French kiss (12 page)

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The shower, too, proved to be a mystery. Once inside, Holly had to struggle with the odd handheld nozzle; there was no ledge to rest it on, so while Holly shaved her legs, the stream of water kept spraying her in the face. It was the least relaxing shower of her life.

When she finally emerged, a little winded, Holly wrapped her yellow towel tight around herself, gave her wet hair a shake, and padded out of the bathroom. She was hardly thinking as she turned the knob on a closed door across the hall, but when she stepped into the room, Holly's heart leaped; this wasn't the guest room where she and Alexa were staying, but a boy's bedroom. The navy blue quilt on the single bed and a poster of the French soccer team above the desk were dead giveaways.

So was Pierre, who was standing next to the bed, wearing absolutely nothing but white boxer shorts.

"Oh, my God, I'm so sorry," Holly gasped, her face catching fire, as her eyes -- almost without her own volition -- swept over Pierre's broad shoulders and smooth, olive-skinned chest. Holly felt her stomach somersault but she found herself unable to turn away. "You're, um -- you're back from getting wine," she added unnecessarily, her voice shaky.

'"Oily," Pierre said warmly, without a trace of embarrassment or surprise. He flashed her a grin, his teeth very white against his dark complexion.

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Something about him briefly reminded Holly of a pirate -- in the best possible way. "I am just... how you say, changing?" Pierre added casually. He gestured to the pair of jeans in his left hand, which he'd clearly just stepped out of, and tilted his head to one side, his blue eyes sparkling.

"Changing," Holly affirmed tremblingly, as the blush in her face made its way down her neck to her damp collarbone. Suddenly, she realized that -- in her short towel -- she wasn't all that covered up, either, and, felt a fresh wave of shyness. "I -- I should go," she mumbled, ducking her head and hurrying back out into the hall, taking care to close the door firmly behind her. As she headed over to the
real
guest room, Holly couldn't help thinking that, if Tyler, or any boy she knew from back home, had been in the same position as Pierre walked in on by a girl they'd just met -- they'd have acted as fidgety and flustered as she was now feeling. Pierre's matter-of-fact cool had been refreshingly different.

And, okay, yeah. Pretty damn sexy.

Trying to banish images of Pierre's sculpted upper body from her mind, Holly slipped into the guest room, where Alexa stood in front of the full-length mirror, wearing a simple black tube dress, champagne-colored strappy sandals, and a miserable frown. In a heartbeat, Holly decided not to mention the random

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encounter with Pierre. It wasn't
that
big a deal after all, and calling attention to it would somehow give it more weight.

"I hate it, hate it, hate it," Alexa declared, hands on hips. "I'm capital-B boring."

Holly glanced over, grateful for the distraction. She saw nothing wrong with Alexa's outfit but knew better than to argue with her stubborn friend. "So wear something else," she suggested, unzipping her duffel and pulling out the halter top that had been wasted on Wimbledon. Thankfully, Alexa seemed too wrapped up in her clothes to notice Holly's crimson face. Sometimes, Alexa's self-absorption could be a good thing.

"I don't
have
anything else!" Alexa wailed, spinning around and sorting through the surviving clothes that she'd dumped onto her bed. The thief had left her with very slim pickings. "At least," she added, tossing a tank top over her shoulder. "Nothing that's right for Euro trash."

"For
what?"
Holly asked, running her fingers through her wet bangs.

"Eurotrash," Alexa repeated, returning to the mirror.
"The
hottest new discothèque in Paris, and where we'll be going with the cousins right after dinner."

Despite the dissatisfaction with her outfit, Alexa felt a shiver of excitement; she'd never been to Eurotrash,

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but considering its spicy reputation, she was sure it would provide a most scintillating evening. As she reached for her LaLicious body butter to smooth over her arms, Alexa imagined dirty dancing with some European sex god to the rhythmic beats of house music, and her pulse quickened.
Take that, Diego Mendieta.

Meanwhile, Holly's pulse was also racing -- for an entirely different reason.
The cousins.
So Pierre would be coming, too. Drawing a deep breath, Holly held up her halter. "Would
this
be okay for -- for Eurotrash?" she asked, wanting to giggle at the ridiculous name.

Alexa turned to assess. Holly's top was clearly a designer knockoff, but its bright sea-green color and crystal beading along the V-neck were
très
chic. Plus, lucky Holly -- who was much more well-endowed than A-cup Alexa -- would fill it out nicely. "It's perfect," Alexa assured her friend with a grin. She was impressed; it seemed Holly didn't need a major Paris overhaul after all.

The girls were slipping on their dinner-party cover-ups -- a sparkly shrug for Alexa, a black cardigan for Holly when a knock sounded on their door.

"Allô?"
Pierre called. "You are,
euh ...
how you say ...
decent?"

Holly had been reaching for the doorknob but she pulled back, her heart thudding. She wasn't quite

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ready to see Pierre again. And she wondered if his "decent" comment was a private joke meant for her.

"More or less," Alexa teased, scooting by Holly to open the door. "Look at you, hot stuff!" she added when she saw Pierre standing there, holding a bottle of wine and wearing a sky-blue shirt that matched his eyes. Having a cute cousin, Alexa had decided, was both a blessing and a curse; he made for fun eye candy but was also the one boy she could never have.

"And
you"
Pierre replied, giving Alexa a wide smile. "It is, perhaps, in the genes?"

"Definitely," Alexa laughed, stepping out into the hall and revealing Holly, who'd been standing paralyzed behind her.

This time, Holly realized as she and Pierre regarded each other, she had no excuse to turn and hurry away from him. So she watched, holding her breath, as Pierre's eyes moved with agonizing slowness up from her skinny-heeled black sling-backs to her distressed denim miniskirt to the sea-green halter to, finally, her lips and face, which makeup guru Alexa had done up with berry-stain gloss, subtle blusher, and smoky eyeliner. Holly knew she looked mighty different from the two times Pierre had seen her before. As his lips parted in surprise, something dangerously close to pleasure flushed Holly's skin. She wasn't used to boys -- not even Tyler -- staring at her in this way. And suddenly,

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Holly felt the opposite of how Tyler had made her feel back in the car in Oakridge:
desirable.

'"Oily," Pierre finally whispered, as if overcome. "You are ... you look ..."

Then they all heard the front door slam.

"Mon Dieu!"
a girl's voice cried in panic. "I'm
late!"
What followed was a stream of furious French words that Holly could only guess were curses.

Alexa and Pierre glanced at each other, grinned, and, at the same time, said, "Raphi."

Still unsteady, Holly followed Pierre and Alexa into the living room, where a curvaceous twenty-something girl was sitting on the sofa, frantically tugging off one of her super-high platform boots. She wore a thick polka-dot headband, a sleeveless orange tunic cinched in the middle with a bronze-buckled belt, and cropped tuxedo trousers. Her wild halo of black curls and tan complexion instantly gave her away as Pierre's sister; only her eyes -- dark brown, slightly almond-shaped, but just as mischievous -- were different from his. Holly wondered how fair-skinned, flaxen-haired Alexa could have such exotic-looking cousins.

"The American!" Raphaëlle exclaimed when she looked up. She bounded off the sofa and hopped over to Holly on her shoeless foot. "Wow,
c'est
cool that you're here," she gushed, with hardly a hint of

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an accent. "I
love
speaking the English, and Alexa won't let me with her, but now I can practice!" This time, Holly was prepared for the effusive one-two kiss Raphaëlle bestowed on her and was pleasantly surprised that Alexa's fashion-forward cousin -- who Holly had been imagining as some prissy diva -- was so warm and bubbly.

After Raphaëlle had changed into what she deemed more parent-appropriate shoes -- vintage, round-toed orange pumps that Alexa was completely jealous of the foursome tumbled out of the apartment into the warm Paris night. After a short Métro ride, they were hurrying down the impossibly fancy rue du Faubourg St-Honoré. As Raphaëlle and Pierre led the way to their parents' home, Alexa gazed dreamily at the various designer houses: Givenchy, Hermès, Christian Lacroix, Hervé Léger.... Haute couture heaven.

"We'll go shopping here tomorrow, Hoi," Alexa declared, linking her arm through Holly's. "And we'll hit up avenue Montaigne, too." Alexa felt sort of bad tossing Daddy's money around in boutiques, but after all, her
luggage
had been stolen. Destiny was practically begging her to shop, right?

"Uh ... sure," Holly replied, thinking
You shop, I'll watch.
There was no
way
she'd be able to afford even a pair of earrings from any of the deluxe stores lining

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the long, narrow street. But she did like the idea of her and Alexa spending a girly day around Paris together.

The St. Laurents' townhouse was a deep creamy color, with gargoyles jutting out from the roof and a lion's head knocker on the heavy wooden double doors. Holly remembered Alexa saying that her uncle was an important diplomat, and Holly suddenly felt intimidated. When the door opened, though, she -- along with the others -- was swept up in the arms of a voluptuous, olive-skinned woman with luxurious black curls and flashing dark eyes. She wore a flowing ruby-red caftan, harem-style pants, and furry kitten-heeled red slippers.

When the woman released them, Holly noticed that dangling from her neck was an elaborately designed gold hand with an eye painted in the middle of it; Holly recognized the cool pendant from a charm bracelet her second cousin -- who lived in Israel had sent her last year.

"Bienvenue!
Welcome!" the woman gushed, managing to double-kiss Alexa, Pierre, Raphaëlle, and Holly in two seconds flat. "I am Aziza," she told Holly, putting out her hand and beaming. "Alexandria's aunt. Please do come in, savor my home, and eat."

Aziza's accent, Holly noticed, was not only French, but a little bit of something else, too. "Alexa, where is

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your aunt
from!"
Holly whispered as they all stepped into the foyer, which was decorated with vibrant Middle Eastern tapestries and a plush Oriental rug on the marble floor.

"Tunisia," Alexa whispered, thrilled to be back at her aunt and uncle's welcoming, fun place. She'd spent a lot of time here when she was little and had always felt like Aziza was more of a mom than, well, her real mom. "In North Africa, you know?" Alexa explained. "But she lived in Israel when she was young, before her family moved to Paris."

Wow,
Holly thought. Having spent her whole life in Oakridge, she was fascinated by such cosmopolitan people. And now she knew where Raphaëlle and Pierre got their striking looks.

Alexa's uncle, by contrast, had pale blue eyes, a shock of silver hair, and a dignified demeanor. He was sitting in the living room, reading a newspaper and smoking a pipe. In his impeccable three-piece suit, he instantly reminded Holly of Alexa's father. After Julien had politely greeted everyone, they all trooped over to the dining room. The long, candelit table was overflowing with tantalizing platters of food and an array of champagnes and wines, to which Pierre gamely added his bottle. Holly looked on, speechless, as Julien uncorked Pierre's contribution and poured his son a glass of Burgundy; she couldn't for the life of

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her imagine drinking with her parents. Or
anybody's
parents, for that matter.

Alexa, sitting beside Holly, was sipping her flute of fizzy Veuve Clicquot without a second thought. The drinking age in France was technically sixteen, but Alexa's dad -- like most French parents -- had
always
been fine with her imbibing at the dinner table, so by now, Alexa was a seasoned drinker.

"Tiens, chérie,"
Aziza said to Holly, handing her two serving plates at once. "Take, dear -- they are delicious." On one plate were clusters of small, dark coils shimmering in garlic sauce; on the other were soft beige cubes on a bed of olives and tomatoes.

Holly glanced questioningly at Alexa, but her friend was busy enjoying her champagne. So Holly, not wanting to be rude, smiled and helped herself to both mysterious dishes,
I always give Tyler grief for not being adventurous with food,
she reminded herself, as she sampled one of the dark coiled shapes. Its texture was rubbery, but the combination of garlic and butter tasted heavenly. She was trying one of the odd beige cubes -- it was kind of mushy, if also tasty -- when Alexa poked her in the side and murmured, "Enjoying some authentic French cuisine?"

"What
is
this stuff?" Holly whispered. Glancing across the table, she saw that Pierre and Raphaëlle were eagerly digging into the same dishes.