by Chloe Blake
“I’m talking to you.”
“You know what I mean.”
“A therapist? I don’t need therapy.”
“I’m not saying you do, per se. But we all need a little help sometimes.”
“I’m fine, James. There is only one thing I need right now.”
“A drink?”
“Okay, two things. A drink. And those shares.”
“May I ask what you want those shares for so badly?”
“I have an idea to recoup some of the money the business has lost over the past few years, and I need full license to do it. Without those shares, I still don’t have voting rights. All decisions must pass through this mystery woman.”
“About that. There are several contingencies built into the contract that I need you to be aware of.”
James continued. “First, Mademoiselle Belcourt has two weeks from the day I present the transfer papers to claim her shares, sign the documents, etc.”
James cleared his throat. “My boy, are you listening?”
Nic was temporarily distracted when a few of his female staff members hovered outside his office door in their gold party costumes. He waved them in. “Un moment, James,” Nic looked to the ladies. “Mademoiselles, what do you think? I want you to be comfortable. These are more flattering and less revealing than last year.”
His female staff gazed at one another and adjusted the costumes to their liking. Anyone would make the mistaken assumption that he had hired them for their beauty, but the group before him was professional, and he didn’t want them uncomfortable.
The cap-sleeve midthigh-length dress was loose and flowing, except for a gold tie at the waist. The low-cut neckline could be worn with an undergarment or alone with some well-placed fashion tape.
The ladies chuckled, twirled and gave their approval before leaving the room. Nic put the phone back to his ear.
“Désolé. You were saying?”
“Ah, the life of a man about town. To be surrounded by such beauty at all times. I say, your girlfriend must get very jealous.”
“I’m not attached, James.” He was not sure he wanted to discuss his love life with his lawyer. “Now can we—”
“Is that so? I saw you and Daphne Rhone at the wine festival together and thought you two might be...” He trailed off suggestively.
Nic sighed, remembering the kiss she’d laid on him in public. “She’s a family friend and her father is one of our biggest clients at the brokerage. It was an obligation, no more.”
“Friends with...oh, what do you call it? Ah! Benefits? Eh?”
“No, that’s not—”
“Good for you. You’re still a young man, get out there and—” His voice muffled as if he was cupping the mouthpiece. “Don’t limit yourself to just one.”
“Says the man who’s been married for forty years.”
“Forty-five, my boy. And when you find a woman like my Victoria, you don’t let her go.”
“Noted,” Nic murmured, wondering what the secret to forty-five years was. His parents had made it only to ten before his mother had upped and gone back to Spain, and his previous relationships had fizzled after a year or two.
And now a woman he wasn’t interested in at all was pursuing him. Daphne was smart and beautiful, but every time she came around, his instinct was to run like hell.
The superstitious part of him wondered if he’d been cursed that day on the train platform when his mother packed her bags and boarded a train to Barcelona, telling him, “Don’t let love ruin you.” He’d been eight.
“Nic, are you still there?”
“Yes, I just...yes. Where were we?”
“We were on to contingency number two.”
* * *
Maya sat in Jen’s office peering at the overworked lawyer whose desk had disappeared under sky-high piles of paperwork. Jen looked up from the documents and looked at Maya through black-rimmed glasses. “The second contingency is some sort of an employee performance review, but this particular clause states that if one partner has been bringing in eighty percent of the revenue for the past two years, then shares can be automatically transferred to the more active partner.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. It’s a little strange, but they were a private partnership and—whatever—it’s France. Maybe that’s how they do things. It’s based on a review at the end of every quarter, which would be in a few weeks actually, so it seems like a formal performance review.”
“Well, there will be no reviews this quarter.” Maya sighed. “So, what should I do now?”
“You gotta get the profit and loss statements.”
“I already asked for them. And I’ve booked a flight to Paris at the end of the week. The contract seems to be time sensitive.”
Jen leaned in. “You know, I think you can get some money from this. Sell the shares to the silent partner.” She ruffled through the papers. “Luca Dechamps? Then go buy a house off the coast of Italy and write a bestselling novel.”
Maya laughed, the first time in two days. “It’s definitely crossed my mind.”
“Or you could move to Paris and actually become a wine broker.”
“All options seem way better than being here right now.”
That last comment made Jen’s head snap up. “Why? Did something happen with Rick the—?”
“We have to stop calling him that.” Maya chuckled. She didn’t want to go into the details of the subtle shade he had been throwing her way. “It’s nothing that can’t be worked out.” She didn’t believe that, but it got Jen to stop asking questions.
Jen handed over the contract and looked at her cautiously. “What did your mom say?”
Maya looked pointedly at her friend. “I haven’t told her yet.”
Those words lingered as Maya went back to her office and debated calling her mother. Sandra North talked about everything, except her father. She also didn’t want to tempt herself to divulge what had happened in New York. She hadn’t slept a wink since that night, and although the presentation went smoothly and Rick seemed content to act like nothing had happened, she still felt that jolt of dread every time she saw him. She held her breath every time she heard his voice and imagined people were staring at her. She couldn’t stop thinking about it, but she had to. She had to stop thinking—she’d get some coffee.
Maya walked to the kitchen and shoved a K-cup pod and a mug into one of the four Keurigs lined up on the counter top.
“Wow, that’s your third cup of coffee today. That must be some conference call.”
Maya blinked at Carol, who was filling her own cup, then gave the executive assistant a weak smile.
“I’m just trying to get back on a sleep schedule after that New York trip. Hey, what conference call?”
Carol stared, wide-eyed. “The SuperFoods call. Rick and Dave are in there right now. I thought...” She stopped herself. “Maybe you should have a talk with Rick. I know he scheduled it.”
“Yeah, I will.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Yeah, I’m sure it was an oversight. He’s new.”
Carol nodded, but there was a “handle it” look in her eye, the kind women gave to one another when gender politics reared its ugly head.
Maya did a drive-by of the conference room. She couldn’t see through the frosted windows, but the shadowed figures were enough to make her face hot. That prick. She slowed and stopped, trying to hear what was being said, but it was useless.
She fumed at her desk for another thirty minutes, then heard the grating tenor of his voice as he and the CEO exchanged last remarks on their way back to their offices. She was staring daggers into the hall when they appeared and the CEO caught her gaze.
“Maya.” He smiled. “You missed a great conference call. Sorry you were too busy. Next time,
okay?” He left Rick standing there in her doorway, an evil look on his face.
“I was too busy, Rick?”
“I looked for you, but you weren’t in your office.”
“Funny, I don’t see anything on my calendar.”
“It was impromptu.”
“You could have texted or had one of the assistants page me.”
“I’ll think of that next time.”
“Please do. Those are my clients.”
“Our clients. I’m your boss, remember?” He tossed the line into her office like a bomb and hurried away before it exploded.
Paris couldn’t come soon enough.
Chapter 3
Nic closed his office door and pulled the phone from his ear to check the time, thinking he needed to wrap the call up. “When do you think Mademoiselle Belcourt will give you an answer?”
“My guess is soon. She’ll be here this weekend. I’ll forward you the details.”
Nic hung up and laid his phone on the desk, feeling very alone suddenly. When his father had passed away, he’d called Albert. Now that Albert was gone, the emptiness around him began to close in.
He had no desire to run the brokerage alone, or with a stranger. And he wouldn’t, not if he could help it.
He picked up his two-way radio from his desk. “Can someone get Chef Joc for me?”
The radio crackled. “Oui, boss.”
Minutes later, Nic almost lost it when Chef Joc, a six-foot-five Australian, walked into his office wearing nothing but a gold loincloth.
Nic grimaced. “What the hell are you doing?”
“What? I’m trying on the costume for the party.” Joc flexed his arms and his abs, striking a Roman statue pose. A former footballer with a muscular frame, Joc looked—Nic hated to admit—great.
Then Nic shook his head at the bulge in his friend’s pants. “That’s a banana in your pants.”
Joc shook his head seriously. “That’s all me, mate. And look at these buns. The girls are gonna go nuts.” Joc turned his back to Nic, then gave him a saucy look over his shoulder.
Nic laughed at his friend, something, he realized, he hadn’t done in a long while. It felt good.
“Joc, you know those aren’t for the kitchen staff.”
“But why? We have an open kitchen. We need to be part of the backdrop.” Joc tried a look over the other shoulder.
Nic couldn’t hold in another chuckle. “Stop it. Health codes, blah-blah-blah, you know this. Why are you half-naked in my office?”
Joc stopped posing and put his hands on his hips. “You called me in here.”
Where was his brain? “Right. I have an important meeting on Saturday. I’ll need breakfast served for three, maybe four, if she brings a lawyer.”
“She?”
“Albert’s daughter.”
“I didn’t know Albert had a daughter.”
“No one did.”
Joc raised a brow. “All right. Not going to touch that one. Where do you want it?”
“In Le Salon Rouge.”
“Ah, trying to impress?”
“More like intimidate.”
“Mate, consider just impressing. You need to get as much practice in as possible.”
Nic cocked his head. “I’m afraid to ask what that means.”
“It means, you’ve been pretty focused on work lately.”
“Yes, I have a business to run. So what?”
“So when is the last time you got laid?”
Nic paused at his friend’s concerned look. It had been... Well, there was that woman from Colombia... It had to be around... He was embarrassed to say he couldn’t remember. “I’m not answering that while that banana is still in your pants.”
“All me, mate. But I get what you’re saying, none of my beeswax. It’s cool.” Joc turned to leave, then turned back around dramatically. “But it wouldn’t be unheard-of if you had a little fun at the party. All work and no play makes Nic a crabby boss.” He struck another pose. “Maybe you should wear this.”
“Maybe you should put the fruit back where it belongs.”
The men were midlaugh when Nic’s phone went off. His face must have fallen.
“Daphne?” Joc asked.
“She’s called five times already.”
Joc shrugged. “Remember what I said. You could do worse.”
Joc left the office and Nic let the call go to voice mail. Then he pulled his laptop forward and typed “Maya Belcourt Los Angeles” in his web browser. A few images and some random links popped up. He ruled out the few pictures of older women then scanned the maybes for any likeness of Albert.
His phone went off again, and his hand hovered over the blinking face. It’s for the business, he told himself, and swiftly answered before he changed his mind.
“Good morning, Daphne.”
“It’s almost lunch. I’m at the bar. Come say bonjour?” Although they weren’t a couple, her sense of entitlement always astounded him. He held in an exasperated sigh.
“I’m—” Nic checked his desk for anything that looked pressing “—very busy.”
“You have to eat, too, Nic. And I told Father where I would be. He might be joining us.”
Nic gritted his teeth, hating the way she used her father to subtly threaten him. “I’ll be right there.”
He smacked his phone to the desk, wincing when he heard the crack of his screen. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back. Dieu, he really was wound up. Maybe Joc was right—maybe a party and some female company was just what the doctor ordered.
* * *
Maya’s taxi rounded the corner of the Rue du Bourg-l’Abbé and stopped in front of a large unassuming concrete building with a Roman archway and cherrywood doors. Les Bains, or The Baths, was carved along a second-floor balcony while the stone head of a man watched over the door.
According to her research, because as a consultant she couldn’t help herself, the nineteenth-century bathhouse turned legendary nightclub—Paris’s answer to Studio 54—was now a famous boutique hotel rumored to have a secret nightclub inside. One hundred and thirty years of decadence all in one building. She wondered at her business partner’s choice of meeting place.
Intrigued as she was, her consultant brain noted a lack of welcoming service, like a doorman or maybe a porter to help with her bags. She wondered how the hotel got their five-star rating and wondered if it was too late to book the Ritz.
With no one in sight, Maya stepped out of the taxi and had gone to help the driver pull her bags from the trunk when a man in black wearing a small headset appeared and grabbed them first.
“Mademoiselle North?”
“Yes...erm, oui,” Maya said with an uptick in her voice. Where had he come from and how did he know it was her? He smiled and bowed his head. Color her impressed.
“Welcome to Les Bains. I am Jacques. Let’s get you checked in.”
Maya tipped the driver and turned to follow Jacques, then slowed to eye the stone head once more.
“Zeus?” she said to Jacques. She had taken Greek and Roman mythology with the hope of an easy credit and found herself studying harder than for her tax accounting courses.
“Non, but mademoiselle is close. I’ll give you a hint. He is known as the party god. And remember, we are styled after the Roman baths.”
Maya smiled. She loved games. “And what do I get if I guess correctly?”
“How about a complimentary glass of wine at the bar? And by the way, wine is our god’s favorite.”
“Then my first instinct is to say Dionysus, the god of wine, fertility and agriculture, but you said Roman, so it has to be Bacchus.”
“Mademoiselle is correct.” Jacques held open the door with a wide smile and escorted her to the check-in desk. Before she was done handing over her information,
Jacques returned with a glass of red wine and a plastic half mask in the visage of a marble face.
“What’s this?” She held up the mask by its gold rod.
Jacque winked. “It’s for later. Enjoy your stay.”
An hour later, Maya adjusted her strappy black slip dress and stepped off the elevator onto the first floor. The lobby buzzed with people, all of whom were twirling their half masks, transforming themselves into Bacchus or his wife, Ariadne, with the flick of a wrist. Her gaze swept the room. Opulent. It was really the only word for the hotel. Velvet upholstery, marble pillars, gold accents and the light scent of fig and coriander in the air. Whoa. She held the half mask up to her face. Where did she just get transformed to? In a minute, she found out.
The music changed and a procession of women in gold dresses and men in gold loincloths, all of whom were wearing gold Nikes with the wings, were passing out champagne and hors d’oeuvres...which was how she found herself lounging on one of the velvet sofas double fisting the champagne and being verbally stroked by Lars, the Swiss artist, who had clearly had more than his share of free drinks and was explaining that he would like to paint her naked form on the ceiling of the lobby. She lifted her gaze and tried to picture her nude visage spread out above them, then broke into laughter.
Normally she’d call the guy a creep and move away, but there was something inviting about the scene around her. What was before just a lobby had transformed into a wine-flowing watering hole for the glamorous. Her eyes darted to long legs in delicate heels, button-down business shirts open at the neck, laughter from glossy lips and lipstick-stained wineglasses. It was the type of place where you could forget who you were and what you had left behind. And for the night, that was exactly what she wanted to do.
The lights had gotten lower and the music a little louder. She’d taken a sip of her champagne and turned back to Lars, who had gotten a little closer. He was looking at her with bedroom eyes, and she tried not to laugh again. She had nothing against a one-night stand, but she had standards. Lars was cute, eager and definitely too young. She guessed he was early twenties trying to act late twenties, which was a turnoff to her early thirties.