Honeymoon in Paris

by Juliette Sobanet

  “Which, with Vincent, it always is,” Luc cut in.

  “Then I’m clear to leave after thirty days,” I finished.

  “Vincent can do a lot of damage in thirty days, Charlotte. I know a writing career sounds glamorous, but you can seek that out at another magazine. With Vincent, you simply have no idea what you’re dealing with.” A hardness settled in Luc’s jaw as he stared down at his plate, not touching his food any longer.

  “There’s more,” I said.

  Luc’s gaze lifted slowly to mine, almost as if he were forcing himself to stay calm.

  “After I accepted Vincent’s offer today, my first assignment was to do some translation work during Bella France’s first cover shoot. And of course, as luck would have it, Brigitte was the cover model.”

  “You’re telling me you spent the day translating for both Vincent and Brigitte?”

  “Yes. I didn’t do this to upset you, Luc. Honestly I—”

  Luc’s jaw tightened as he wiped any last traces of kindness from his eyes. “Charlotte, you have no idea what you’re dealing with here. Please, finish out your thirty days, then take your magazine writing dreams and your teaching and translating abilities elsewhere. I promise you, I have enough money to support both you and Adeline while you’re looking for work. D’accord?”

  I nodded slowly, then took a long sip of my champagne before asking Luc one last question. “Luc, you do know that this isn’t normal, right? To keep secrets from your wife, especially during the very first weeks of a marriage.”

  “In the weeks that come, the truths you are searching for will come to light,” Luc said firmly. “And in not telling you certain things right now, I’m only trying to protect you. Very soon, you will understand everything, I promise. And in the meantime, you must try the fondant au chocolat for dessert. Trust me, ma belle, it is simply divine.” Luc’s gaze finally softened as he flashed a devious grin my way.

  That French husband of mine wasn’t stupid—he knew that there were only two things in this world that would shut me up: sex and chocolate.

  Fifteen minutes later, my secret-keeping husband and I were devouring the most decadent dessert I’d ever tasted. A volcano of hot, melted dark chocolate poured out of a moist chocolate cake, each sinful bite that hit my tongue making me realize that if Luc wouldn’t give me the truth just yet, at least he could give me orgasmic chocolate.

  Later that night, after Luc had fallen asleep and my chocolate haze was beginning to wear off, I lay awake thinking about what Luc had said to me over dinner. That the truths I was searching for would come to light. That in keeping secrets from me, he was only trying to protect me. And that I needed to have faith in him… and just wait it out.

  While I believed Luc had only good intentions, I also wasn’t one to sit around and wait for the shit to hit the fan. And by the anger that boiled over in him every time I mentioned Vincent Boucher’s name, I could only assume that whatever was going on behind the scenes between Luc, Vincent, and Luc’s father, was big… and potentially dangerous.

  Now that I would be spending quite a bit of time in close proximity with Vincent, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to do a little investigation of my own. And maybe, whatever I found out would actually help Luc… and help me to be able to place all of my trust in him once again.

  In the meantime, since there was no way this confused head of mine was going to allow me to sleep, I fetched the Paris journal from my purse and crept out to the living room to write the introduction to the most life-altering chapter in my guidebook: “Le Fondant au Chocolat and What It Can Do for Your Marriage.”

  In a previous chapter, we’ve already discussed the point that hot sex doesn’t fix everything (yes, even if your husband is an incredibly sensual French lover). Well, tonight I discovered something that doesn’t fix everything per se, but it comes pretty damn close:

  Le fondant au chocolat.

  In case you’ve never tried this magnificent dessert, allow me to elaborate.

  First you have a moist, warm, gooey piece of chocolate cake (not American chocolate cake—I’m talking chocolate cake à la française, which automatically makes it a rich, chocolaty culinary masterpiece). Typically this magnificent cake is in a circular shape, but any shape will do.

  Now, for the best part: inside the best piece of cake you’ve ever tasted, you will find an explosion of melted dark chocolate. Not just a little bit, either—think molten lava in chocolate form overflowing from the center of the cake.

  This dessert is literally a volcano of chocolate, and it will sweep away all of your marriage troubles (guaranteed to work for at least one evening, and possibly more, depending on the severity of your marriage issues).

  The heavenly fondant au chocolat may very well be the key to surviving a rocky start to your marriage (French or otherwise).

  I recommend eating this decadent, sinful dessert with your husband anytime you want to spice up the pleasure level in your relationship, and especially if you are at odds with each other.

  The magic of le fondant au chocolat is that in just one little cake, you will find peace, romance, and orgasms without all the work. Happy indulging!

  TWENTY

  It had been almost one week since my dinner at Le Nord with Luc, and the high from the delectable fondant au chocolat dessert that we had drowned our troubles in had officially worn off. Nothing had “come to light” as Luc had promised me it would, and every night when he returned home from his long teaching days, he pretended that everything was fine, but I knew him better than that. I could see the stress lines around his eyes, the worry tracing his brow. One night, when I’d surprised him but putting on the sexiest piece of lingerie I owned from Chez Isabelle, he was too worn out to take me up on my offer—which was so not like Luc. And as much as I was truly beginning to worry about him, I was also tired of being left in the dark.

  Now, more than ever, I was determined to get to the bottom of all of this.

  As I hurried into the elevators inside le crayon on what should’ve been day seventeen of honeymoon ecstasy, I reminded myself that I was also determined to make this new career path work out. After a brief discussion with Jean-Sébastien last Friday to inform him of the new contract I’d scored for the school, I would do almost anything to prove myself at Bella France. Not only to save the language school I loved so dearly and help Jean-Sébastien and his family in the process, but also to pave the way for my future magazine and, hopefully, book-writing career.

  I strutted into the chic offices of Bella France wearing my tallest pair of black stilettos and a sleek black dress that accentuated my curves, while still being work appropriate. The silky red scarf I’d wrapped loosely around my neck served two purposes: hide my cleavage—I hadn’t forgotten who my new boss was after all—and bring my outfit up to par with all of my super stylish coworkers.

  The same ultra-thin receptionist—or model wannabe?—who’d greeted me each morning stood from her pristine white desk, then silently eyed my outfit for at least ten seconds. I wondered if she was calculating how many more kilos I weighed than her. I was tempted to rest my hand on her bony shoulder and tell her not to worry, that I weighed far more than she probably ever had, and I would never out-stage her because I loved buttery croissants and baguettes and creamy camembert cheese—God, did I forget to eat breakfast?—way too much to give a damn about trying to be that skinny. Luckily we were able to skip that awkward conversation as she finally cracked a cool smile, then nodded for me to follow her through the shiny glass double doors into the whirlwind of fashion, design, and story ideas that made up the brand-new offices of Bella France.

  “Monsieur Boucher is busy on a conference call,” the receptionist said in French as she stiletto-sprinted down the hallway. “Mireille has requested to see you first thing. She will get you set up with everything you need to get started today.”

  I hadn’t met with Mireille since that very first disaster of a meeting last Friday, and as we neared her office, I rea
lized I’d rather jump into a snake-filled pit than deal with her again today. Or ever for that matter.

  But just before we reached Mireille’s door, the girl turned to me with a curious gleam in her eye. “I have to ask, is it true that you’re the same Charlotte Summers who wrote the blog Sleeping with Paris, and who wrote those two articles for Bella Magazine’s US version?” she whispered.

  “That’s me,” I said, wondering if she was about to tear into me the way Mireille had done the week before.

  “My friends and I loved your blog!” she whisper-squealed, pinching my arm. Then she pulled me out of earshot from Mireille’s office. “Is it true that you married Half-Naked French Hottie, and that his ex-wife is Brigitte Beaumont, that bitch actress who’s been running around here all week like she owns the place?”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “Yes, I married him—which makes me Charlotte Olivier now. And as for Brigitte… no comment,” I said. I’d spotted Brigitte dashing in and out of the magazine offices almost daily since I’d begun, holding secret meetings with Vincent and having hissy fits over the photos that had come back from her shoot. She thought her forehead looked too shiny in all of the pictures.

  Oops.

  The receptionist chuckled, then extended her impeccably manicured hand out to me. “I’m Chantal. It’s so exciting to have you on board. I hope you get to stay. We could use some positive energy around here. Mireille is a little scary, if you know what I mean.”

  I giggled. “Yes, I know exactly what you mean.”

  “She’s already threatened to fire four people since I started!”

  “Wow, that’s really harsh,” I said, feeling my nerves sloshing around in my stomach. Or was it the three glasses of red wine and the bar of Lindt dark chocolate I’d devoured while writing the night before?

  Chantal nodded for me to follow her back to Mireille’s office. “We better go. She’s waiting for you. And she hates when anyone is late.”

  “Does Mireille know now about my connection to Brigitte?” I asked.

  “She knows everything,” Chantal whispered before knocking on Mireille’s door once, twice, then a third time, just as she had the week before. “Bonne chance,” she whispered to me as Mireille’s shrill voice permitted her to open the door.

  As soon as I spotted Mireille Charbonneau’s slim, yet perfectly curvy frame standing in front of her floor-to-ceiling windows, arms crossed, severe black glasses rimming her narrowed eyes, I actually wished I could just head straight to Vincent’s office instead. I was going to need more than luck to deal with this woman.

  “Charlotte, I need to speak with you,” she said, nodding for me to sit. I hesitated, not wanting to get comfortable. I felt like she was itching to fire someone, and by the way she was staring me down, that someone was most definitely going to be me. My only comfort was in the fact that Vincent had been the one to hire me, and I’d already signed a thirty-day contract, so technically, I didn’t think she had the authority to fire me… yet.

  “Is there a problem?” I dared to ask as I took a seat.

  She stalked toward me, eyeing me the whole way before sliding a hip onto her shiny glass desk. “I understand you have recently married Brigitte Beaumont’s ex-husband. You neglected to tell me this last week when we first spoke… and every day that you have been here since.”

  I nodded, swallowing my nerves and facing her straight on. “Yes, I had no idea she would be here, and I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

  “Well, your translation efforts during the photo shoot last week certainly could’ve been a little more professional, do you agree?”

  Just as I was about to apologize for my pettiness, I noticed that Mireille wasn’t shooting me that menacing glare any longer. The scary editor-in-chief of Bella France was grinning—and that grin was turning into a full-on evil laugh.

  “You were brilliant,” she said. “Most actresses are high maintenance to an extreme, but Brigitte Beaumont is a nightmare. When Vincent told me he was going to bring her on as our first cover model, I almost quit this job. He promised me it would only be for the first issue, then we’d be finished with her, thank God. The way you handled her was impressive, especially considering this is personal for you.”

  “Thank you,” I said, trying to mask my shock at Mireille’s kindness.

  “Don’t get too excited,” she said. “This does not mean I’m going to hire you for a writing position any time soon, even though you convinced Vincent to agree to that possibility once your translating contract is up.” She crossed one thin leg over the other, revealing a pair of scarlet stilettos that perfectly matched my scarf.

  I didn’t expect Mireille to change her mind about giving me a chance on the writing front, but I at least hoped she would take notice of the effort I’d made to be a little more stylish today.

  “As you are most certainly aware, Vincent’s weakness is beautiful women. Brigitte is perhaps his most pronounced weakness… but as of today, that will be over.” She gazed wistfully out the window, her eyes sparkling with hope.

  “I don’t want to overstep my boundaries, but I’m not totally convinced that Vincent is finished with Brigitte,” I said. “She’s been in to see him every day since I started, and she doesn’t even work here.”

  “Oh, don’t be fooled by Vincent’s flirtatiousness. Monsieur Boucher is a master at reeling in attractive young women who will be beneficial to him—in a purely business sense, of course—then letting them go when they are no longer of use. Brigitte means nothing to him.” The way she spoke of Vincent’s feelings toward Brigitte made me wonder if Mireille didn’t have a little something for that sleazy publisher of ours.

  “In fact,” Mireille continued, “we will be seeing a lot less of Mademoiselle Beaumont around here. Vincent has just called her into his office to end their little love affair.”

  “Really?” I said. “I don’t imagine that’s going to go over too well.” I wondered if that also meant that Brigitte would be left without Vincent’s powerful lawyer, who’d already initiated custody hearings with Luc. This could be the best news I’d heard all week.

  Mireille slid off her glass desk and took a step toward me. “Did Beth Harding ask you any questions about Vincent’s professionalism when she was here for the photo shoot last Friday?”

  I pinched my eyebrows together, faking confusion. “No, she didn’t,” I lied. “Why do you ask?”

  “She mentioned some concerns to me that she and the Bella Magazine US publisher had about Vincent’s attitude toward women at the office. It was laughable, actually. I mean this is France—the rules are different here. We aren’t nearly as prude as our United States counterparts.”

  “The rules are definitely different here, as I’m learning pretty quickly,” I said, wondering where she was going with this.

  Mireille flipped her tousled blond hair to one side as she shot a penetrating gaze my way. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Charlotte. I understand that today is your first formal English lesson with Vincent. You will be working in close proximity to him, and it is important that you know he is taken.”

  “You and Vincent are together?” I clarified.

  “We’ve been keeping it quiet until he ends things with Brigitte, but I thought it was important for you to know. I don’t want you getting the wrong idea about his kindness toward you.”

  Kindness wasn’t exactly how I’d put it, but it was hardly worth getting into an argument over semantics.

  “I know you already have a relationship with Beth Harding, and she thinks quite highly of you. If she comes to you, you need to know that just because Vincent and I are in a relationship does not mean that anything unprofessional is going on here. This is the way of the world, or at least it is the way of the world in France. Your American colleagues may disagree, but that is none of their business. I earned my position here at Bella France by being one of the most competent, talented editors in my field, and my connection with Vincent only
helped me learn of this exceptional opportunity.”

  A smug smile spread across Mireille’s pale face. “Since you’ll be working directly under Vincent, I figured it was best to keep you in the know… just so you don’t get any ideas.”

  “Mireille, I’m married,” I said flatly.

  “And since when has marriage stopped anyone from having an illicit office affair?”

  “That’s not really my style.”

  She nodded in approval. “Good. I was just testing you.” Her eyes combed my black dress, resting on my hips. “You’re not really Vincent’s type anyway. I knew I had nothing to worry about.”

  Nothing to worry about? Granted, I hadn’t known him that long, but from what I’d learned so far, Vincent was the last man any respectable woman should be entering in a relationship with. He would destroy Mireille, just as he’d destroyed Luc’s mother, and just as he was going to destroy Brigitte.

  It was only a matter of time.

  After my meeting with Mireille, I took a swift right down the long corridor which led to Vincent’s secluded corner office. Our lesson wasn’t supposed to begin for another ten minutes, but after my little chat with Mireille, I had other reasons for heading to his office early.

  On my way, I noted how Vincent had his own wing of the floor entirely to himself. Clearly the man liked his privacy.

  Just as I neared his door, I heard Brigitte’s unmistakable, high-pitched voice snapping at Vincent.

  I scanned the hallway to make sure no one was coming, then pulled out my cell phone and pretended to mess with it as I inched closer to the door.

  “What were you thinking bringing Luc’s new wife in to work here?” Brigitte screeched in French.