Honeymoon in Paris

by Juliette Sobanet

  “Well, you assumed wrong. I’m sure a guy like Marcel has a different girl in his bed every night—and clearly he doesn’t bother to clean up after himself.” Fiona’s head dropped into her hands. “I feel disgusting, Charlotte. What have I done?”

  “Maybe he really was with another girl that night,” I said.

  I noticed the slightest flicker of hope gracing Fiona’s tired eyes. “You said you’re meeting with Nicolas tomorrow?”

  I nodded.

  “I need you to ask him what happened at Marcel’s apartment. And if he doesn’t remember or he won’t tell you, ask him for Marcel’s number. I’ll call him myself. I have to know.”

  I nodded, squeezing Fiona’s hand. “Of course, Fiona. Whatever you need.”

  Half of my delectable tart remained untouched on my plate, but my appetite vanished as I thought about Luc’s words to me. He’d called the Boucher family “toxic.” He’d said they ruined his family.

  I just hoped they wouldn’t ruin Fiona’s.

  TWENTY-TWO

  “Repeat after me: My name is Vincent Boucher, and I am the publisher of Bella France.”

  Vincent flashed me a bold smile as he straightened his chic violet tie. “My name iz Vincent Boucher, and I am zee publisher of Bella France. My teacher iz Charlotte Olivier, and today, she wears a dress red zat is stunning while she teach me zee English.”

  My new English student and boss apparently thought it would be fun to take some creative liberty with his language exercises. I chose not to comment, and instead went about correcting Vincent’s grammatical errors.

  “In English, adjectives are placed before the noun,” I said slowly. “So instead of une robe rouge, or ‘a dress red’ as you said, you will want to say…?”

  “A red dress,” Vincent finished, once again flicking his gaze down to my chest. This guy took sexual harassment in the workplace to a whole new level.

  I thought of the dreamy look that had flashed through Mireille’s eyes when she’d announced to me just the day before that she and Vincent were “in a relationship.” Had she seen the way he looked at other women? Did she honestly believe this man was capable of being in an exclusive relationship?

  And more to the point, did she have any idea what had gone down in this very office right after I’d spoken with her?

  I’d thought Mireille seemed wiser than to fall for the King of Sleaze, but clearly Vincent’s charms had won over yet another unsuspecting victim.

  Or perhaps Mireille’s version of a relationship was sharing Vincent with a million other women. Maybe that was one of the new rules I had yet to fully embrace in my new French life.

  I cleared my throat and folded my hands in my lap, careful not to touch Vincent’s desk where he’d just been with Brigitte the day before. Disgusting. Or as the French would say, dégueulasse.

  “Also, instead of saying ‘the English,’ you would simply say ‘English.’ Contrary to what you’re used to in French, it’s not necessary to always use an article in front of a noun in English,” I said.

  Just as I was about to work with my eager student on his typical French pronunciation of “the,” which sounded more like “zee,” a harsh rapping on the door interrupted us.

  “I tell zee receptionist I am in lesson and not to disturb, but c’est la vie,” Vincent said with a shrug. “Oui?” he called out.

  Although I’d told Mireille I had absolutely no interest in shacking up with Vincent, she’d still seemed hesitant to leave us alone together this morning for our lesson, and I fully expected to see her narrow eyes glaring down at me when the door opened.

  But the perfectly sculpted, unshaven face, and the messy head of dark brown hair that appeared in the doorway proved me wrong.

  “Marcel, what a nice surprise,” Vincent said in French. “Brigitte and I were just talking about you yesterday.”

  But Vincent’s youngest heartthrob son couldn’t have been less interested in what his father was saying. Instead Marcel’s piercing brown gaze was fixed on me.

  “What is she doing here?” Marcel barked in French.

  “Charlotte iz my new English teacher,” Vincent said slowly in English as he leaned back in his cushy chair, not the least bit ruffled by his son’s snappy attitude.

  Dressed in a pair of slim dark jeans and a black T-shirt, Marcel stormed through the office, glaring at me all the while. “Tell her she needs to leave.”

  “I’m sitting right here, you know,” I said. “You don’t have to talk about me in the third person.”

  “I am appalled that any son of mine would have such rude manners when speaking to a beautiful woman,” Vincent said.

  “Did you forget that Charlotte is Luc’s wife?” Marcel spat. “What are you doing?”

  “Again… I’m sitting right here,” I reiterated.

  While the two of them continued to argue, I stealthily reached for my iPhone inside my purse, pressed the Record button on the new app I’d just downloaded this morning, and when I was positive neither of them was watching, I casually let the phone slip into the crevice of my armchair.

  “I think the lady is capable of making her own decisions about where she works, regardless of who her husband may be,” Vincent said. “And I made her an offer she couldn’t refuse. Isn’t that right, Charlotte?”

  “An offer she couldn’t refuse? If only I had a euro for every time I’ve heard you say that.”

  My hands trembled only slightly as I gathered the English texts I’d brought in for Vincent’s lesson. “I’ll leave you two alone. Looks like you have some quality father-son bonding to catch up on.”

  Marcel huffed as I let myself out of Vincent’s office, closed the door behind me, and walked down the hall with a huge smile on my face.

  I was becoming quite the spy.

  Ten minutes later, both Vincent and Marcel stormed past the reception desk where I was chatting with my new friend and future model, Chantal.

  Vincent stopped only briefly, and for once he couldn’t have seemed less interested in my dress or my breasts. “I’m taking an early lunch with Marcel,” he said. “We’ll pick up where we left off tomorrow. In the meantime, I’ve left some correspondence with my assistant for you to translate.”

  “Of course,” I answered.

  Marcel shot me a silent warning with those heartthrob brown eyes of his, and I smiled curtly in return.

  Oh, Marcel, you are severely underestimating me.

  As soon as they were gone, I fished through my purse for a few seconds. “Oh, shoot. I think I left my cell phone in Vincent’s office. Is it okay if I go back there and get it?”

  Chantal smiled. “Of course. And you know where Monsieur Boucher’s assistant’s office is located, right?”

  “Yes, I’ll go check in with her about the translations. Thanks for the chat, Chantal,” I said before doing my own stiletto sprint past a few flying clothing racks, past the art department, and down Vincent’s secluded hallway to his corner office.

  Once inside, I jetted over to the black armchair where I’d left my iPhone, and after a quick pillow removal, I found that little white beauty, still recording.

  I almost kissed the screen, but instead I pressed the Stop button, tucked my phone safely inside my purse, then took another quick peek out into the hallway to make sure no one was coming.

  With no sign of life in Vincent’s private wing, I closed the door and dashed over to his desk. My heart raced as I scanned the area, but the sleek black laptop I’d seen him using this morning was nowhere to be found. That computer probably contained all sorts of incriminating evidence. No way would he leave that unattended. Vincent may have been the biggest womanizer I’d ever met, but he wasn’t stupid.

  I tried the three desk drawers, but they were all locked. Humph.

  On the surface of Vincent’s large desk, I only found a mug full of black pens, an unused notepad, and a black telephone. No clutter. No documents strewn about. No evidence to steal.

  I realized I shoul
d’ve considered myself lucky simply to have scored that recording of Vincent and Marcel’s conversation. I didn’t have time to mess around in Vincent’s immaculate office. I wasn’t going to find anything here.

  But just as I headed for the door, a bright pink dot caught my eye in this sea of black office furniture.

  I crept over to the black leather couch on the other side of the office, and digging my hand in between the cushions, I discovered a long pink satin ribbon.

  Before I could search the other cushions, the sound of heels pounding down the hallway outside sent a shot of adrenaline through my veins. I tucked the ribbon into my purse, and just as the door opened, I lifted up my cell phone.

  “Found it!” I said as Mireille appeared. Her pale face looked even more washed out than it had this morning, and dark circles surrounded her fiery eyes.

  She arched a suspicious brow at me as I walked past her. “My phone must’ve dropped out of my bag during our English lesson earlier. I’m off to finish up my translations. See you tomorrow, Mireille.”

  “Charlotte.” Mireille’s stern voice shot right through me. Of course she wasn’t going to let me get away that easily.

  I flipped around, flashing my best poker face. “Yes?”

  “Yesterday, after we spoke, did you come back to Vincent’s office before he canceled your lesson?”

  “Why do you ask?” I stalled.

  She placed her hands on her hips and glared at me, the kindness I’d found in her eyes the day before now only a brief memory. “Just answer the question.”

  I thought about lying to her, but the frantic look on her face reminded me of myself, only one year ago, when I’d discovered my fiancé’s online dating profile and learned he’d been lying to me for months.

  No matter how bitchy Mireille could be, she didn’t deserve this. No woman did. It was bad enough that Vincent was leading her to believe he could actually be a one-woman kind of guy.

  I refused to lie for him.

  “Yes, I did walk down to Vincent’s office after we spoke,” I said.

  The pained look in her eyes told me she already knew the answer to the question she was about to ask. “And did you see… or hear anything?”

  I nodded. “Yes, I did. I’m sorry, Mireille.”

  Mireille’s eyes darted past me to the floor, and as she lifted a hand to her face, I noticed her fingers trembling. “Quel salaud.” What a bastard, she whispered.

  “You’re too good for him,” I said, taking a step closer. “He’s involved in things you don’t want any part in. Trust me.”

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” she snapped, turning her face away from me. Just as she took off down the hallway, I was certain I spotted a tear streaking down her cheek.

  Everything Luc had told me about Vincent was coming true. He left a trail of destruction everywhere he went.

  I wouldn’t let him destroy me though. Or my marriage.

  I forced myself to wait until I’d left the offices of Bella France to listen to the recording. I didn’t want to risk anyone at my new place of work finding out what I’d just done.

  As I exited the Metro at Bellecour, I slipped on my headphones, turned the volume on my iPhone up to full blast, and pressed Play.

  Marcel’s voice boomed through my ears as I booked it down the lively rue Victor Hugo toward Isabelle’s lingerie shop.

  “Mais qu’est-ce que tu fous?” What in the hell are you doing? Marcel growled.

  “The way I run my publishing business is of no concern to you,” Vincent snapped back in French. “What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you were filming in Paris.”

  Gosh, what a warm and fuzzy father-son relationship they shared.

  “I was, but there’s something important I need to talk to you about,” Marcel said.

  “I thought we agreed to do all of our business through Jean-Michel. It’s safer that way.”

  Who was Jean-Michel?

  “This couldn’t go through Jean-Michel, or through Brigitte. It had to come directly from me.”

  “Well, out with it then,” Vincent said. “I don’t have all day.”

  “You need to shut down the operation,” Marcel said. “And you need to leave the country tonight.”

  Leave the country?

  I passed by a boulangerie and a caught a heavenly whiff of butter and freshly baked bread, and although my stomach was growling, I kept on walking. This was just too good.

  “I don’t have time for your games or for your paranoia, mon fils,” Vincent said. “If you’re angry at me for stealing Brigitte’s affections, then—”

  “I couldn’t give a shit about that little slut. She’s using both of us to support her drug habit, and she’s using you to get back at Luc. I don’t want anything to do with her, and I told her as much today. It was a mistake for you to involve her in this business. She’s not stable. The other girls, they’re smarter than Brigitte. They know how to get the job done, and they want to become stars. They know their involvement in Les Bijoux will get them there.”

  “Lower your voice,” Vincent snapped. “And get to the point.”

  “My point, Father, is that it’s over. And you need to leave the country tonight if you don’t want to spend the rest of your life in prison.”

  “What in God’s name are you talking about, Marcel? Have you been compromised?”

  A few seconds passed before Marcel spoke. “Of course not. But do you think it’s a coincidence that Luc’s new wife just happened to walk in here, asking for a job? She’s clearly been placed here to dig up dirt on you, me, and Brigitte.”

  “And who exactly do you think placed her here?” Vincent asked.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Marcel said.

  “Luc Olivier is a college professor, and he’s just as oblivious as his father was.” Vincent let out an evil chuckle that made my blood boil. “It’s not possible.”

  “Believe what you want, but I’m telling you it has to be over. And you must leave. I’m trying to help you, Dad. This is your last chance.”

  “And what about you? You’re not exactly innocent,” Vincent scoffed.

  “You don’t need to worry about me. I’ll take care of myself. I always have,” Marcel said.

  “This is nonsense. I want you to leave.”

  “Please, I know you’ve always considered Nicolas the smarter one, and I’m just the pretty boy pawn who helps you reel in all of the beautiful, young, desperate actresses so you can make your millions, but just this once, take my advice. You won’t regret it.”

  “Have you mentioned this to anyone else?” For the first time in their entire conversation, I noticed a hint of panic laced in Vincent’s bossy tone.

  “Like I said, I knew this couldn’t go through Jean-Michel, and I didn’t want to tell you over the phone. I wanted to see you before—”

  “Ça suffit!” Vincent’s powerful voice shot through my ear, making me jump. “Nothing is going to happen to me, Marcel. There is no way this can be traced back to me or to you. Brigitte was the only loose screw, and as of yesterday, I’ve got her under control. I’ve been in this business almost as long as I’ve been in the publishing business. You must have more faith in me than that.”

  “It’s different this time, Dad. Listen, I shouldn’t even be here right now. I have to go.”

  “Wait, I’ll follow you out.”

  I reached the storefront of Chez Isabelle just as I heard the sound of Vincent’s office door clicking shut in my recording. As I let myself into Isabelle’s palace of gorgeous lingerie, I thought about the fact that I was only one week into my job at Bella France, and only eighteen days into my marriage, and things were spiraling out of control.

  TWENTY-THREE

  “Charlotte, it’s so good to see you,” Isabelle said in her perky British accent, kissing me lightly on each cheek. Her long, sandy-blond hair swished over her shoulders as she fit a slinky black slip onto one of the mannequins.

  “You too, Isab
elle. Really, I can’t thank you enough for being there for me lately. It’s been a total lifesaver. You have no idea.” I’d stopped by Isabelle’s shop for gossip and support more than a few times over the past two weeks, and she’d even called me the day before to see how I was doing. She was mostly up to date on everything that had happened with Luc, Brigitte, and the Bouchers—except for this most recent news, of course.

  Isabelle placed a concerned hand on my arm. “Is everything okay, Charlotte? You look a little pale.”

  “You won’t believe the intel I just got,” I whispered, casting a glance around the store to make sure no one was listening.

  “Intel? You’re starting to sound like a secret agent,” she said with a giggle. “What’s going on?”

  I waited until the only other customer left the store before continuing.

  “You remember what I told you yesterday, about the discussion I heard between Brigitte and Vincent?”

  “And their crazy office sex? How could I forget?”

  “Well, I waited up for Luc last night and told him about all of it, but he acted really strange and told me I should stop eavesdropping. Then he spent at least two hours on his laptop before going to bed.”

  “That’s weird.”

  “I know. And after what I found out today, I’m not sure if I should take this information directly to Luc. He’s still not telling me what he knows, and he’s just going to get angry that I’ve been spying again.”

  “You’re probably right. I wouldn’t say anything to Luc just yet,” she said, straightening up a table of lacy panties in the center of the store. “So what did you find out? I’m dying to know!”

  I plucked my phone out of my purse and pulled up the recording. I stared at it for a few seconds, thinking over what I’d heard on my walk to Isabelle’s store. I was beginning to form a pretty solid theory on what was going on behind the scenes with Brigitte and the Bouchers, but I still couldn’t be one hundred percent sure.

  “Hello? Charlotte?” Isabelle’s sweet voice called me back to the present. “You look like you’re about to faint or break into a messy sob, or perhaps like you could use a glass of wine.”