International Guy: Paris (International Guy Series Book 1)

by Audrey Carlan

  “That is important in a smaller company.”

  “It is. We make it work. I run the day-to-day; they do a lot of jobs off-site, and for big clients like you”—I cock an eyebrow—“the three of us bring in the big guns.”

  She snickers. “The big guns? I am imagining a western movie with cowboys and saloons!”

  She gets me laughing again. “Nothing like that. It’s a figure of speech. It just means that when we’re all three on the job, the client is very important. And you are. To all of us.”

  Her eyes seem to twinkle as the waiter brings another course. “Mon Dieu! You are going to fatten me up!”

  I shake my head. “Not at all. You’re perfect. Now eat up. I think this is the next to last. Our entrée and then we have dessert.” I waggle my eyebrows at her to get a rise.

  She doesn’t bite. Instead, she leans forward, licks her lips, and whispers, “I thought dessert was in your bed back at the hotel?”

  My head doesn’t explode, but it sure feels like it does. That response was not at all what I was expecting. “Sophie, I’m not taking you to bed tonight, regardless of how much I want to.”

  What. The. Fuck. Did. I. Just. Say?

  Her lips form a little pout, and she sits back in her chair. “I do not understand. You want to; I want to. I am not a delicate flower, if that is what you are worried about.”

  I grab her hand and hold it in both of mine. “Sophie, you’re more than a quick fuck.”

  “But that woman this morning . . . she was good enough.”

  I cut her off. “Sophie, as I mentioned, I’d been drinking. Profusely. Not to mention, I was a bit delirious with jet lag. Otherwise I definitely wouldn’t have taken her back to my room after I’d kissed you in the same day. To be honest, I’m a little embarrassed about the whole thing. I don’t even know the woman’s name.”

  Her eyes widen. “You had sex with her, and you don’t know her name?”

  I squeeze her hand and imagine I look properly chagrined, because I feel like an absolute douchecanoe. “Look, I’m not gonna lie and say I’ve never taken a woman home for a one-off. I have. More times than I can recall right now. But that’s not you. You’re a client and becoming a friend. Someone who deserves a little more wooing than a single dinner after a rough couple of days of work.”

  She pulls her hand back and sets it in her lap. “Whatever you say.”

  “Sophie Rolland . . . you’re golden, baby. And you need to be treated that way. Never let a man treat you less than as the rarest jewel. Okay?”

  Instead of looking away as I suspect she might prefer, she focuses her gaze on my face. “You think I am worth more?”

  I smile and take in all that she is. Rosy cheeks, chocolate-brown eyes, delicate, swanlike neck, and a mouth made for kissing. “Yes, I do. And I’m going to show you exactly what more looks like over the coming week.”

  Her mouth twitches into a sexy smirk. “I cannot wait.”

  I bite into my bottom lip. “Me either.”

  The next morning, Bo strolls into the salon as if he owns the place. He goes right up to the owner, pats him on the shoulder with one hand, shaking his hand with the other, before turning around and holding out an arm. “And this is the lady I spoke to you about. Ms. Sophie Rolland.”

  Sophie walks with her head held high, far from the woman I met only a few short days ago. She air-kisses the man, who’s rocking a serious three-inch bouffant that somehow looks perfect on him. He’s clad in a lightweight pitch-black sweater with the sleeves pushed up and matching slacks. On his feet are a pair of black leather loafers and no socks. I know this because his dress slacks only go to the top of his ankle. Not exactly my gig, but it works for him.

  “You are going to be my masterpiece, chérie. After I am done with you, your boyfriend will fall to his knees in worship.”

  Sophie’s eyebrows furrow. “I do not have a boyfriend.”

  The man grins crudely. “Ah, then you will after I am done! Sit, sit. Let me get my hands on you.”

  I clap my hand over the thin man’s bony shoulder and squeeze just enough so that my intentions are known. “Dial it back, pal.” I glance at the sign on the door. It says “Dorian Petit Hair Designs” in a sleek, thin font. “Dorian, is it?”

  He nods, staying perfectly still.

  “Treat her like the lady she is, yeah?”

  “Monsieur Montgomery has secured the finest services for our high-profile client. I shall give her that if you will let me get to work.” He shrugs off my hold, grabs a cape, flaps it out like he’s rallying a prized bull, and ties it around her neck to protect her clothing.

  Bo grabs my arm and eases me to the corner. “You sit here. Don’t get involved. This is my territory. Trust my judgment.”

  “He said he was going to put his hands on her.”

  Bo nods and rubs at his chin. “Probably has to do that to cut her fucking hair. Relax! Jeez. Thought your night with Lady Big Tits and Hair would fix your little problem. You still gaga over our client?”

  I sigh. “Not your business.”

  “Fuck, you are. Whatever, man. Just get over yourself. I take care of her in my domain. In fact, why don’t you take a walk? Respond to some emails. Review one of the thirty-plus resumes that headhunter sent us for an assistant. Get you out from under all that paperwork and research for once. We’ve got the golden goose literally eating out of our hands. We’re set for now. Take a load off. I’ve got Sophie.” He points to the door. “Go.”

  Fine. I lift my hands in a gesture of surrender. “I’ll go. I’ve got an errand to run anyway.”

  “Great. Do that. While you’re at it, make a call to the headhunter. The twit’s calling me now. I’ve got zero opinion on who you hire. Just find someone.”

  “Like it’s so simple to hire an assistant to help us in what we do. We’re not exactly the normal ‘run reports, type up interoffice memos’ routine. I’ve got to find someone who can be discreet. Buy women’s lingerie at the drop of a hat. Pick up the phone and ask a high-powered professional what her bra size is. Not to mention, have the ability and skill to do the heavy research on our clients before we meet with them. It’s not like I can easily take an ad out for that type of talent on Craigslist.”

  “Which is why we agreed on the headhunter and his exorbitant fee. Just deal with it, man. I’ve got to talk about highlights and lowlights on Sophie’s hair. Can I go do my job?”

  I punch him in the shoulder.

  “Ouch! That hurts, man. Not here.” He points at his bicep. “But here.” He circles his heart and pouts dramatically.

  “Shut up,” I groan.

  Bo chuckles and shoves me toward the door. “Out. And don’t even think of coming back for another two hours at least. She won’t be done for a while.”

  Without saying another word, I head out of the salon. The driver opens the door of the limo. “Where to, sir?”

  “I need to go back to the Galeries Lafayette store. I’ve got a couple of things I need to get. Do you mind taking me and waiting? If not, I can call a cab.”

  He shakes his head and gestures to get in. “Not at all. I am here to serve you and Ms. Rolland. I understand she will be busy for a long while. I am happy to drive you.”

  “Merci beaucoup.”

  The Galeries is just as grand as it was the other day. It’s hard to believe that, only a couple of days ago, I was having my first kiss with Sophie in the center of this store. Regardless of my lack of judgment, I don’t regret what I did that day. It has not only opened a door to a new sexually aggressive side to Sophie but also made me realize that you can be attracted to someone sexually and want to be their friend just as much as get between their legs.

  A true friend with benefits.

  It’s not exactly a relationship I’ve ever held in the past. Either I’m dating someone exclusively, which generally only lasts a couple of weeks before work gets in the way, or I’m not. Hence, the reason I didn’t lie when I told Sophie last night that I’ve
had many one-night partners. In my business, you meet a lot of women. And I love everything about women. Especially fucking them. I wouldn’t be a twenty-nine-year-old single male if I didn’t like getting between a woman’s thighs . . . regularly. I just don’t usually commit to one particular female for longer than a few rounds. I definitely don’t call them a friend or plan to keep in contact with them once our arrangement is complete.

  The thought of not keeping in contact with Sophie after we leave France sends a shiver of unease through my chest. I like Sophie. Genuinely enjoy talking to her and spending time with her. Plus, she’s beautiful and sexy as hell. Not that she knows it. But that’s part of what I’m here to do. Show her that she’s desirable. Help her achieve the confidence to manage all aspects of her life knowing that she’s worthy of it all. Running a multibillion-dollar company, going head-to-head with the big dogs at the executive table, learning and controlling the sensual and sexual sides of her femininity. Being free to explore new things. Remind her that she’s young and should be able to let loose once in a while. These are all things I hope to give her. If that also includes some serious rounds of fucking the daylights out of her . . . so be it. I am a man of my word, after all.

  I grin and walk up to the MAC cosmetics counter and head right for the lipstick. The red and crimson blotches are calling to me like a homing beacon. I pick up one named Ruby and rub it along the top of my hand, imagining it on Sophie’s complexion. Not the right color. Farther down is a display that’s singled out. A matte black base with a metallic red chamber catches my eye.

  “Viva Glam Red” the sign says.

  I pull the tube out of the tester and rub it across my hand next to the first stripe. The outspoken red is luxurious and reminiscent of a glamour girl from the fifties. Perfect.

  “Superbe couleur!” A very thin woman wearing all black approaches. Her blonde hair is cut into a pixie style that suits her slight stature. She’s wearing her own bold red lip color.

  “Parlez-vous anglais?” I remember the basics from my schooling. Even with Sophie speaking French intermittently, I’m still not comfortable enough to hold a conversation with a stranger.

  “Yes, of course. I said that is a great color.”

  “I think it will look spectacular on the woman I’m buying it for.”

  “That is very nice of you. And just so you know, all of the proceeds of that purchase go toward our MAC AIDS Fund to support the fight against HIV and AIDS.”

  “Really?”

  She nods. “Oui. I mean, yes.”

  “Fantastic. I’ll take three, please.”

  “Anything else?”

  I shake my head. “No, thank you.”

  The woman rings me up, and I’m on my way to lingerie. Time to find sweet Sophie something naughty and nice. Pulling out my phone, I bring up the number for Andre Canton, the headhunter we’ve hired.

  The phone rings once before he answers. “Canton Global, Andre speaking.”

  “Hey, Andre, Parker Ellis here. I’m returning your call.”

  “Calls, you mean. I’ve got to admit, Mr. Ellis, you and your partners are hard men to get ahold of. I thought you might have forgotten that you hired my firm to find you the right executive assistant.”

  I chuckle while taking the escalator up another level of the Galeries. I weave through shoppers and tourists oohing and aahing over the architecture and magnificence. I get what they’re feeling. It’s brain melting if you stare too long.

  “Sorry about that. We’re away on business in France. I’m glad I caught you. Apparently, you have quite the list of possible candidates.”

  “I do. I’ve sent over resumes. Have any of them seemed like a potential fit?”

  I run my fingers through my hair, digging my nails into my scalp. “See, without sounding like an ass, I’ve only looked at a handful, none of which had what I’m looking for. What I’d like you to do is cut the list down to five potentials.”

  “Only five?”

  “Yes. We do not have time to sift through thirty-plus resumes of people who might work. What I need is for you to choose a person who is going to understand our unorthodox business practices and the unique nature of our work. Got a pen?”

  “Yeah. Shoot.”

  “Look for the following characteristics: Ability to travel domestically or internationally at the drop of a hat. Can handle three bosses who may have contradicting philosophies on how to do something. Will be unafraid to ask high-profile clientele extremely personal questions. Has hacking skills.”

  “Hacking?” Andre interrupts.

  “Maybe hacking is the wrong word. Excellent computer and research skills. We need a whiz kid at pulling together client profiles of some big names. How they get their information is for them to know and me to not be concerned with for now.”

  “Oookay.” He doesn’t sound convinced, but I continue anyway.

  “And able to work alone. You know, Andre, some weeks there will be no one in the office but our assistant. They have to be able to handle that, schedule meetings and conference calls, book all of our travel and accommodations, assist with budgeting and overall business administration.”

  “So this person will have to be willing to relocate to Boston if chosen. You want the person at IG headquarters?”

  “Yes. Absolutely. Sometimes we may take the assistant along or fly the assistant out just to cater to our client. The person who works for International Guy has to be able to take on a lot and grow with the team. The learning curve will be fierce because there is no one in that role, nor has there ever been. We’re creating this position as we go and planning to pay top dollar to fill it.”

  “I’m getting the feeling you need a jack-of-all-trades.”

  “Bingo!” I smile because that’s the perfect description, and I finally see the sign for Aubade lingerie. Once again, my dream girl is plastered all over the walls of this section of the store. Skyler freakin’ Paige. One image has her in a devastatingly sizzling black lace bra, panty, and garter set, her hand to her face, index finger curled at her luscious, plump lip. The woman oozes sex from her golden-brown eyes to the tips of her pink-painted toes. Jesus. Even her feet are pretty.

  “Education requirement?” Andre’s voice blasts through my lascivious thoughts, circling me back to the matter at hand.

  “None. This is not about how fast this person types or what Ivy League school they went to. I want an innovative, intelligent, out-of-the-box thinker, who’s good on their feet, open-minded, and not afraid to get their hands dirty or poke and prod into someone’s life online.”

  “All right. Disregard the resumes. None of the ones I sent will do. This may take a little time.”

  I finger a navy nightie with black lace trim that I know will look smashing on Sophie. I hold up the sizes and pick the one that will fit based on a guess alone.

  “Time we’ve got,” I confirm.

  “Okay, I’ll get back to you when I have more information. Can you please promise to return my calls within a reasonable amount of time, as in a few days, not a few weeks?”

  I make a hissing sound through my teeth because the guy is right. I’ve been stringing him along like a bad night with a clinger you can’t shake off.

  “Yeah, man. Sorry about that.”

  “It’s all good. I’ll be in touch when I have something.”

  We say our goodbyes as I spy a saucy pastel-pink silk shorts and spaghetti-strap tank set. Heat swirls along the general vicinity of my crotch at the image my mind creates of Sophie’s pale skin in this. After buying the lingerie, I take my two purchases to the gift wrapping area.

  Wooing a woman always starts with a meal.

  Then gifts.

  Tonight, my SoSo is going to be pampered. I can no longer stop this attraction train from rolling into the station. Sophie made it clear she’s okay with a good time. The more I’m around her, the more I want her.

  7

  François, the limo driver, holds open the door for me and I
slide along the cool leather. My phone beeps, signaling a new text.

  From: Lovemaker

  To: Parker Ellis

  Hair is done. She looks fly as fuck. We’re taking care of nails next door.

  Every time I see the handle Lovemaker, I crack up. It’s what we have listed under his name in our company bios. Royce has Moneymaker for obvious reasons, and I’m the Dream Maker. The three of us came up with the names during a drunken night of poker back at Harvard, and they’ve stuck ever since. Surprisingly it’s been a good fit and definitely helps explain what we do to our current and future clients.

  “Take us back to the salon, François.”

  The driver nods.

  When we arrive, I glance at the two buildings next to Dorian Petit Hair Design and head to the right. I open the glass door and am instantly hit with the smell of acrylic and nail polish.

  A receptionist greets me. “Bonjour.”

  “Bonjour. I’m looking for my friends. A brunette about yay big”—I hold my hand to where Sophie’s height would be on me—“and a large American wearing leather, sporting a beard and a cocky smile.”

  She offers a smirk and points around the corner.

  “Merci beaucoup.” The foreign language rolls off my tongue half-heartedly. When I speak French, it sounds nothing like the sultry lilt of Sophie’s voice. If I focus too much on the tone, how her lips move when I’m near, I could practically come in my boxers like a schoolboy wanking off to Playboy.

  I hear her laugh before I see her. That laugh seeps into my heart and fills it up. I turn the corner and find Bo and Sophie with their feet ankle-deep in bowls of blue water and their asses in leather massage chairs. Each of them is holding a bubbling glass of Champagne.

  Bo looks like a loon with his jeans rolled up, feet bare and being worked on by a slight Frenchwoman. His jacket is gone, and his tee is stretched to the max over his broad chest. I work out with the guys regularly. None of us are slouches in the gym. And seeing this manly man kicking back, getting his feet worked on, does not compute.

  I stop in front of them and stare. “Dude . . . what are you doing?”