French Kiss

by Susan Johnson

Or more particularly in terms of tree house construction?

  Or let’s be honest—in terms of his life?

  She was almost to the door. It was crunch time.

  What the hell. He came to his feet.

  Call it lack of restraint.

  Or maybe innate male behavior.

  Or more likely, a long-standing habit of instant gratification.

  Pulling off his headphones, he quickly dropped them and his notes on a side table and caught up to Nicky just as she stepped out into the hall. “Wait,” he said, catching her hand to bring her to a halt. Easing the door shut behind him, he drew her around. “I’d like you to come to dinner with us tonight.” How was that for benign? It was only dinner. No ulterior motive. Or so he told himself. He might have even half meant it.

  They were standing very close in the empty corridor.

  Too close, Nicky thought.

  Not close enough, he was thinking when he shouldn’t be thinking anything of the kind. He let her hand drop. “How about it?”

  “Sure,” she whispered, trying to find breath to speak when he was looking at her like that, when his last question was open to interpretation.

  “Dinner—right?”

  Now that was less ambivalent. But she found herself nodding yes anyway, her words caught in her throat with his heated gaze triggering desires she’d been trying real hard to suppress.

  “Perfect.”

  His smile was boyish and sweet. Like on that People cover of the sexiest man alive. Soooo damnably sweet she could no longer resist, and rising on tiptoe she impulsively kissed him.

  He tensed.

  Shit, shit, shit. Was she a complete imbecile or what? “Sorry,” she muttered, dropping back on her heels, flushing red with embarrassment. As if women throwing themselves at him was anything new; she was probably the ten-thousandth this week.

  After a millisecond, he smiled again. “No problem,” he said. “I’ve been wanting to do the same thing.”

  “Really?” she said.

  He grinned, her breathless disbelief apple-pie charming. “Yeah.” Cupping her shoulders, he bent low so his mouth was only a hair’s breadth from hers. “Really.” His mouth touched hers, curtailing any further speculation she might have apropos of the vast differences in their lives, the warmth of his lips ultralight, as though he liked to take his time.

  She shouldn’t have melted against him so willingly. She should have shown more restraint. Yeah, right. When this might be her only chance to kiss the sexiest man alive, she wasn’t about to play coy. Actually, she didn’t know how to play coy. Call her impulsive. It was true.

  He didn’t seem to mind. She was glad about that. In fact, he pulled her closer so the imprint of his you-know-what was hot against her stomach, and even if she’d wanted to play coy, it was pretty much out of the question after that. He was hung. Perhaps one of the criteria no one ever talked about in the judging of the sexiest man alive.

  The pressure of his mouth intensified infinitesimally, and he added just enough tongue to make her think of soft beds and warm bodies as he leisurely savored her like maybe she was a Baskin-Robbins flavor of the month. He knew what he was doing, she thought as he backed her against the wall and leaned in to her. He knew how to make a woman hot and bothered in seconds flat.

  The feeling was definitely mutual, but in the interest of keeping Vernie happy, he curtailed his carnal impulses, cutting the kiss short before it was too late. Lifting his head, he let go of her hips. “So what about coming to dinner?” he said, giving himself Boy Scout points for his honorable behavior.

  As if she could refuse now, she thought, her ideas about coming not confined exclusively to dinner.

  “I have to get back; I’m babysitting,” he explained, figuring that was as good an excuse as any. He lifted his hand in the direction of the door, as though she’d never kissed him, nor he, her— as though he didn’t have a hard-on and she hadn’t felt the world momentarily skid off track.

  He probably knew no woman of sound mind would say no. Although, if she was rational, she’d refuse—because all things considered, his kiss suggested something more than dinner. Probably something like a one-night stand.

  The question was: Did she care to add her name to the very long list of Johnny Patrick’s one-night stands? “I’d love to have dinner with you,” she heard herself saying.

  So much for self-control. Then, as though in presage of what was sure to follow this potential one-night stand, Johnny instantly took a step back.

  “Sounds good. We’ll pick you up at seven-thirty.” Turning, he walked away, entered his suite, and shut the door.

  Left standing in the corridor, Nicky allowed her heartbeat to resume its normal rhythm, while reminding herself that one-night stands weren’t exactly a complete novelty for her. She didn’t have to get all bent out of shape about sex. Sex was sex was sex, after all. And on the bright side, this particular occasion might very well rate a sumptuous spread in her fantasy diary of amorous memories.

  Although, female that she was, her next, immediate thought was—WHAT would she wear? She hadn’t thought she’d be going out for dinner in Paris. Okay, duh… she might have considered the possibility. So she wasn’t perfect. Hadn’t her mother always called her flighty when it came to long-range plans? In this case, she might have to admit her mother had been right because aside from slacks and T-shirts, she had nothing to wear. And celebrity-type people always ate at celebrity-type restaurants.

  Eeeek and double eeeek.

  This called for some quick thinking and quicker shopping. And not Hermes or Chanel shopping. Although how she would find economy shopping in this city of high and higher fashion was anyone’s guess. Also, sometimes she forgot to pay her personal bills—like on time… if she was busy, which was always. She hoped her cards hadn’t been canceled. They always reinstated them, because she actually had money now, but this wouldn’t be a real opportune time to have to argue with some credit card company over the phone from a shop in Paris. Had she brought her debit card? There should be money in her account; her secretary did an automatic deposit for her each week. Worse thought, though… did she even have her wallet? She tended to be a little disorganized.

  No wallet. No purse. Shit.

  She’d had her purse at the arcade—which meant it was probably in Johnny’s suite.

  So knock on the door and ask for it. Really, he was only an ordinary man.

  Right. And Black Duck, Minnesota, is the same as Paris.

  Then again, she couldn’t have built a company single-handed if she was faint of heart.

  She knocked, and when he came to the door, she whispered, “My purse,” and waved vaguely as though she was sure it was there. Luckily it was. Or she would have been wearing Gap chinos and a T-shirt for dinner.

  With another wave, she left, the door closed whisper soft behind her, and after checking her purse for her debit card—eureka— she raced down the hall to the elevator.

  Something demure but sexy would be perfect, she thought.

  A dress that said class but wasn’t above a suggestion of receptivity in the right circumstances. In her case, that meant anywhere within a mile of Johnny Patrick should he crook a finger in her direction. Although maybe she should play hard to get. Not that she’d given him that impression five minutes ago.

  But a woman could always change her mind, couldn’t she?

  It was really just a question of moral fortitude—whatever that meant.

  On the other hand, she was in France—the land of amour.

  Maybe she should just lie back—literally and figuratively— and give in to the prevailing culture.

  Eighteen

  He didn't say, wow, when he came to pick her up for dinner, but she saw it in his eyes and decided the much-too-expensive dress she’d bought was worth every euro.

  But he did say, “You look good in green,” which she already knew, because she had green eyes, and this dress matched them exactly.

  “T
hanks, you look good in”—she was going to say anything, but censored herself—“that shade of blue.” His shirt made the gray of his eyes look less cool. Or maybe it was his smile that did that.

  “I’m told the color’s called gentian.”

  Nicky flicked a hand over the front of her short, flirty dress. “Pistachio.”

  “Definitely good enough to eat,” he murmured, holding her gaze.

  Jordi came racing up, defusing the rising heat that seemed to have reached flash point in mere seconds. “Daddy! Daddy! Look at me! Vernie says I look like a princess!”

  Johnny spun around and did a dramatic double take that evoked a giggle from his daughter. “At your service, princess,” he said, sweeping her a bow. “And is this the queen?” he asked, smiling at Vernie who had dressed for the occasion.

  “I prefer empress.”

  Nicky wasn’t sure she didn’t mean it. Vernie looked serious, and she was wearing real jewelry along with an evening purse that hung from one of those distinctive Chanel chains.

  Johnny grinned. “Empress sounds fine to me, Vernie. You run the show better than anyone I know.”

  “Years of practice, young man,” Vernie replied with a wink. “Just remember to remind me of my two-martini limit. You forgot last time.”

  “With good reason,” Johnny drolly noted. “No way I’m going to cross you after two martinis.”

  “I’ll do it,” Jordi piped up. “I’m not scared.”

  Vernie smiled. “I’m counting on you, then, sweetie. Especially if we’re going to get up early and go to that cafe that serves those strawberry crepes you like. I need my rest.” She tapped her wrist-watch and glanced at Johnny. “We’d better go. You know how long it takes to eat in France. Come along, Jordi, we’ll lead the way.”

  “Vernie keeps everyone in line,” Johnny murmured with a smile, as he and Nicky fell in behind. “She’s good for Jordi. I’m a little too lax about rules.”

  On the few occasions Nicky had seen Jordi with her dad, there had been no rules in evidence. Johnny was the archetype of doting dads. “Rules or not, Jordi seems to like Vernie.”

  “Oh, yeah. They’re buds. Vernie comes to stay with us from time to time, so Jordi doesn’t just see her at Lisa’s.”

  “You’re a lucky guy.”

  He shot her a look.

  “What? I meant finding a nanny you like. Don’t look at me like that. It was a perfectly innocuous remark.” Her gaze narrowed. “You’re superstitious.”

  “Let’s just say I don’t like to tempt fate. When it comes to luck, I’ve had more than my share.”

  “And you don’t want me to hex you.”

  He shrugged. “I suppose. Life’s too unpredictable.”

  She wanted to say, the kind of life he’d led was more unpredictable than most, what with traveling around the world constantly, and paparazzi going through your garbage on a regular basis, not to mention your love life being splashed across the pages of every tabloid on the planet. “It can be, can’t it?” she politely said instead, because he was taking her out to a real nice place for dinner and their heated kiss a short time ago was likely to lead to maybe another kiss or two later tonight. And she was currently feeling as though Jordi wasn’t the only princess in the crowd. Right now, she was empathizing with Cinderella big-time.

  Nineteen

  Dinner was everything it should be at a Michelin three-star restaurant that catered to presidents and rock stars and moguls. The chef was one of the famous super-chefs who had said a short time ago, “I have nothing more to prove. I no longer want to be bothered by restaurant guide books. I just want to please myself and my customers,” and he’d opened a restaurant without the glamorous trappings, but with the same perfectly executed meals. He knew Johnny personally, their rapport when he came over to their table was that of two men who moved in the same celebrity circles.

  For Nicky, the culture shock of such a sophisticated menu was mitigated by Vernie’s down-to-earth conversation and Jordi’s comments about icky foie gras that she was no way going to eat, and when could she have some of that chocolate cake she’d had last time they were here. For those who could afford it, the homey little bistro was just another neighborhood cafe, with the exception of the limos and bodyguards outside.

  Nicky had to admit, the people-watching practically gave her whiplash. There was a table of generals from some South American country, the glitter of their medals blinding, their consumption of champagne prodigious. A discreet corner table held an older married movie star of considerable fame and a young-enough-to-be-his-granddaughter ingénue playing kissy-face over their coffee and port. Get a room, Nicky was thinking. Then there was the table of Brits, most of whom had been in the news lately as diplomats trying to deal with the Iranians and their nuclear ambitions. Cable news was really a remarkable font of information. It seemed as though she knew them personally. The Parisians who had come to dine were quiet and refined, taking their time over each course, discussing wines with a nuanced expertise (she could hear the ones behind her) and in general trying to ignore the tourists.

  She ate too much, but how could one refuse such beautiful food? The fact that the menu didn’t have any prices made her a little nervous, but Jordi was ordering one of everything, and Johnny didn’t seem to mind, so she figured she could order a couple extra things, too. Like two desserts because it was impossible to narrow the list down to any less.

  Jordi forgot to stop Vernie from having a third martini, although Johnny and Nicky exchanged a look as she ordered it.

  He mouthed, no way, and grinned.

  Nicky smiled back and then kept her eyes on her dessert. She sure as hell wasn’t going to make any waves.

  They ate faster than most, thanks to Vernie, who didn’t brook leisurely meals, and after coffee and some excellent port, they returned to their limo, which was waiting outside. Johnny’s bodyguards had been dispensed with, now that his crisis with Lisa was over. Ensconced in the luxurious backseat, Nicky listened as Jordi, seated on her father’s lap, pointed out all the monuments of note on their return to the hotel.

  The only monument from her childhood in Black Duck was the twenty-foot-long fiberglass Muskie wearing a saddle at the Conoco station. Not that it wasn’t impressive to anyone under the age of twelve. She must have ridden it a million times. It just didn’t ring with the same cultural resonance as the Eiffel Tower or the Arc de Triomphe or Cleopatra’s Needle, which had been stolen from Egypt by Napoleon. (Jordi even knew that. Such were the hands-on history lessons of children of wealth.)

  As Nicky was musing about the vast gulf that separated her childhood from Jordi’s, and not entirely sure whether she was envious or not, the car came to a stop in front of the hotel. No time for a therapist now. Not that they ever told you anything anyway. They just took your money and nodded their heads at appropriate times. And she knew of what she spoke, since she’d paid for four sessions—with borrowed money from her sister—in the aftermath of Theo’s flight.

  Johnny leaned over and murmured, “Let me get these two to sleep”—he nodded at Vernie, who was dozing across from them—“and we can go somewhere for a nightcap.”

  “Vernie said I can watch a movie before I go to sleep,” Jordi proclaimed, tugging on her father’s shirt collar.

  “Not a problem, baby.” Meeting Nicky’s gaze above his daughter’s head, he mouthed, Wait for me.

  She smiled and nodded. Maybe she should have played hard to get. Maybe if she’d not been utterly infatuated, she might have.

  He gave her a dazzling smile that warmed her clear down to her toes in their new, peony pink stilettos. And as he helped her out of the limo and escorted them through the hotel lobby, the phrase walking on air would have been an apt and fitting description for Nicky’s mood.

  They parted at the door to her room, everyone waving at everyone else, and she surreptitiously watched them through her half-closed door as they traveled the several yards farther to their suite at the end of the corrid
or.

  CAN YOU BELIEVE IT????? a little voice inside her head was screaming.

  JOHNNY PATRICK—THE ONE AND ONLY SEXIEST MAN ALIVE!!!

  COMING TO SEE ME!!!!!

  As the trio disappeared from sight, she shut her door, leaned back against it, and trembled. Which would never do.

  She had to remain calm, or she’d embarrass herself completely.

  “He’s just another man, for God’s sake,” she told herself, speaking out loud and slowly in an effort to compose herself.

  ARE YOU KIDDING? that little voice hysterically exclaimed.

  He’s just another man, like the Pope is just another German, or Lincoln was just another lawyer, or Bill Clinton was just another devotee of Krispy Kremes, or—you get the picture.

  And what was really freaking her out, besides Johnny’s celebrity, was the fact that she’d forgotten to buy some really sexy lingerie. She’d been in such a rush to find a dress and shoes and get back to the hotel in time that she’d totally forgotten she only had unbelievably plain cotton underwear! Fuck.

  Maybe she could pretend she never wore underwear.

  Maybe she’d just go without.

  Ee-eew. If they went for a nightcap like he’d said, she’d probably end up getting all hot and bothered, and she’d leave a stain on the back of her skirt. That would be fucking embarrassing. She’d have to walk out of the bar backwards. Even in a nice hotel like this, she didn’t suppose the concierge could find her some sexy silk undies at this time of night. Such a request might be outside the realm of their duties.

  So she’d apologize for her cotton underwear, or maybe she’d act like a mature adult and say nothing at all.

  In the end, she decided to do nothing. It was just easier.

  Let him figure it out for himself.

  And knowing his record with women, he’d probably seen it all, from thongs to chastity belts. There actually had been that story that everyone had denied about him and that nun in Italy. Even the Vatican had weighed in.

  Now, that was notoriety.