Amanda's Guide to Love

by Alix Nichols

  He smiled and nodded. “There’s a lot of technical stuff to learn and habits to acquire. But essentially, it’s very much like playing blackjack.”

  “How so?”

  “You need to estimate your odds, have iron discipline, keep a cool head, and make split-second decisions.” He raked his hand through her hair. “I’ve been trading as a hobby for over a month now, and I’m rather good at it.”

  She couldn’t believe her ears. “Are you saying you’ll stop gambling?”

  “I’ll reduce it gradually while I expand my trading portfolio, and then I’ll make my new hobby my main occupation.”

  She trailed her fingertips over his cheekbones and mouth as if to eliminate any lingering doubt that he wasn’t a mirage.

  “Yes,” she said quietly.

  “Sorry?”

  “Yes. My answer is yes, I’ll marry you.”

  He blinked and narrowed his eyes. “You really mean it? You’ll marry me despite all our differences?”

  She shrugged. “I’ve been reformed, too. I now believe that when you feel so deeply about someone, it’s more important than . . . the other stuff.”

  He grinned.

  She gave him a sly smile. “I also believe that accepting all that other stuff is a small price to pay for having you.”

  “Kamotoute,” he said, looking the most solemn she’d ever seen him.

  She’d heard him say it once before. “What does that mean?”

  “I love you.”

  She put her arms around his neck. Could it be hazardous to feel so happy?

  He kissed her forehead. “I’ll never stop.”

  Good. Because I’m a handful.

  He kissed her eyes. “No matter what happens, no matter what you say or do, I’ll just keep on loving you. Until the end of time.”

  <<<<>>>>

  bit.ly/alix-freebook

  Excerpt from “What If It’s Love?”

  (Bistro La Bohème Book 1)

  When the hottest man in Paris - Rob Dumont - shows interest in geeky, introverted heiress Lena Malakhova, she suspects something fishy.

  And so she should.

  ~~~

  The man, who spoke mostly Russian, had remained glued to his cell phone throughout his meal. When he finished, he collected his change and placed a ten euro bill on the table.

  “Merci, monsieur! It’s a very generous tip!” Rob grinned.

  The service being included by default in all checks in Paris, the locals tipped scantily if at all. With the recession, even the tourists were beginning to heed the advice of guidebooks and do like the French.

  “No trouble.” The man stood to leave, then turned to Rob, and said in unexpectedly decent French, “Listen, would you like to make some extra cash?”

  Has God finally heard my prayers? Rob tried to subdue his enthusiasm. “Depends . . . What’s the gig?”

  “Nothing difficult. There’s this rich kid—”

  Rob shook his head. “Sorry, monsieur, but I don’t think I’m interested in hearing the rest of it.”

  On second thought, maybe he should hear it—and alert the police.

  The man tut-tutted. “Didn’t your mother teach you not to interrupt people when they speak? Let me start again. There’s this Russian kid—she lives in this very building. Her father is my main competitor in business. I just want you to make friends with her, be around her as much as you can, and keep me informed of anything that may be of interest.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like when during his phone calls or visits they discuss something related to his business. Or his travel plans. Or any kind of plans.”

  Rob furrowed his brow. “How often does he call her? And where is he?”

  “In Moscow. He calls her every day, and from what I’ve seen, they talk for at least thirty minutes. She’s his only child, so my guess is he’s grooming her to join the business.”

  “What business?”

  “IT services.” The man arched an eyebrow as if to say, What did you expect?

  Rob glanced around the room. Things were slow this afternoon, and the other waiters had the situation under control. But he had to get back to work.

  The man shrugged. “Basically, I’m asking you to do corporate espionage of sorts.”

  “But won’t this kid be speaking Russian with her father?” Rob’s asked. The gig didn’t seem to be anything horrible like kidnapping, but it still didn’t sound quite legitimate.

  The man smiled. “And you can understand it, can’t you? I noticed how you smirked at some of my, shall we say, colorful expressions when I was on the phone. Are you part Russian or did you learn it at school?”

  Rob sighed. There went his attempt at polite refusal. He might as well admit to this observant captain of industry that he spoke Russian. “School and evening classes. I’m a business student, so foreign languages are a big asset.”

  “How admirable. Do we have a deal, then? I’ll pay you decently, so you can cut down your working hours and focus on your studies.”

  When the man told him the amount of the “commissions” for each piece of intel, Rob’s mouth fell open. Jesus. If he delivered a dozen reports over the next few months, he’d be able to pay the school fees in full before the end of August.

  And get his MBA.

  “Let me get this straight,” he said. “You want me to spy on some chick in relation to her father’s activity, right? Just pass on whatever I overhear from her in this regard, and no funny business. I need to be sure of it.”

  “That’s right. I’m not a mobster, you know. Do I look like one to you? Where do you think I learned my French? I’m an educated man and a respected businessman.”

  Rob raised his eyebrows, signaling he needed to hear more.

  The man curled his lip. “It just so happens that Anton Malakhov—that’s the girl’s father—has been seriously hurting my business lately. He’s determined to grow even bigger. And he plays dirty: dumping prices, stealing clients, and so on. I’ll go bust if I don’t get my act together. And this includes taking some . . . unorthodox measures.”

  “Including a little foul play of your own,” Rob said.

  The man nodded and held out a business card. “My name is Boris Shevtsov. Please go ahead and look me and my company up.”

  Rob took the card. “Will do. I still have a couple of questions though. First, why don’t you have someone spy on the girl’s father directly? Why this roundabout approach?”

  Boris sighed. “Anton Malakhov is spy proof. He’s extremely discrete and not given to excesses of any kind. No wife or known girlfriend. Very few friends. A practically nonexistent social life.”

  “Have you tried through work? A mole intern is a textbook tactic.” Rob tried to hide his sarcasm.

  The man raised an eyebrow. “I’m familiar with it, thank you. And yes, I’ve tried it. But his people do advanced background checks on every recruit, including interns. So I figured spying on his daughter was as close as I could get to spying on him.”

  “What happens if the girl has no inclination to be friends with me? How long would you want me to keep trying?” Used to girls seeking his attention, Rob wasn’t sure how good he would be at making the first steps. Natural-looking first steps.

  Boris smirked. “Trust me, you won’t have to try for very long. I’ve watched her from afar for a week now. She’s always by herself. Doesn’t seem to have any friends in Paris.”

  “How come?”

  “She’s new here. She’s shy. And here comes a handsome educated boy like you offering friendship? Oh, I think she’ll be interested.”

  “Give me a day to think about it.”

  Boris nodded and pushed a photo in front of Rob. “Her name is Lena.”

  Rob looked at the picture, then at Boris. “That’s her? I’ve seen this girl down here a couple of times, with her books and laptop.” He paused before adding, “Are you sure it’s her?”

  “Of course I am.”

  Rob shrugge
d. “She just doesn’t look like a Russian minigarch to me. Where are the oversized sunglasses, tons of makeup, extravagant shoes, and the flashy Louis Vuitton handbag? She looks like the girl next door.”

  “Must be her Swiss boarding school education. Then again, Anton Malakhov isn’t your stereotypical Russian oligarch either.”

  * * *

  Stepping out of the cheese shop, Lena eyed the stately—albeit a little worn—limestone building on the other side of rue Cadet.

  My new home.

  Her gaze lingered on the café, Bistro La Bohème, that occupied part of the ground floor. It had all the requisite attributes of a Paris café: red awnings, wicker chairs, and tiny round tables overflowing onto the sidewalk. Over the past week, the bistro had become her stomping ground.

  She crossed the street, keyed in the code and pushed the green gate that creaked open onto a cobbled courtyard. Across the way, she had to enter a second code to gain access to a glass door before she stepped into the foyer. The building smelled of old floorboards and something much less enchanting.

  Trash.

  What a change after her sterile student residence in Geneva!

  A few minutes later, Lena and her grocery bags were safely inside her apartment. She went straight to the bedroom and collapsed on the bed, tired after her long walk and grocery shopping. But it was “good tired.” She liked the 9th arrondissement, or le neuvième, for its diversity. Quintessentially French, le neuvième was also Jewish, Armenian, Greek, and Arabic. Its arched passages cutting through handsome buildings were lined with antique shops and secondhand bookstores. Its streets ran in wayward directions, forming a web rather than a grid. She would do something celebratory, she resolved, the day she managed to find her way around the 9th without a map.

  Originally, Lena was supposed to move into a high-end apartment complex in the posh 16th arrondissement. But having spent the past seven years of her life in Switzerland, she refused to live in a place that would remind her of its eerie neatness.

  Not that she’d been unhappy in Switzerland. She’d had absolutely no reason to be. She was the pampered heiress to an oligarch. Like many minigarchs, she’d been sent to one of the best European boarding schools at the age of sixteen. When she decided to continue her education at the University of Geneva, she got her father’s full support. She’d been happy in Switzerland, Lena repeated to herself, even as her mind flashed an image of her last picnic with Gerhard. The one that put an end to their relationship.

  “I’m moving to Paris,” she had announced as soon as they sat on the campus lawn, with their croissants and paper coffee cups.

  “Oh,” Gerhard had said.

  As she waited for him to say something more, she began to feel the dampness of the grass through her jeans. She shifted to sit on her heels. An early morning picnic in April, without a blanket to buffer the dew, had been a dumb idea.

  As the silence stretched, and the dark sky threatened to burst out sobbing any minute, Lena wished they’d picked a spot by the wall.

  So that she could bang her head against it.

  “Why now? It’s only a couple of months until our graduation,” Gerhard said at length.

  “I want to write my thesis there.”

  “Isn’t it easier to write it on campus?”

  “It is. But I’d rather do it in Paris.”

  Come on, get mad. At least annoyed. Anything.

  He shrugged. “OK, then.”

  Her throat hurt. It was amazing she could still breathe given the size of the lump that had formed there. She’d been stupid to think she could provoke him into an emotional outburst. This was Gerhard—a paragon of self-control.

  “After I get the degree,” she said. “I’ll probably go back to Moscow. Or maybe stay in Paris for a year. I haven’t decided yet.”

  He stared at her.

  Ask me to stay. Please. Just ask.

  “I don’t like Paris,” he said. “It’s noisy and dirty. And polluted.”

  She gave him a long unblinking stare, and then shifted her gaze to the vast lawn. So much for her brilliant idea to shake him up a little.

  This is it—the end.

  “I’ll visit you,” he said with the enthusiasm of a child in front of boiled broccoli.

  “No you won’t,” she said with a sad smile.

  He didn’t argue.

  Over the next week, she packed up, found a place in Paris, and left.

  And now look at her! How could she feel so content only two weeks after breaking up with her boyfriend of two years? Must be this city, operating its magic. Even the embryonic state of her thesis couldn’t bring her down.

  Lena looked forward to her dad’s usual seven o’clock call so that she could share her high spirits with him.

  When he called, she had just arrived in the downstairs bistro.

  “So, how was your eighth day in Paris?” Anton asked.

  “Fantastic. But then again, how could it be otherwise?”

  “I wouldn’t be so smug if I were you. Haven’t you heard about these poor Japanese tourists?” he asked.

  “I thought they were rather rich.”

  “Poor as in unfortunate. They arrive in Paris with such an idealized image that they can’t handle its dirty streets, rude waiters, and aggressive pigeons. There’s a special agency now that repatriates them to Japan before they completely lose it and jump from the top of Notre Dame.”

  Lena laughed. “I may have arrived here from Switzerland, but let’s not forget I’m a Muscovite. I’m sure I can handle dirty streets and rude waiters. As for the pigeons, I already have an arrangement with the ones on my street.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “I share my croissant with them, and in exchange they protect me from other pigeons. You have nothing to worry about.”

  “Yeah, I wish the pigeons were my only worry, Lena.” Anton’s tone had grown too serious for Lena’s liking. “You’re all alone in Paris, with no one to go to if you need help.”

  Oh please, not again. Next, he’d bring up her heart condition and how she couldn’t be too careful. He made a huge deal out of her arrhythmia. Even when her cardiologist didn’t. All the good doctor had asked her to do was avoid strenuous effort and saunas.

  Anton took an audible breath. “In Geneva, you had Marta and Ivan. They’re like family. They know what to do, should you . . . feel unwell.”

  “Dad, I too know what to do, should I feel unwell.”

  “Of course, you do. But it’s not just that. Marta and Ivan had you over for dinner every week, you enjoyed playing with their kids, they took care of you when you had the flu.”

  All of it was true, and she didn’t know how to argue with that.

  “I don’t have anyone in Paris whom I could ask to watch over you like that,” he said.

  “I don’t need—” she started.

  “I’m going to hire someone, Lena. Besides everything else, I’m worried about your safety. There are people who may want to harm me and . . .”

  Anton didn’t finish the sentence, but Lena knew it was about his haunting fear that someone might kidnap her for ransom. Or worse—hurt her as a way of hurting him. She didn’t want to make light of his fears. But she also knew that if she didn’t nip this idea in the bud, she would find herself encumbered with a chaperon for the rest of her stay in Paris.

  “Dad, I wasn’t yet seventeen when you sent me off to Switzerland,” she said patiently. “I’m twenty-three now and I’m capable of taking care of myself.”

  “Hmm.”

  Lena chose to ignore that. “Besides, nobody knows I’m in Paris. To anyone outside our closest circle I’m still in Geneva.”

  Anton didn’t argue with that, which was a good sign. Lena continued with as much conviction as she could muster. “I’m perfectly safe here, don’t you see? I’m a Miss Nobody. And if I ever get lonely, I can just jump on the train and go to Marta and Ivan’s.”

  Thankfully, her mention of the family friends reminded Ant
on to give Lena their regards, after which he told her about her grandparents’ Black Sea vacation. The conversation ended on an upbeat note, and Lena hung up relieved.

  “Ready to order, mademoiselle?”

  She looked up. The waiter standing by her table was in his midtwenties and very good-looking. Scratch that, he was jaw-droppingly handsome in that dark, intense and yet wholesome way the ancient gods could be. And it wasn’t just his face. He was tall—well, French-tall, not Dutch-tall—lean, and broad shouldered. He was wearing the same café uniform all other waiters wore: a stark white shirt, black pants, and a long black apron tied around his hips. Lena mentally whistled at how it emphasized the exquisite narrowness of said hips.

  She ordered her dish and a bottle of mineral water.

  “No wine? Are you expecting someone later or will you be dining by yourself?” the black-aproned Adonis asked.

  “It’s none of your business, monsieur,” she said curtly.

  His question made her regret she didn’t have company tonight. It made her want to tell him she was waiting for her boyfriend—no, her two boyfriends. She itched to wipe that grin off his face and tell him to find another victim for his snobbery.

  She composed herself, straightened her back, and said, looking past him, “Would you kindly relay my order to the chef and then tend to your other customers?”

  “So much impertinence in one so young.” He shook his head admonishingly. “I’ll be back with the water as soon as I possibly can. We’re very busy today, you see.” He smiled.

  Was he provoking her? She decided she didn’t care, gave him a cursory nod, and pulled out her iPad. She had a more important matter to consider than the shoulder-to-hip ratio of male servers.

  She had to figure out what to write to her mom.

  End of Excerpt

  Order “What If It’s Love?” now!

  About the Author

  Alix Nichols is a caffeine addict and a longtime fan of Mr. Darcy, especially in his Colin Firth incarnation. She is the author of the bestselling Bistro La Bohème series. At the age of six, she released her first romantic comedy. It featured highly creative spelling on a half dozen pages stitched together and bound in velvet paper.