Find You in Paris: A fun and sexy enemies-to-lovers romance (The Darcy Brothers)

by Alix Nichols

He tilts his head to the side. “Are you serious?”

  Am I? “Totally.”

  “Why? Are you having trouble finding male models?”

  “I haven’t tried. You’d be my first.”

  He glances at the preview screen once again.

  I should stop holding my breath. He’ll never agree to my brazen offer. No way.

  “So you want me to pose for you,” he says.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Naked?”

  I nod. “I’ll make them just as clean and artsy as Elorie’s. And I’ll hide your face by shooting from the side and the back only.”

  He hands me the camera, a smile crinkling his eyes. “Only for art’s sake…”

  Is he agreeing to my insane request? Is he actually, really, going to do it?

  I clear my throat. “Is that a yes?”

  He doesn’t reply immediately, and I stare at him, a wave of shameful, giddy excitement shooting through my veins, filling my ears with a pleasant buzz and making me light-headed. Darcy is going to strip naked for me. He’s going to position that gorgeous body of his however I instruct him to. I’m going to be able to feast my eyes on every inch of that taut, virile flesh with full impunity. Pretending to be just an extension of my camera and safe in the artist-model role-play, I’m going to lap up every line of that handsome face. It’s shocking how badly I want him to say yes.

  “One condition,” he says. “I keep my pants on.”

  I do my best to hide my disappointment. “OK, but only the pants. I want your chest and your feet bare.”

  He nods.

  “I’ll prepare the backdrop while you undress.” I try to sound businesslike. “We have to hurry—this light will be gone in twenty minutes or so.”

  He sets his glass on the windowsill and pulls his sweater over his head with the ease of a hunk who doesn’t know what body-conscious means.

  I don’t budge, watching him.

  He kicks off his sneakers, eyes riveted to mine.

  I stare, mesmerized into a stupor.

  His pulls his socks off and straightens his back. “Weren’t you going to prep something?”

  “What?” I wake up from my trance. “Oh. Crap. Yes, I was.” I rush past him to move the chair out of the way and push the curtain a little to the side. My ears are aflame.

  “Can you stand by the window?” I ask.

  Without looking at him, I go back to my spot by the table and pick up my camera.

  Darcy plants himself on the right of the window frame. His upper body is to die for. All lean muscle and tanned skin. Incredibly masculine. Totally camera worthy. Oh, and I was right about his chest, which has just the right amount of hair.

  “Press your forehead to the frame,” I say.

  He executes.

  Click, click, click.

  “Now turn your back to me, lift your arms, and place your hands on either side of the frame.”

  He does as he’s told.

  “Higher. Yes, like that. Lean forward a bit. Perfect. Stay there.”

  I click frantically.

  “Drop your head to your chest… Good… Now, straighten up again. Drop your right hand behind your neck and touch your back… Beautiful.”

  I order him to shift his body in a dozen more ways, each designed to highlight a particular group of muscles on his back and chest, the slant of his shoulders, the shape of his strong neck, his sculpted jawline, abs, hips, backside, and his unexpectedly sexy feet.

  Male beauty is so underrated.

  “How about a nude?” I ask on impulse. “Just one pic, to crown the series.”

  He stares at me, saying nothing.

  His silence emboldens me. “I’ll take it from the back, nothing indecent, and I’ll render it in black and white. Please?”

  He stare grows so intense it robs me of air. Literally. It somehow makes me unlearn the art of breathing, and I’m about to swoon when he nods and turns his back to me.

  I take a few life-saving breaths.

  He just nodded, right? He’s going full monty for me.

  Dear God, dear God, dear God.

  Incredulous, I watch him unbuckle his belt and draw the zipper. In one smooth movement, he pulls his jeans and underwear down and steps out of them.

  My gaze travels up his athletic calves and strong thighs and lingers on his derriere. A part of me registers that I’m staring at him directly without the intermediary of the camera.

  Another part registers that I’m wet.

  “So?” Darcy asks without turning to face me. “Are you taking that shot?”

  I raise the camera and click, and click again, and again, and again.

  “That’s more than one pic,” he says.

  “It’s just to have a few different angles to choose from.”

  And look at.

  “We’re done,” I say a moment later. “It was very kind of you, Sebastian.”

  “Don’t mention it.” I hear the smile in his voice. “I’m glad I could be of help, Diane.”

  I turn to the door, hugging my camera. “I’ll give you some privacy to get dressed.”

  “That would be nice. Thank you.”

  As I march out and pull the door closed, I already know I’m going to spend hour after hour pouring over the series, inventing new ways to edit the photos just to have an excuse to leer at them.

  Especially, the last few.

  FIFTEEN

  Hating a man 24-7 drains your energy. Can you blame a woman for needing a break from it?

  That’s what this is—a break. Whenever I find myself enjoying Darcy’s company, I tell myself that all it means is that I’m just taking a breather from constant hating. Neat, huh? In this light, there’s no reason to panic every time I catch myself fancying Darcy’s toothsome bod or admiring a trait of his character.

  This theory is the only way to account for what happened in Burgundy. Prompting Darcy to give me an extra hot kiss was bad enough. I can tell myself I did it to spite Genevieve, who’d gotten under my skin, but how do I explain that I nearly disintegrated from it? And how in hell do I explain asking Darcy to strip and pose for me? A fit of madness? An attempt to sabotage my own plan? An admission of defeat?

  I prefer to go with the Everyone Needs a Breather hypothesis.

  Anyway, back to the here and now. I’m standing next to Jeanne in the middle of the front room of La Bohème, staring at the long windowless wall opposite the entrance. At Jeanne’s request, Chloe had fitted it with little hooks and strings so it could serve as a gallery to showcase local painters.

  “Your photos of Parisian rooftops would be perfect for my first exhibit,” Jeanne says.

  “I’m flattered,”—and I truly am—“but I wouldn’t want you to feel obligated to offer me this opportunity just because I’m Chloe’s sis.”

  “I’m offering you this opportunity because I love those photos, period.” Jeanne cocks her head and winks. “But don’t expect me to pay for the prints.”

  “Are you insane? You should be charging me, not the other way around!”

  We agree on the size and number of prints, and Jeanne returns behind the bar. I stare at the wall some more, brimming with excitement. Displaying my work outside the virtual world, printed and framed, is a big step toward becoming a real photographer. It doesn’t matter how many photos I sell—this exhibit isn’t about making a profit. It’s my graduation from hobbyist to professional.

  Manon zooms by with a loaded tray, mouthing, “Five minutes.” This means she’s about to take a coffee break and wants me to stick around. I pick a table by the window and engross myself in my current whodunit.

  Manon’s voice pulls me out of the story a few minutes later. “How can you enjoy that stuff?”

  “What’s wrong with detective stories?”

  She sits down, placing a cappuccino and an espresso on the table. “All that violence and crime.”

  “To me, these books are more about the intrigue and figuring out who the culprit is.” I cock my h
ead. “What I don’t understand is how you can like romance.”

  “What’s not to like?” She gives me a dreamy look. “I can never decide what I enjoy more—the thrill of the deepening love, the overcoming of obstacles, or the guaranteed happily ever after.”

  “There are no happily ever afters in real life.”

  “If you mean we all die in the end, I agree.” She gives me a wink. “But romance books aren’t about eternal life. They’re about eternal love.”

  “Does it exist, your eternal love?” I sneer.

  She stares at me, perplexed. “You just got engaged. Shouldn’t you be a little more… optimistic?”

  “I should—I mean, I am.” I glance at the ridiculously big diamond on my finger. “It’s just… People come together and split up. Or they stay together and hate each other’s guts. That’s real life—just look around you.”

  “OK.” She nods, a sparkle of mischief in her eyes, and turns toward the bar. “Let’s see… Oh, look, it’s Jeanne!”

  Manon turns back to me, beaming.

  I know exactly what she’s going to say.

  “Last time I checked,”—she can hardly keep the glee from her voice—“Jeanne was still happily in love with Mat.”

  I shrug. “They’re an exception to the rule.”

  “What about Chloe and Hugo?” Manon arches an eyebrow. “How long will you give those two?”

  Hmm. Very long, actually. Until death do them part.

  “My parents divorced,” I say. “So did Sebastian’s, and Elorie’s, and plenty of other people I know.”

  “OK, I’ll grant you that,” Manon says. “Not every couple gets their happily ever after. In real life, half of them split up.”

  “Ha! You see.”

  “But the other half stays together and continues loving each other, just like in romance books. And lots of divorcees remarry happily.” She pats my shoulder. “It’s one of those glass-half-full things—just a matter of perspective.”

  “Or a matter of dumb luck.”

  “Maybe.” She rubs her chin. “Or maybe it’s a matter of knowing yourself well enough to sense who’s right for you.”

  “How can you ever sense that? It’s not as if there’s an alarm in your head that goes”—I cup my hands around my mouth—“weeeoooo-weeeoooo, all systems go! I have a visual. The individual at three o’clock is the perfect match. I repeat: Target at three o’clock. Go, go, go!”

  “That’s not how it works.” She smiles and glances at fellow waiter Amar as he walks by eyeing Manon as if she were the Eighth Wonder of the World. “You don’t always recognize it at once, but when you’ve spent some time with the right guy, you’ll know it’s him. Trust me.”

  Lucky her. I’ve never felt that confident about anyone.

  I guess I don’t know myself well enough.

  SIXTEEN

  Denying yourself someone you crave, and who happens to want you, too, drains your energy. Can you blame a man for wanting a break from it?

  I’d been suspecting Diane had a thing for me since March, but the Burgundy trip killed the last of my doubts. I’ll never forget our extra hot kiss, or the look on her face when she asked me to pose for her. Even harder to forget is the giddiness in her lovely eyes when I agreed. Not to mention the pent-up lust roughening her voice when she directed me, and the color of her cheeks when she began to take pictures.

  How I managed not to knock on her door that night is beyond me.

  I look out the car window as I drive to the 9th. I’m to join Diane and her gang at La Bohème tonight, where they’re watching some show on the bistro’s new TV screen. My original plan had been to take Diane to the opera, but she said she wouldn’t miss that program for the world.

  Why on earth did I buy those tickets without checking with her first? I suppose I was going for a surprise. As if I didn’t already know Diane isn’t the kind of woman who’d jump for joy at two center orchestra tickets for La Traviata.

  I smirk and shake my head.

  She’s the exact opposite.

  Setting aside the women who live in mud huts on under one dollar a day, Diane is as far from my interests and way of life as a Western female can be. And that’s why I stayed away from her chamber in Burgundy. Just imagine the imbroglio of having sex with the woman I’ve hired to play my fiancée. Hired and play are the keywords here. Sleeping with her might give Diane the wrong idea. And if there’s one thing a gentleman never does to a woman—regardless of her social background—is giving her the wrong idea.

  Hang in there, man.

  Just two more months of this charade and she’ll be out of my life for good.

  I park the Lambo on the corner of rue Lafayette and rue Bleu and climb out.

  As I walk down rue Cadet, I notice an unusually large crowd blocking the sidewalk terrace of the bistro. It’s early May, and mild enough to sip your Kir cassis outside, but that doesn’t explain all those extra chairs, people standing in the aisles, and others sitting on their backpacks. And everyone—everyone—has their heads turned up, staring at the wall-mounted TV.

  Diane, Elorie, Jeanne, and some of the waiters are among the crowd. My fiancée remains seated as I peck her on the forehead. She’s wearing the perfume I gave her a few weeks ago, and this pleases me to no end. The delicate iris- and patchouli-based fragrance blends seamlessly with the alluring scent of her skin, highlighting her tomboyishness as well as her femininity.

  I wish I could bottle it and keep it in my inside pocket at all times.

  When my mind clears a few seconds later, I say hello to the others. They greet me without taking their eyes off the screen.

  Is there some important match underway? Why didn’t Octave or Greg tell me anything? They’re both huge sports fans and between them, they have all major sports covered. So what is it—tennis, football, or rugby?

  The screen displaying country names and points isn’t helping.

  “What are you watching?” I ask.

  “The Eurovision Song Contest,” Diane says before turning to her friends. “This can’t be true! Belgium gave us nul points. How could they?”

  Manon grits her teeth. “Traitors.”

  “So did the UK,” Elorie says.

  “Yeah, but that’s normal.” Diane looks at me. “It’s a tradition. Brits always down vote France at Eurovision. We do the same to them, by the way.”

  I place my hand on her shoulder.

  Diane gives me a sweet smile. “Will you stay and watch this with us?”

  “I was hoping to take you to dinner—I haven’t eaten yet. Besides,”—I look around—“there are no spare chairs.”

  “I can fix you a croque-monsieur or a hamburger,” Jeanne offers.

  Diane stands and pats her chair. “We can share this.”

  “OK.” I sit down and turn to Jeanne. “A hamburger and a beer would be great.”

  She stands. “Don’t let anyone steal my chair.”

  “I’ll guard it with my life.” Diane drops her purse on it.

  “So, let’s see what’s this all is about,” I say to Diane, as she lowers herself onto my lap.

  This song contest is clearly something she enjoys. I’m not going to spoil her evening by insisting we go eat a proper dinner in a proper restaurant. And I wouldn’t want to appear rude by leaving. So my reasons for staying are just gallantry and good manners. And perhaps curiosity about this European song contest I’ve heard about but never watched.

  The prospect of having Diane’s pert little ass on my lap and my arm wrapped around her slim waist for the next hour or so has nothing to do with anything.

  “Who’s the favorite?” I ask. “Are they good?”

  Diane picks up her mojito. “Malta and Ukraine are number one and two, but it may change with the next country’s vote.”

  “Everyone’s equally awful in this contest,” Elorie says.

  “Then why watch it?”

  “The point of watching the Eurovision Song Contest,” Diane says, “isn�
��t in discovering good songs or new talent—we have The Voice for that. It’s in commenting.”

  “On what?”

  Diane turns to me. “Everything. The contestants and their costumes, the hosts and their bad jokes, and, of course, the songs.”

  “You forgot the national commentators,” Elorie says. “We comment on them, too.” She turns to me. “This year it’s your buddy, celebrity columnist Marie-Anne Blenn.”

  “She’s not my buddy.”

  Elorie cocks her head. “But you’ve met her, haven’t you?”

  “Everyone with a ‘de’ particle in their name has met her.”

  Manon puts her index finger to her lips. “Shush! Australia is next.”

  “I thought this was a European contest,” I can’t help saying.

  “Didn’t you watch the news last night?” Jeanne puts my hamburger and beer on the table and takes her seat. “Australia was hauled across a couple of oceans and parked between Iceland and Scotland so they could take part in Eurovision.”

  “Shush!” Manon orders again.

  We watch the song that’s so resolutely and proudly tacky it deserves at least one point. To my surprise, it gets a lot more than one, including from France. Have my fellow citizens lost their famed good taste? A longtime opera buff, I forget that the vast majority of the seventy million people who are just as French as I am wouldn’t set foot in an opera house even if I paid them.

  The next performer has the left side of his skull shaven and the right side covered in long raven-black strands that drape his right eye like a little curtain.

  “The Barber from Hell has struck again,” Marie-Anne Blenn’s voice-over informs the viewers.

  “Wait till he starts singing,” Manon says. “I’ve already watched his video on YouTube. His song is called ‘Eagle.’ ”

  Diane tilts her head back and looks up. “Lord, please make it so that he doesn’t have wings attached to his back.”

  Manon purses her lips, struggling not to smile.

  The singer opens his mouth—and spreads his eagle wings.

  Diane drops her head to her chest. Manon giggles.

  A well-endowed female singer dressed in a long skirt and tight bodice steps out from behind a curtain. Ten seconds into her tear-jerking song, she raises her arms to the ceiling, clenches her fists and rips off her skirt.