm around my bare back and pulled me close.

  “Certainly. Where is she?” I teased, glancing around us as if looking for another woman.

  “Beautiful and humble,” he said. “You are like a breath of fresh air. François was quite taken with you, as I knew he would be.”

  I didn’t know what to say. “So your talk with him went well?”

  Jean Claude stared into my eyes and then shrugged. “We are coming to terms. What did you think of him?”

  “He strikes me as a man who doesn’t hear the word no very often,” I said. I was trying to be circumspect and didn’t mention the hinky vibe he put off.

  Jean Claude raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Could you say no to him?”

  My first impulse was to say, Hell to the yes—after all, there was nothing that I wanted from him—but tact made me rethink, and I said, “I suppose that would depend upon what he asked of me.”

  Jean Claude grinned at me as if my answer was what he’d hoped it would be. I felt like I should be pleased by this, to have made him happy, but something about it felt off.

  He kissed my cheek and then put my hand on his elbow. He pulled me in the direction of a stocky, bald man who was waving at him. As we walked, I felt the heat of a hard stare upon my bare back, and I glanced over my shoulder to see François watching us, or more accurately me.

  The acquisitive expression on his face was one I’d seen before. It was predatory, the sort of look that reduced a woman to a plaything, an accessory, a toy for his amusement. Men who viewed women this way viewed all women this way. It had nothing to do with how attractive a woman was. His gaze met mine, and he held up his champagne glass and blew a kiss at me. It made me shiver and not in a good way.

  I had no opportunity to ask Jean Claude what that was all about as we reached the portly man, who it turned out was on the Council of Paris, representing the sixteenth arrondissement.

  And so it went. In a flurry of introductions, we met designers, artists, businessmen, musicians, and even a scientist or two. Everyone who was anyone in Paris at the moment was here to enjoy the hospitality of François Moreau. I ran into him twice more during the evening, and each time, I got the creeper vibe off of him. I felt as if he was circling us, keeping watch, but for what?

  Jean Claude made certain I was never without a drink in my hand. I drank the first two glasses of champagne but then began to bluff the rest, turning and setting the glasses down when he wasn’t looking. I couldn’t decide if he was being a solicitous escort or trying to get me drunk. When he pressed the fifth glass on me, I started to get annoyed.

  “Drink up, mon chou,” he said. “We have all night ahead of us.”

  “Not if I drink this, we don’t,” I said. I went to put the glass down, but he grabbed it and pushed it more forcefully into my hand.

  “Chelsea, you need to learn to live a little,” he chided me.

  It was the first time I’d felt any criticism coming from him, and I was taken aback that it was in regards to my not wanting to get loaded on champagne. Because a woman sloppily staggering around in a gown was so hot. I frowned.

  “I think your definition of living and mine might be different,” I said. My voice was cool as I stared down into my glass, watching the bubbles break the surface.

  He ran an exasperated hand through his air. He took my elbow and led me to the corner of the room. He stared at me for a moment, and then a smile, a real charmer’s grin, slowly tipped his lips.

  “I’m sorry, ma belle,” he said. He ran his hand up and down my bare arm. “I just want you to enjoy yourself.”

  “I am,” I said. Although honestly, I was enjoying him much less now than I had seven years ago. There was something off about him tonight that I couldn’t put my finger on.

  Jean Claude turned away. He sipped his champagne and studied the room. I saw an unexpected hardness to his features that I didn’t remember being there before.

  “Is everything all right?” I asked. I leaned forward to get his attention and wobbled a bit in my heels. He caught me with a hand at my hip, and this time when he smiled, it looked more genuine.

  “Yes, it’s good, very good.” He searched my eyes for a moment and said, “I was wondering if you could do me a tiny favor?”

  I was so relieved to see a hint of his old self back, I said, “Absolutely.”

  “Mon chou, I need you to work your charms on François,” he said. “You would do that for me, non?”

 
What? I’d thought a favor would entail getting Jean Claude a fresh drink, maybe a snack, or taking a walk outside to cool off in the night air.

  His hand slid down my bare back to rest on my tailbone, his fingers dipping just beneath the edge of my dress. If he was giving me a hand signal, it was not one I wanted to receive. I closed my eyes and took a breath before I turned to face him, forcing his hand away.

  “When you say charm François, what do you mean exactly?” I asked. I kept my voice a low purr. I wanted him to think I was on board so that he would detail it for me and there would be no misunderstanding.

  “He is quite enchanted by you,” he said. “And he would like for the two of you to spend some time alone together.”

  I was fairly clear about what he meant by alone. Hurt and shock made my throat tight, but I pushed through it. I was going to make him spell it out. “Alone?”

  Jean Claude gave me a knowing look. Then he hit me with a one-two punch of disrespect and disillusionment. “François just wants some company. Surely, since I have given you this very expensive dress, you would do me the courtesy of being equally generous with my friend.”

  “You want me to sleep with him. That’s why you showed him my picture. You’re using me to bargain with him.” It wasn’t a question and he didn’t deny it. I felt queasy, and it wasn’t from the champagne. I couldn’t believe Jean Claude was asking this of me. “Why?” I demanded. I glanced around the room. “There are much more beautiful women in this room. Why me?”

  “Because you are a beautiful woman with a refreshingly innocent air about you,” Jean Claude said. He stepped closer to me, looming in a way I didn’t like. “You said you would do anything for me. Did you mean it?”

  And now I understood why he’d been plying me with champagne. He probably thought if he got me drunk enough, I’d be okay with this. That was a hard no. There wasn’t enough champagne in the world to make me prostitute myself, and clearly, Jean Claude was not the man I’d thought he was.