Oui: A BWWM Romance (The French Connection Book 1)

by Brooklyn Knight

  My body shuddered with pent up emotion.

  Worry wrinkled his brow. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “Maybe I overstepped some boundaries. We can go back to Paris if you’d rather stay in the city.”

  “No, it’s not that,” I assured him, waving my hands in front of my eyes. “I just I never imagined you would do something like this. I’m overwhelmed. I don’t know what to say.” I cried and laughed at the same time.

  He smiled, his shoulders relaxed. “I’d do anything for you, Laila,” he whispered gazing into my face. He paused then, his eyes softening. “I love you. I’m in love with you.”

  I gasped, trying to rescue some of the breath escaping my lungs.

  He kissed my forehead just as the sleek, silver train pulled up.

  “Let’s go,” he urged.

  We hustled our way through the masses of people. It was smelly and crowded. Dylan pointed ahead to two vacant seats and pulled me along until we’d reached them. I sat next to the window and peered out as the train doors closed and pulled away from the busy terminal.

  It would take just under three hours to arrive in Roussillon. Before long, my eyes grew heavy and I leaned my head against Dylan’s firm chest, feeling my eyes close. “I will never forget this,” I said. I looked up into his face. “I will never forget you.”

  Dylan’s eyes crinkled in the corners and he kissed me softly. “I don’t intend to let you forget either,” he said.

  DYLAN NUDGED ME. “SWEETHEART, wake up. We’ve arrived.”

  I popped up, running my hands over my hair and peered outside of the window. We’d arrived in the connecting train station and a fuzzy feeling showered over me. Dylan and I stepped out of the train station and into the early afternoon sun. I took in my surrounding, which were both familiar and foreign at the same time. A perfect blend of pastel and earth tones buildings, characteristic of the Roussillon architecture, surrounded us and lush vegetation accented the scene.

  “What now?” Dylan asked. His eyes twinkled.

  “Since we’re here, how about we visit family? My aunt lives a few miles out. We can catch a taxi and surprise them. I mean... if you want to...”

  “Of course I want to. It would be a privilege,” he agreed squeezing my hand in his, “but scratch the taxi.” Dylan pointed over to a motorcycle rental company and grinned. “Let’s take one of those.”

  I threw my head back with laughter. “And who will be operating the vehicle?” I asked putting my hands on my hips.

  “We’ll each have our own,” he suggested.

  I shook my head. “You’re not ready for me, Dylan.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me,” I said digging my finger against his chest. “You would never be able to keep up with me. Maybe you should let me tow you. I wouldn’t want your ego to be bruised, or anything else for that matter.”

  Dylan laughed and stepped close to my face. “Don’t be fooled by the Maybach,” he advised. “I’ll have you know that I once owned a Yamaha Roadstar.”

  “Ooohhh,” I teased him waving both hands in his face. “That’s impressive, but I’ll still whoop your butt.”

  “It’s on!”

  Soon, we were standing in front of a selection of Vespas.

  Dylan rubbed the back of his neck, both his eyebrows raised. “It’s not a Roadstar,” he mumbled, and then he handed over his black credit card. “But I’ll still beat you.”

  We hopped onto matching apple-red Vespas and turned the throttle, taking off down the twisting, winding roads. The wind whipped through my hair as I sped past Dylan, sticking my tongue out at him. He grinned, and I heard the engine of his bike move into a higher gear. In a minute he was next to me.

  “You’d better not pass me. You have no idea where we’re going,” I shouted to him in French.

  “No excuses,” he shouted back across the road. “You’re not going to win this race, baby. You would never let me live it down.”

  We laughed.

  “There’s a fork in the road two miles ahead,” I shouted. “Last one there is a rotten egg!”

  I twisted the throttle and whittled past him. He laughed and did the same. We were neck in neck. Dylan dipped his head to duck the breeze and stuck both his legs out on either side of the bike swerving it wildly. I laughed so hard, my hand slackened on the throttle. He overtook a car and hurtled past me.

  I passed the car and the driver honked the horn at us.

  “Crazy tourists!” the driver shouted out the window, waving her fist.

  We ignored her and sped past the hilly landscape and past the classic red, Roussillon architecture. Quaint homes and markets crested in the distance and soon the fork appeared. A barrage of homes and buildings in an array pastel and earth colors surrounded us. I twisted my hand on the throttle, trying to catch up to Dylan, but now, he was too far ahead. His hair flew back as he overtook another angry commuter and he turned to look at me, jeering and taunting, before focusing on the road and speeding towards the goal. I gained on him, trying to overtake the car ahead of me, but the driver increased his speed, forcing me to slow down.

  Dylan reached the stop sign seconds before I could. His Vespa screeched to a halt and I pulled up next to him.

  “So unfair!” I laughed.

  “Here come the excuses,” he said, rolling his eyes.

  “Dylan, there was no way I could overtake that car.”

  Just as I said it, the car with the female driver passed us, but not before releasing a slew of expletives.

  “I let you win,” I said focusing on Dylan.

  He wrinkled his nose.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said looking around. “Something smells funny.”

  I sniffed into the air. The only thing I could smell was the fragrance of the hydrangea in the surrounding area. “I don’t smell anything,” I said full of attitude.

  “I do,” he said and then he grinned with that sexy half-smile. “It smells like rotten eggs.” He leaned back and released a laugh from his belly, leaving me with no choice but to join in.

  We parked our bikes and meandered through the market, buying artifacts and local delicacies. Dylan stopped at a table holding handmade jewelry and pulled me close to him. Colorful trinkets and stones were spread across the small table. Necklaces and earrings, made from silver, copper, and topaz.

  “These are beautiful,” I said, fingering a necklace.

  “I know,” he agreed. He looked at the merchant.

  “How much, monsieur?”

  “Not expensive, sir. For this, twenty-five American dollars.” The merchant picked up a silver ruby ring.

  Dylan narrowed his eyes. “Twenty-five dollars...” he rubbed his chin. “This ruby isn’t real, is it?”

  The old merchant shook his head. “No, monsieur, the real rubies, I have at home. I am one of the finest jewelers in the south of France. My name is Maxime Durand.”

  “Maxime Durand...” I gasped, touching my neck. “Oh my god, I’ve heard about you. In fact, my father gave my mother one of your pieces when they got married. That was more than twenty-five years ago. It was a beautiful ruby ring set in platinum.”

  Dylan looked at me. “Where is it?”

  I shrugged, my eyes stung. “When Papa died, it was one of the few tangible things he left me, but it was stolen from my apartment one day while I was at class. I was devastated. It was a long time ago so...” I inhaled, pulling my shoulders up to my ears. I looked at the merchant. “Your work is exquisite, Monsieur Durand. But why are you in this market? Surely you don’t need to vend your products here.”

  “Ah, no, I’m getting old, mademoiselle,” he explained. “I am old and I have retired, so I do this as a way to connect with real people.”

  “Real people?” Dylan repeated.

  “Yes, you know the regular people.”

  “Yes, compared to the rich stuffy folk.” I nudged Dylan and he smirked.

  Durand released a hearty laugh. “P
recisely, mademoiselle. Besides, not everyone can afford a classic Maxime Durand, so I make these. These are, how do you say... knock offs.” He held up a piece, which slinked through his wrinkled fingers.

  My heart wrenched as I thought about my father and my mother.

  Dylan looked at me and then at Durand. “Well, I’m sold,” he said cracking into the emotional moment. “I’ll take the ruby.” He dug into his back pocket and pulled out cash. “I think my lady likes that one.”

  “Dylan, you really don’t have to – ”

  “Your lady is very beautiful,” Durand said with a smile, lowering his eyes. “A beautiful ruby for a beautiful lady. Perhaps one day you come back and give her a custom Maxime Durand, like what her mother had.” He winked at Dylan and passed him the ring and a business card, and Dylan slipped him a one-hundred-dollar bill.

  By the time we arrived at my aunt’s address it was well after five o’clock. We drove down a narrow lane and parked the Vespas in front of a muted-red, stone house. Cyprus trees in full bloom spilled over the sides and front of the cottage. I hopped off the Vespa and my feet crunched along the rubble driveway as I approached the door, with Dylan next to me.

  I lifted my fist and knocked on the door, trying to ignore the nerves building in my stomach. A bird rustled in a bush as it flapped its wings and took off into the dimming sky, and I jumped

  No one answered.

  Dylan rested his hand on the small of my back.

  I knocked again and stepped away from the door. Still, no answer. The smile on my face dimmed a little and I turned to face Dylan. “Maybe we should have called first,” I said with a chuckle.

  He pulled me into a hug and pressed his mouth on the top of my head. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to visit your family,” he said. “I bet if you’d been a better rider we’d have gotten here on time.”

  I laughed, overcome by an intense mix of emotion. “I have a feeling you’re not going to let me live this down.”

  He smiled and ran his hand over my hair.

  My mouth bunched, and my eyes fell away from his. “We should head back,” I suggested running my hand down his chest. “We have a long train ride ahead of us. It’ll be night by the time we get to Paris.”

  “You’re probably right,” he agreed.

  The train ride back the city was just as quiet as the train ride to Roussillon. I assumed my position in the seat next to the window and rested my head against Dylan’s firm chest. He stroked my hair tenderly, staring into the distance, deep in thought.

  “I want to give you that ring,” he whispered.

  I paused and shifted to look into his face. “Why?”

  “For a lot of reasons,” he said. “For your father and your mother. For us, as a reminder of this special day we’ve spent together.”

  I smiled and Dylan took my hand, slipping the ring over a finger on the right hand.

  “Today was very special,” I agreed. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Now, it’s back to business, right? Are you ready?”

  I leaned my head against his chest and closed my eyes as we sped away from Roussillon. “I’m always ready.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Ryder

  ‘Proof’

  I sat in the conference room with Katelyn and a few other members of the research team staring up a seventy-inch monitor, looking at the CEO, Carter, and Laila, who were in France. The sight of them sitting across from each other made me want to spit nails. I was still waiting to get a word from Miller. Nine days had passed, and I figured that if he was as good as all the reviews claimed him to be, I’d have heard something by now, yet I’d heard nothing.

  I shifted in my seat as the CEO addressed us, looking down at papers on the table in front of him.

  “Thank you all, and especially those at home, for being present at this meeting.” He looked up. “As you know, we’re scheduled to make our very important presentation to some potential French clients and we have assigned Miss Renaud to facilitate that presentation. Mr. Hanson, you continue to be on the ground fining-tuning the research related to the proposal and expanding our local reach. Please tell us if there is anything new we should be considering as we prepare for our meeting tomorrow.”

  I pulled at my tie and opened the file I had grabbed off my desk, peering down at the notes, but my mouth fell open when I saw black and white photographs placed on top of the papers. I slammed the file closed and Katelyn caught my eye. She pursed her lips and cleared her throat but turned to look at the screen.

  “Hanson,” Mr. Hamilton barked my name and I jolted.

  “Yes, sir, ah...” I stuttered, trying to get my bearing. I shook my head. “I’m sorry sir, could you repeat the question?”

  Mr. Hamilton groaned, and I saw his jaw flex on the monitor. “Any updates?” he said.

  “Yes, of course.” I cleared my throat. “Per your request, Miss Renaud forwarded me her presentation and, based on some findings uncovered late last evening, we feel less emphasis needs to be placed on the five Ws and the H, and more on the actual product of e-insurance itself.”

  “Explain,” Hamilton demanded.

  “We’re making a case, sir, and we need to hit the ground running. The French clients have plans to meet with a Japanese company next month regarding a similar product. We don’t need to give them a history lesson. We need to demonstrate why Hamilton Associates is the only firm they should do business with. Miss Renaud’s presentation, while thorough, is weak.”

  Hamilton looked at Carter and then at Laila. The look in his eyes turned me green from the inside out. My fingers pressed against the file.

  Laila spoke. “Mr. Hanson.”

  “Laila...”

  She glared at me.

  The CEO’s eyes shifted toward her again.

  “While your points may be valid, it doesn’t mitigate the fact that these men need to understand the theoretical underpinnings of what we’re trying to sell them. I agree, we need to sell the product, but we also have a responsibility to ensure they understand what that product is.”

  “I’m not suggesting that a discussion of that nature isn’t important,” I countered, “however, we’re salesman. We’re not an ethics board trying to dot I’s and cross T’s. Our goal is to sell the product, to make the money.”

  “Is ethics your specialty, Mr. Hanson?” she asked, trying to take a jab at me.

  I grunted. “Is it yours?”

  Laila gasped, and the CEO stared at me through the screen.

  Carter’s voice sliced through the tension. “Hanson may have a point,” he said. He whispered something to Hamilton, who was still staring at me. The CEO’s head dropped, and he pinched the bridge of his nose, still listening to whatever Carter was saying.

  Katelyn caught my eye again and chuckled.

  My jaw flexed as I waited for a response from Mr. Hamilton.

  “Fine,” he barked. “Miss Renaud, I need you to adjust the presentation. I want us to focus on the What. Let’s axe everything else.”

  Laila’s eyes shivered. “Of course, sir.”

  He returned his focus to me. “Good work Hanson,” he said. “This was why I decided to keep you in Miami. You didn’t understand at the time, but I hope you can see how valuable and critical your contributions have been.”

  My throat grew dry.

  Mr. Hamilton inhaled. “Was there anything else? Any other adjustments you feel need to be considered?”

  “No, sir.”

  He nodded. “In that case, let’s adjourn and we’ll check back in tomorrow after the meeting. Of course, if anything else arises, let us know.”

  The connection broke and the screen went black.

  “Good work, Hanson,” Barry said slapping my back before he left the room. Everyone filed out and my eyes dropped to the file. I picked up it, my fingers assaulting its edges, and started to open it.

  “Didn’t I tell you?” Katelyn spun around in her chair to face me and I jumped in my seat. Sh
e seemed to tip her head to the file I had yet to reopen. “She’s climbing her way up the ladder, all right, and in just the way we thought she was.”

  My mouth trembled. “How did you know about these?”

  Her brows drew in. “I’m talking about the way they were looking at each other over there in Paris?” She said the word with a faux French accent. “Couldn’t you tell? I’m telling you, she’s screwing him. It was written all over her face.”

  “Oh, right,” I said quickly. I swiped my hands over my pants. “You might be right, but I need more evidence than that.”

  Katelyn smiled and got up from her seat. “I suppose...” she agreed reluctantly. “So listen. I’m heading out for lunch. Do you want to join me?” She pushed her hair behind her ear and sat on the edge of the table in front of me. My eyes fell to her lips and then to her ample breasts. Her short skirt inched up her leg.

  “That might not be a bad idea,” I said noticing the heat generating in my groin. “You head out and I’ll catch up with you. I need to look over this file first.”

  A grin spread across her face and she eased off the table, making sure to expose the length of her creamy thigh. “Okay,” she agreed. “Don’t make me wait too long. I’m super hungry.” Katelyn pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and slinked out the door.

  I looked at my lap, barely surprised to see my body’s automatic response to her seductive suggestion, and then I looked at the file on the table. I snatched in a breath of courage and flipped it open. The black and white pictures were still there. My hands trembled as I flipped through them. There were six in total, one of the CEO’s car parked outside of Hamilton Associates, with Laila standing on the sidewalk, and another one of them walking through the corridors of Hamilton Associates. Laila was ahead of Mr. Hamilton, but no one else was in sight.

  I flipped to the next picture. Laila was stepping into a limousine outside of Hamilton Associates and the CEO was holding the door open. The next picture was one of them in Paris. Laila and Mr. Hamilton were in a train station. There were also two more of them at a market, but there was nothing more.