Paris (Entangle Me Book 4) (4 page)

“I don’t need you to protect me.” But secretly, I like that he wants to.

“I know but—”

“I like it, though. I always feel safe with you.”

My words cause him to widen his eyes, softening from their typical stern appearance. This is it, this is the time for me to say something. I’m going to tell him my feelings for him, I’m going to lay it all out to him.

“Tristan, I—”

“Tristan, is that
you
?”

We both turn around to see who this mystery woman is. Long blonde hair, waif thin, long purple dress. She’s gorgeous, and she’s only got eyes for Tristan. Who the heck is this woman who just happened to ruin this could be divine, romantic Paris moment. And why am I feeling all sorts of rage right now towards her?

I peek up to look at Tristan. He looks less than enthused to see her.

“It’s Victoria. My old boss’s daughter.”

In other words, his ex. That he’s still friends with.

This can’t be happening. Tristan’s gorgeous and statuesque blonde ex is standing right in front of us and she is eyeing him up hungrily: like a brand new designer handbag. And now she is walking towards Tristan, with a huge smile on her face no less.  My insides are writhing slowly. I would love nothing more than for Tristan to dismiss her or be rude to her but oh no, the corners of his mouth lift up into a friendly grin and he walks towards her, leaving me standing there to watch them embrace. The sight of him wrapping his big arms around her, and her returning it with fervent enthusiasm makes me all kinds of sick. They hold onto each other a few seconds longer than I would have liked and when they finally break away from each other’s arms they keep their arms around each other, staring into each other’s eyes. And I’m just standing here, watching this display of passion. Fuming quietly to myself.

Crossing my arms, I watch Tristan break away from the hug, purposefully putting some distance between him and her.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Victoria shrugs her pretty little shoulders. They’re broad and tan, and in that dress they emphasise her slender figure.

“Small world, isn’t it?” She bats her eyelashes furiously at him, flicking her hair.
Too damn small, it’s a miniscule dot evidently.
 

“I always come to Paris around this time of year.”

“That’s right. You like to come here to feel more cultured and what not,” he says dryly, teasing her.

“Stop it, that is so not true! I am like
so
cultured.” She slaps his arm gently, giggling in a rather high-pitched manner. Her laugh is a rather shrieking sound. “
So
, guess what? I’m coming to the wedding.”

“What wedding?”

“The one you’re planning, silly! Marie and Alain’s.”

My stomach churns with agony. Tristan’s gorgeous ex is not only in Paris, but she is also attending the wedding. That means she will be seeing Tristan again after this. I’m lost for words at how small the world is. It’s suddenly become a dot so small, it’s almost invisible.

I can see the colour drain from his face, but he maintains perfect composure.

“How did you…I don’t understand.”

“Marie and I go a long way back, I went to school with her daughter Alice. Of course, when I found out you were planning the wedding I called her up and she gave me an invite! Remember the last time we came to Paris? We had
so
much fun on that trip last year—”

Tristan knits his brows, his eyes alight with concern. “How the hell did you find out about me planning this wedding? That kind of information is not privy to you.”

She looks unconcerned with his change of tone, and starts twirling her hair.

“Umm, don’t you remember who my dad is? He knows like everybody.”

I clench my jaw at the way she is looking at him. She wants him,
bad
.

Finally, after what seems like the most torturous eternity, Tristan turns to gesture to me.

“Victoria, this is Lacey. My wedding planner, we work together.”

She turns to look at me and gives me a thinly veiled smile as she scrutinises me furiously, almost in a threatening way.

I half expect her to walk over and shake my hand, or give me a hug. But she doesn’t, she remains standing where she is. Standing near Tristan.

“So where did you pick this one from? She looks a bit young to be planning your fancy schmancy events don’t you think?”

Backhanded compliment of the year, definitely. I plaster the phoniest smile on my face, eagerly hoping she decides to say goodbye soon. How long is she going to talk to him?

Tristan gives her a that-was-uncalled-for-look. “Now, now, Victoria. I’ve known her a long time and she is amazing at what she does.” He looks at me softly. “Not to mention her good looks helps a lot with my business.”

This doesn’t go unnoticed with Victoria who I swear shoots daggers at me before looking back at Tristan. “I thought you only liked blondes.”

Gosh, she sounds whiny. He’s just my boss and she’s acting like we’re a couple. Which we are definitely not.

Without giving Tristan a chance to react she walks up close to him and tugs the sleeve of his shirt. “Come on, let’s go eat at Montparnasse Tower. You must tell me all about this little
party
you are planning. We have so much to catch up on. Daddy’s been asking about you, he hates that you quit and he wants you back.”

Tristan raises an eyebrow, suddenly interested. “Really? I thought he couldn’t wait to see the back of me. If I recall his exact words, he said he never wanted to see my cocky Australian head again.”

She shakes her head and titters loudly in an annoyingly childish manner. Boy, she is really testing my patience. “No way! Daddy would never say that. He misses you,
I
miss you! Come on, let’s go nowwww!”

Victoria continues twirling her hair, twisting it back and forth with her fingers. She’s fifteen, I’m convinced she is fifteen years old. “Let’s go Hercules, I can get us right in without any reservations needed.”

Hercules?
Tristan nods non-committedly and walks up to me. “Lacey, do you want to join us?”

Victoria glares at me, making it clear she does not want me to. I ignore her and clear my throat, leaning in to talk to him.

“Umm…no I would rather not if you guys are going up so high…”

Tristan frowns. “Oh shit, yes of course. Let’s go somewhere else—”

“No, you two go ahead.” I give him a weak smile. How dare he forget about my fear of heights as soon as a pretty girl gives him attention? Is he that easily distracted?

“I wanted to do check out
Ile Saint-Louis
, so I’ll just hop on the Metro from here.”

He purses his lips. “Are you sure?”

“Promise. Have a good time, I’ll see you later.” I just want to get out of here, and away from the sight of Tristan standing with his gorgeous ex who would practically take him here and now if she could.

Waving at them quickly I start pacing down the cobble lined pavement, breathing quietly as I dart through the crowds, keen to visit the first chocolate shop I can find.

♦

You have got to be kidding me. I could kill him.

“
Non! Non! Non!
Le poisson
…fish…will be served whole, guests will serve themselves,” his annoyingly pompous French accent demands. I like a sexy French accent as much as the next woman but when I’m dealing with a chef like Claudio, something’s got to give. The chef hired by the Maria and Alain has been stubborn as a mule since I started talking to him about the escargot entrees. I have been totally put off French food. Even croissants, and I love croissants.

“The couple wants the fish to be fileted,” I insist, trying my best to hide my exasperation He’s not getting away with this.

“It ruins
le saveur
, taste!” 

“That’s what the couple wants, and you will filet the fish. End of story,” I let out a loud breath, crossing off my checklist.  “Now, the chicken cordon bleu. You’re using chicken breast and then the—”

“
Non
, I use the leg. Thighs.”

I stare at him stony-faced. The nerve of this guy, who is supposed to be a top French chef. I can totally understand if he understands how food works but this is what the couple wants, not what he wants.

Claudio isn’t a typical chef in that he was skinny, surprisingly so. Yet, in other ways he is perfectly typical. With a distinctively big nose and heavy set bags under his eyes, his chin length curly brown hair frames his heavily structured face. He’s wearing a full chef’s apron and I can see a few blotches on his it. But the most distinctive feature about him is his mouth, and the words that pour out of it.

“Where is your boss,
Monsieur
Keys?”

“He’s been busy, so you have to work with me,” I look right at him, maintaining my rigid stance. 

Claudio scoffs to himself and I clench my jaw at his rudeness. Remind me again why he was hired? Oh that’s right, Marie’s daughter insisted on it.

Tristan has been busy running other parts of the business and dealing with odd clients here and there so I’ve been pretty much running the wedding on my own. It’s a good thing actually, because I didn’t want to see him after the incident with his ex. It’s been almost four days since I’ve seen him and to be honest, the time has gone by fast with the wedding planning.

The only time that has not gone this whole trip has been this last hour I’ve spend with Claudio, whose opinion is the right one, always. I feel like I’m talking to a brick wall.

In a unique position of being the catering manager and head chef, I have to work with him on the menu my clients want but his own artistic flair is getting in the way. I’ve only been talking to him for twenty minutes in this quiet café in Bagnolet, but I can already tell what type of chef he is like. He looks like the type to prowl around the kitchen, shouting and cursing whenever he feels like it. He’s the type to only ever smile when he tastes his own food, and for everyone else he would mutter under his breath what he thinks.
Bland, too salty, dry…
or as he kept repeatedly saying,
non
!

“No thighs, just breasts. Marie and Alain have been quite clear on what they want, so just deliver them what they want. Otherwise you will be dealing with me,” I scowl at him, sick of going in circles. Not only are Marie and Alain filthy rich, they are both divorcees and this is their third wedding. They mean business and they know what they want.

I swear I see a semblance of a smirk quirk on his thin lips when I said breast. And then he looks at me, stroking his chin inquisitively.

“Okay,
Mademoiselle
Lacey, I can use the breast. But the fish will be served whole, no
negociable
!”

I nod, jotting down his apparent final stance. It does feel rather chic to be called Mademoiselle, even if it’s by this thickly accented pig-headed chef.

“Fine, I’ll speak to the couple and see what they say. No promises they will be happy with this, because if they are not I will be speaking to you again.”

He leers at me again and as he sits up he gives me a good view of his lean and broad shouldered physique, as well as a distinctive gold anchor pendant. If he wasn’t so damn insufferable, he would be quite appealing. Striking looking even, but instead he is insufferable, arrogant and boorish. And I can’t wait to wrap up this conversation.

“I’ve never seen an anchor,” I point to his neck without thinking.

“My father was fisherman. Childish, no?” He grins, and suddenly he doesn’t seem so threatening or condescending anymore.

Good, at least I was able to build rapport with him.
All it takes is to get them to talk about themselves.
I look over my checklist, satisfied that we have gone through everything. At least he agreed about the chicken, that he could agree to.

“I think we’re done here.”

Pushing my chair back, I stand up and he eyes me up and down in my tight black dress and heels.

His mouth slightly ajar, he stands up in a hurry and we go over to the counter to pay for our respective coffees.

I expect him to make his own way out of the café but instead he walks out with me, his hands in his pockets.

“So, where you staying?” he asks, and he looks surprisingly approachable now. We’re standing outside the cafe, and I can see the Mercurial Towers in the distance.

“The Hotel Jardin. Have you lived in Paris your whole life?”

“No, I grew up in Le Havre, near the ocean. The sea. I moved to Paris two years ago, it’s a great city, but home is home.”

Amen to that. I can feel my shoulders relax at his friendliness. I get it, he’s a chef and he has a particular vision of how things should look and taste. I just hope his food is spectacular.

“Well, Alain would not have hired you if you weren’t good,” I insist.

He looks chuffed at my compliment, “
Merci
! I will let you try, taste the food first okay?” he grins in a suddenly cheeky way. I guess I just had to get him to open up to get him cooperate. 

All of a sudden, somebody calls out to me.

“LACEY!”

I turn around to see Tristan standing just a few metres away. And boy, he does not look happy.