Several miles away, a very ugly and modern high-rise building squatted at the corner of Rue Censier and Rue Geoffrey-Saint-Hilaire in the 5th arrondissement. The fact that it was surrounded by a row of trees on two sides did nothing to mitigate its ugliness, whatsoever. If anything, those trees and the more traditional looking buildings that surrounded it, made it look even uglier than it already was.
Fortunately, it looked a lot better inside – depending on where one’s tastes lay. It was a combination of futurism and Japanese minimalism – all white, straight lines with a minimum of color, interspersed here and there with potted plants to keep it from looking too sterile. Several massive, framed photographs, all in monochromatic black-and-white and sepia tones, graced the walls. These depicted pre-WWII European cityscapes in marked contrast to the ultra-modernist interior they inhabited.
In it were people: all professionally dressed, complete with bland, distracted, or smug expressions, as well as quite a few sleepy-looking ones who went about their business. All looked supremely confident in a calm and efficient manner. It wouldn’t last.
“The bird is flying south!” Marie yelled to everyone within earshot, still cradling her cellphone in her ear. “I repeat: the bird is flying south!”
People froze. Outside, two window washers dangled on their precarious bench and gawked as they beheld the spectacle before them. It was as if they were watching a movie set in some dystopian futuristic office somewhere in Tokyo and someone pressed the pause button. But that, too, wouldn’t last.
Pandemonium broke out as people passed the information on to the other offices and levels. They yelled into hallways, into stairwells, into offices, into toilets, and toilet stalls. They screeched into their phones or tapped away text messages when all they got was the answering service. Yet others picked up phones on their desks to bark the same warning.
And it wasn’t just the white collar workers who panicked. Security staff, food trolley pushers, janitors, and cafeteria personnel gasped and passed on the dreaded code. Even the bike couriers sat up straight and looked at each other with wide, fearful eyes.
“Aller! Aller! Aller!” hissed one at a secretary who was taking too damned long to sign the paperwork. “Go! Go! Go!” he translated in case the woman didn’t understand French for some reason; or perhaps in the desperate hope that she’d somehow respond better to English than to her native French.
“¡Apúrate!” was the Spanish-language version barked by an Argentinian immigrant to another secretary. In his panic he’d forgotten his French and had reverted back to his native tongue, “¡Apúrate, por favor!”
On the building’s highest floor and in the biggest office, Marie sat quietly as the storm surge exploded around her and burst forth throughout the building’s many floors. She had given the warning, so her job was done. She knew exactly what her boss wanted, how he wanted it, and when.
It’s why she and most everyone else came in early – to impress. In her case, she also made sure that everything in her boss’ office, in his reception room, in his personal toilet, and on the roof deck where he liked to unwind was exactly as he required it to be.
She had also called in the best pastry makers to ensure that their clients had the best of the best – only the finest to delight the eyes, nose, and tongue. Ditto with the meats and breads. As for the coffee, only the best, as well: Blue Mountain flown in from Jamaica. And despite the fact that it was only a little past eight in the morning – the finest wines, just in case.
So while everyone else was running around like chickens with their heads cut off, Marie calmly saw to it that the conference room was stocked in a way fit for royalty. She let Olivie, her assistant, take care of the front desk. If the bird needed to call, he’d call her cellphone directly like Guillaume did.
Not for her the crazed and panicked whirlwind that gripped the office every other week or month. All around her, everyone went hysterical as they double checked their work stations, sections, and whatever other sector of the building they worked in or were responsible for. Not for her the last minute checking of suits, ties, belts, shoelaces, and whatever other accoutrements everyone else wore to the office.
Because Marie had a secret. It kept her safe and ensured that she’d get to retire from this company when she wanted to. Equally important, it ensured that she was safe from the tempests of the man who signed her paychecks.
And so, of all the hundreds of people who worked in the modern building with an ugly exterior and an Architectural Digest-esque interior, Marie was the only one who didn’t dread that most dreaded of all codes: “L'oiseau vole au sud.” The bird is flying south.
*****
Amanda Sorensen couldn’t believe her luck – she was in Paris! Not her first time, since it was just across the Channel from her native London, of course. But this time, she was here to live. And most importantly, to work. Perhaps just as important, she was no longer in London.
To her surprise, she found herself breathing easier for the first time in months. It had nothing to do with the air, though Paris in August was a lot warmer than London. A lot less muggy, too. It was paradise, actually... well, except for all the tourists. But she was used to that.
No, she was able to breathe a lot easier because crossing the Channel had lifted the cloud that had hung over her since August of last year. It was a wonder they even hired her, given how unsmiling she’d been in her interview. Fortunately, it had been exactly the right thing to do. The interviewer had been French, after all, which explained everything.
Amanda had to remind herself of that as she walked across the Pont de Sully Bridge over the Seine River – don’t walk about smiling like an American tourist. It annoys the French and makes them uncomfortable, at best, or makes them tempted to take advantage of you, at worst.
Her job didn’t actually start for another thirty minutes, but she wanted to take in as much of the city as she could while it still looked fresh for her. It was important to do so before work and the habit of living here made her immune to its charms.
Nor did she want to rush. Bad form to turn up at the office frazzled, sweaty, and disheveled. Best to give herself a lot of leeway and make an early start. She was lucky to live relatively close to her new job, close enough to walk to, that is, given the cost of real estate in central Paris. And a good thing, too.
Because it was tourist season. Despite it being so early in the morning, the streets were already crammed with gawkers from all over the world – stopping, staring, pointing, snapping pictures, walking in packs thick enough to clog up the sidewalks, and generally just being a nuisance.
Stop it! she snapped at the evil twin sister who lived in her head. It’s over, you’re in Paris, and you have a great job, so stop being such a bitch, already!
But not here – here being the Pont de Sully. She had just left the Île Saint-Louis (an islet between Paris’ Left and Right Banks) on her way to the Left Bank. For some strange reason, there were hardly any tourists here, at all. They were all gawking at the other sites, no doubt, giving the local residents a breath of fresh air and much needed elbow room.
“Please!” said a high-pitched male voice in thickly accented English. “Can you take picture?”
Amanda yelped in surprise and nearly fell over backward. Where the devil did he come from!? Her good mood vanished. She was about to tell him to go to hell, to get the heck out of her way, to stop waving the damned camera at her face, and to go back to wherever the bejeezus he came from. Then she kicked herself for that last thought and hated herself instantly.
If the man picked up on any of these thoughts, he gave no sign of it, whatsoever. He was instead grinning from ear to ear and looked so boyishly out of his mind with joy, that Amanda hated herself even more. Beside him, leaning against the bridge’s iron balustrade, was a gorgeous, petite Asian woman beaming and bowing at her with equal delight.
Amanda looked at the woman a little wistfully, but the couple’s joy was so pure, it infected her. Sh
e vowed to really hate herself again later with a vengeance. In fact, she’d even punish herself by maybe running an extra hour after work. And by not stepping into that pastry shop on her way home. There! That should do it!
Satisfied by her avowed penance, the mask she’d worn since stepping out of her apartment melted and she grinned. “I’d love to!”
Amanda had taken up photography back in grade school and had even received a few awards for some of her work. Hoping to make up for her uncharitable thoughts, she decided that the best thing would be to include important landmarks in the background so that the couple could show off to friends and family back home – wherever that was.
Standing on the Pont de Sully as they were, the location was perfect. The Notre Dame Cathedral loomed in the background further down the Seine. Between the cathedral and where they stood were the old buildings that lined the Right Bank along the Quai de Béthune. It was absolutely perfect!
Except for the angle, that is. The couple turned around to gaze at the cathedral then looked back at Amanda, grinning even more as they bobbed their heads excitedly and babbled in their language. The man gave her a thumbs up, delighted that Amanda understood exactly what they wanted: the perfect backdrop.
But the angle was wrong. Amanda walked up and down the bridge, hoping to get the perfect shot while the couple obligingly posed – but nope. She got the couple dab smack in the center of her sights, but sacrificed the view of the Notre Dame in the background. There was only one possible solution.
She had to cross the street. Not sure how much English they understood, she gestured for them to stay put then pointed to the other side of the road as she mimicked taking their picture. The couple understood and each gave her a thumbs up.
“Careful, hah?!” the Asian woman pleaded as she looked at the oncoming traffic, waving both hands at Amanda. “Please. Careful, hah? Ok?”
“I will,” Amanda said with a grin. Her good mood was back as she stepped onto the road and began weaving her way through the light traffic coming in both directions.
*****
Arnaud du Lac sighed as he sat in the backseat of his limo. Paris’ beautiful (if somewhat grimy) facades were lost on him as he gritted his teeth in impatience. He would have left his house a lot earlier, were it not for another one of Sophie’s temper tantrums over breakfast.
Scratch that. Not temper tantrum. It was her usual frosty tantrum made up more of silence than words. But a silence that cut and hurt, hitting their mark each and every time. And now he was late.
For anyone else, it wouldn’t have mattered. He was a du Lac, after all, non? And though he was now the citizen of a republic, his family name was still recorded in the Conseil du Sceau des Titres. Translated as the Seal of the Titles Council, this is the government organization that officially recognizes the noble status of all French nobility. This despite the fact that it also officially denies them all the rights and privileges that their ancestors once enjoyed as their birthright.
To make matters worse, Arnaud was to meet with an important group of American clients for whom things like an aristocratic heritage meant less than nothing. Doubly worse, he needed this deal. If it didn’t go through, he didn’t know where he’d come up with the... his phone rang,
“Oui?”
“Monsieur du Lac?”
“Yes, Marie,” he sighed again, knowing exactly why she was calling but hoping against hope that it was about something else. “Please tell me the Americans aren’t there yet.”
“They’ve just arrived, monsieur. Please tell me you’re close...”
“Aargh!”
“Ah. I see. Well, I’ve laid out the food and drinks, so that should buy you more time, monsieur. Especially since they seem more interested in looking at the pastries instead of eating them... well, except for one who looks like a beach ball with legs.”
Arnaud pressed the button which lowered the window separating him from his chauffeur. “Guillaume! Can’t you drive any faster!?”
“Of course, monsieur,” the driver replied. “Unfortunately, we’re stuck in...”
“There!” Arnaud pointed. “The light’s turned green! I’ll pay whatever traffic ticket they give us. And for the lawyer to bail you out, just in case. Just floor the damned thing, already!”
“Marie? We’re just fifteen minutes away... shut up, Guillaume and drive! Tell those Yanks I’ll be there in fifteen minutes, do you hear me? Fifteen!”
“Oui, monsieur,” Marie replied. “In fifteen minutes. See you then.”
*****
Meeting her assistant’s gaze, Marie said, “The bird is definitely heading south. But he’ll be on his best behavior while the Americans are here, so that should buy us time.”
The mousy, blond assistant gulped. “And if he’s more than fifteen minutes late, madame?” Her gaze shifted nervously between the older woman and the door to the conference room where the Americans were waiting.
“Then a lot of people had better start updating their resumes, Olivie,” Marie replied in her best deadpan expression. To herself, she added, including me, despite everything.
Aloud, Marie said, “So put on your best smile, undo those top buttons... you heard me! Good. Now we go back inside and do our best to keep those Americans happy till the bird arrives... whenever that’ll be. Oui?”
“Oui, madame,” Olivie mumbled dejectedly as she self-consciously started undoing the top buttons of her shirt. “I need this job, madame,” she said in a half sigh and a half sob, almost as if she were fighting back tears.
“Then undo more buttons and wipe that morose look off your face!”
“Oui, madame,” Olivie replied with more backbone as she followed Marie back into the conference room. For good measure, she even hoisted her skirt up higher to show more of her legs. As she did so, she regretted not wearing a shorter one. Perhaps it would even save her when the bird flew south today.
She doubted it, though.
*****
“Perfect!” Amanda gushed.
She’d just taken several picture perfect shots of the couple, complete with the Notre Dame and the Pont de la Tournelle Bridge in the background; but it wasn’t easy. Although she’d backed off far enough, the few cars whizzing between them forced her to time her shots carefully.
That matter taken care of, she made her way across the road to return the man’s camera, still basking in the couple’s utter delight. She was still doing that when she noticed the woman’s expression change.
It had turned to horror. But the woman wasn’t looking at Amanda. She was looking somewhere to Amanda’s right. Amanda looked and understood.
It was a black limo speeding down the Pont de Sully despite the speed limit. And it was coming right at her.
Instinct kicked in and Amanda jumped back onto the pedestrian lane. Tires screeched as the driver slammed the breaks.
Oh, good lord! Amanda’s mind shrieked as she closed her eyes. Something slammed into her upper stomach and chest, jerking her neck and head forward.
“Madame!” a man’s voice yelled... and continued yelling in a cacophony of French. Other tires screeched as cars slammed their brakes and a babble of voices speaking French surrounded her.
Small arms embraced her, followed by a hysterical slew of some Asian-sounding language in a woman’s voice. Amanda was still bent over. Despite the slight pain, she slowly opened her eyes and was surprised to see water beneath her.
She wasn’t bent over a car. She was bent over the bridge’s iron railing while the Asian woman hugged her, looking absolutely terrified.
“You ok? Hah?” the woman asked her shakily with tears in her eyes.
Amanda just nodded. Realizing she was unhurt, except for the part of her she’d slammed onto the railing, she didn’t trust herself to speak.
“Madame?” said a calm but concerned male voice that tingled up and down her spine with its deep vibrato.
A large hand touched her shoulder, forcing her to look up from the woman’s em
brace. She froze.
Blue. Eyes so blue they were like the Aegean on a clear day... so much so that Amanda felt like she was drowning. They were set in a middle-aged face that looked like it belonged on the cover of a GQ magazine. And it spoke out of thick lips over a strong jaw with a dimple in the middle. Unfortunately, she didn’t understand French.
“I’m s-s-sorry,” Amanda finally managed to croak. “I-I-I don’t understand French... b-b-but I’m learning!” she added a little defensively.
Another man broke in, dressed all in black (complete with a black cap), “Madame! Are you alright? I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you!”
“Guillaume,” said GQ Guy warningly.
The black-suited capped man backed off instantly, still looking absolutely devastated as he stared at Amanda.
Mr. GQ Model looked completely unruffled as he stood there on the street surveying the gathering onlookers. He might as well have been on a photoshoot. Slowly, he turned his gaze back to Amanda, causing her stomach to flutter. “Are you alright, madame?”
“Yes,” Amanda replied more steadily as she held onto the other woman. “I’m so sorry. It was all my fault for not looking where I was going. Dreadfully s-s-sorry for all the fuss.”
“Should we take you to the hôpita... eh, the hospital, madame?”
“No!” Amanda squeaked.
“Yes!” the Asian woman squealed.
“No!” Amanda gently pushed the woman away from her. “There’s really no need. I’m fine. I hope there was no damage.” She looked around, embarrassed by the crowd she’d attracted.
The supermodel heaved an obvious sigh of relief, suddenly looking human. Amanda couldn’t help admiring how well he filled his gray three-piece suit. Despite his fine threads, he obviously worked out and it showed. Well-groomed black hair, too.
“At least let me take you to where...”
“No!” Amanda interrupted, upset at the commotion she was causing. “I’m fine. Really!”
Stroked by my Dad's Best FriendA Billionaire Secret Baby Romance Page 10