The Art of French Kissing (20 page)

“But before I bore you with more details,” she continued. “I’d like to introduce you to the reason you’re all here tonight.” She paused dramatically, and the chatter faded again as the reporters looked at her expectantly. “Ladies and gentlemen . . . I give you France’s greatest export, Guillaume Riche!”

There was a collective startled gasp, and then the clapping began. A moment later, the curtain rolled back and revealed Guillaume’s backup band. They started to play the first chords of “City of Light,” and the room exploded into applause and cheers. Poppy grinned broadly at me as she stepped down and joined me beside the stage.

“They love him!” she whispered.

“How could they not?” I said back, watching as Guillaume, looking deliciously sexy in tight leather pants and a black button-down shirt, emerged from the other side of the stage with a wireless microphone in hand. The cheering and whistling went up an octave, and the applause thickened. Guillaume smiled at the crowd and waved.

“Welcome to London!” he said with a charming smile, eliciting even more cheers. “I can’t wait to meet you all tomorrow during the interviews!”

Then he launched into the first verse of “City of Light,” and the crowd went wild, which was a very good sign. In my previous experience, I’d found that journalists tended to be a particularly unexpressive lot, as they were supposed to remain objective and judge things without emotion. But this crowd was falling hook, line, and sinker for the musical bait Guillaume was casting out, and he was expertly reeling them in with his rich voice, his heartfelt lyrics, and his smoldering gazes.

After “City of Light,” Guillaume and the band launched immediately into “La Nuit,” and the decibel level of the crowd skyrocketed as they all realized they were getting the very first exposure to one of Guillaume’s new songs.

Poppy gave me a spontaneous hug as we watched the normally staid reporters go wild. “It’s working!” she whispered. I hugged back, just as enthused.

As I gazed out contentedly over the room, I suddenly spotted Gabe toward the back of the crowd, and my heart leapt immediately into my throat. He looked perfect—and very French—in a pair of jeans, a blue oxford, a charcoal-gray suit jacket, and a black scarf, with his dark hair spiked a bit and his face smoothly shaven. He spotted me at the exact same moment I noticed him, and he grinned and raised his hand in a little wave. Then he turned his attention back to the person he was chatting with.

I took a step to my left to see who he was talking to. It was an older, gray-haired man whom I didn’t remember checking in. Perhaps Poppy had met him.

“Hey.” I nudged her. “Who’s that Gabe is talking to?”

Poppy glanced out at the audience then back at me. “Ah, so it’s Gabe, is it?”

I could feel my cheeks heat up. “What do you mean?”

“He’s the journalist you fancy, is he?” Poppy was grinning at me. She didn’t wait for me to respond. “He’s a bit of a pain sometimes, but he
is
a good guy. And rather gorgeous to boot, I admit. Good for you!”

I looked at the floor, feeling like an idiot. “Yeah, well, whatever,” I mumbled. “So do you know that guy?”

Poppy leaned to the side to see Gabe’s conversation partner, and when she leaned back, she looked troubled. “This could be a problem,” she said under her breath. “That’s Guillaume’s dad.” She took a step forward to glance at them again. “Oh, bollocks! I told him not to talk to any media! What’s he doing talking to Gabriel Francoeur?”

“Oh, no,” I said grimly.

“You’d better go over there and interrupt,” Poppy said. I nodded, gave her a worried look, and started making my way through the crowd. Just before I reached them, Guillaume’s father patted Gabe on the arm, glanced at me, and turned to walk away.

“Hi, Emma!” Gabe said quietly, reaching out to kiss me on each cheek. He glanced toward the stage, where Guillaume was still belting his heart out to “La Nuit.” It sounded amazing, and everyone in the room seemed to be standing in silence, transfixed by his performance. Except Gabe. Who didn’t seem to care. And who’d been using the time to chat up the one person we wanted to keep him away from.

“Hi,” I whispered, trying not to bother any of the other journalists. After all, I didn’t want to detract from what was, so far, the perfect performance. “You arrived okay?”

“Yes, yes,” Gabe said, glancing again toward the stage and then back at me. He smiled. “Thank you.”

“You were late,” I said. I realized immediately that it sounded like an accusation, and I felt foolish.

But he just smiled again. “You noticed.”

I cleared my throat and ignored his words. I tried to sound casual. “So, um, was that Guillaume Riche’s father you were talking to?”

Gabe hesitated but didn’t look the slightest bit guilty. “Yes.”

“I thought Poppy told him not to talk to any reporters!” I grumbled, looking crossly at Gabe.

He looked surprised and, if I’m not mistaken, a little bit wounded. “Well,” he said after a moment. “I suppose I’m not just any reporter.”

I glared at him for a moment and lowered my voice. “You know, just because I let you kiss me doesn’t mean you can get away with anything you want now.”

Gabe looked startled. “I know that, Emma,” he said.

Before I could respond, Guillaume and the band finished “La Nuit,” and Guillaume began to speak.

“Thank you all so very much,” he said. “You are a very kind audience. Now I will play one more song for you. This one is the third song from my album. It will be the second single. It is called ‘Beautiful Girl.’ Tonight, I dedicate this song to Emma, my lovely publicist, who keeps coming to my rescue. I hope you are smiling, Emma.”

My jaw dropped, and Guillaume and the band launched into the upbeat song about a man who falls in unrequited love with a woman from afar. I could feel my cheeks heat up as several journalists turned to look at me with curiosity.

“Oh, great,” Gabe muttered. “Now your rock star is dedicating songs to you.”

I glanced at him in surprise. “He’s not
my
rock star,” I stammered.

“Is something going on between you and Guillaume?” Gabe asked, staring at me.

“What? No!”

“Then why is he dedicating songs to you?” It was not an unreasonable question. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a good answer.

“I don’t know!” I insisted.

Gabe made a face but didn’t respond.

I cleared my throat and looked away, hoping that Gabe would drop the subject. I gazed around the room for a moment while Guillaume played, taking in the rapt, smiling faces of most of the journalists. His charm was so evident in a small, intimate live show. I knew half the female reporters would go back to their rooms tonight fully in love with him.

“So what time is your interview with Guillaume tomorrow?” I asked Gabe as the song wound down, hoping that we could move on to safer conversational topics. But when I looked to my left for his answer, he had disappeared. I frowned and looked around. He was nowhere to be seen.

Guillaume ended the song with a big grin, a wave, and a shouted, “I’ll see you all in a little while!” He strode offstage, and I realized I didn’t have time to worry about Gabe or where he had gone. I needed to go find Guillaume so I could escort him briefly through the reception room to meet journalists.

I found Poppy backstage.

“So? What did Gabriel say?” she asked.

“Nothing,” I said, averting my eyes.

She gave me a funny look. “No, I mean about why he was talking to Guillaume’s dad,” she said.

“Oh. Right. Well, he didn’t exactly explain.”

“That’s weird,” Poppy murmured. Just then, Guillaume appeared with his guitar case in hand.

“I’m ready for the walk-through, ladies,” he said with a grin. “How did you like the songs?”

“Oh, Guillaume, you were marvelous!” Poppy exclaimed.

“Merci beaucoup, mademoiselle
,
”
he said with a little bow. He turned to me. “
Et toi?
Emma, did you like the concert?”

“Yes, Guillaume, you did a great job,” I said.

“And the dedication? What did you think of that?”

“Um—” I didn’t know what to say. “It was . . . it was very thoughtful, Guillaume. Thank you very much.”

“You
are
a beautiful girl,” he said, staring at me intensely. I glanced at Poppy, who was looking intently at Guillaume.

I cleared my throat. “Um, well, thank you anyhow,” I said quickly. “So, uh, are you ready for the walk around the room?”

“You take him first,” Poppy piped up, making matters worse. She glanced back and forth between us then reached out her arms. “I’ll put his guitar away.” Guillaume obediently handed the instrument over, and I made a face at Poppy.

For the next twenty minutes, I led Guillaume around the room and tried to introduce him to the various journalists, all of whom were conveniently wearing
HELLO MY NAME IS
. . . stickers with their names and affiliations. I was worried at first, because this was the Get-to-Know-the-
Real
-Guillaume-Riche part of the evening, and of course Poppy and I were trying to conceal that the
real
Guillaume Riche was, at times, a raving lunatic.

But tonight, miraculously, he stayed normal. He shook hands with the men and chatted them up about soccer (if they were British), his visits to the United States (if they were American), and his love of music (if they were from anywhere else). With the women, he turned on the charm to full voltage, talking, laughing, and flirting like it was his job, which, I supposed, it was.

Eventually, after Guillaume had shaken hands with all the journalists and Poppy had wandered off to talk to a British radio host she knew, Guillaume and I made our way over to his father, who was standing near the bar in the back of the room, drinking a glass of red wine.

“Emma, have you met my father yet?” Guillaume asked as we approached. I shook my head. “I would love to introduce you. Come.”

Guillaume’s father was about five foot ten with a slender build, thin and trembling hands, and green eyes that looked surprisingly bright on a face that had sunken into itself with age. It was easy to see the resemblance between father and son; it was all in the brilliant eyes and the mop of dark hair, although the elder man’s hair was peppered with gray. Guillaume said something to his father in French, then I caught my name.

“Oui, oui, enchanté.”
Guillaume’s father smiled at me pleasantly and leaned forward to kiss me once on each cheek.

“Nice to meet you,” I said, smiling at the older man. “We are very happy to work with your son.”

“He eez, how you say, very good. Very good talent,” his father said.

I smiled. “Yes, absolutely. He’s wonderful.”

His father nodded and smiled at me.
“Merci beaucoup
,
”
he said.

Father and son talked for a few moments in rapid French, then, seeming to realize he was excluding me, Guillaume switched to English.

“So you liked the show?” he asked his father slowly.

“Oui, oui
,
”
his father said. “Eet was perfect.”

“Thanks, Papa.” Guillaume smiled. “And this party? What do you think?”

“Very nice, very nice,” his father said haltingly.

It was so strange seeing Guillaume interact with his dad. He seemed almost . . . normal.

“Guillaume,” the elder man said slowly. “I talk to Gabriel during your show. He has some, how you say, concern about you.”

My head whipped toward Guillaume. “Wait, Gabriel
Francoeur
?” I interrupted in surprise. “Your dad actually
knows
Gabriel Francoeur?”

Guillaume’s father started to say something, but then Guillaume interrupted. “Let’s just say Gabe and I go way back,” he said quickly.

I looked at him in confusion. I’d realized last night that Gabe hailed from Brittany, too, but it was an enormous region. I hadn’t thought they would actually have known each other. And why had neither man mentioned it before? I was about to ask more, but just then Poppy came flouncing up with a handsome, dark-haired man in tow.

“Guillaume!’” she bubbled, completely unaware what she was interrupting. “I would like you to meet Vick Vincent, London’s premier disc jockey and one of the people who has been pushing your record hard. He’s an old school chum of mine.”

“I don’t know that I like the adjective
old
, Poppy,” Vick boomed in a flawlessly deep deejay voice. “But indeed I’ve become one of Guillaume Riche’s supporters. Good job, mate.” He clapped Guillaume on the back.

“Thank you,” Guillaume said graciously. He took a small step back. I knew he didn’t like to be touched—unless he invited the touching. And he usually only invited touching from females, not pompous male disc jockeys.

I leaned closer to Guillaume. “You want to call it a night?” I whispered in his ear while Poppy was saying something to Vick.

Guillaume nodded. I looked around to gather his father up, too, but he had seemingly vanished. What was it with men and their disappearing acts this evening?

“Where’s your dad?” I asked Guillaume.

He glanced around and shrugged. “Don’t know,” he said. “But he’ll find his way. I’m the only one you have to worry about.”

Chapter Sixteen

T
he interviews the next day went flawlessly. Once again, Guillaume was on his best behavior, which made me nervous. I was starting to worry that his good-guy routine was too good to be true. I found myself waiting for the other shoe to drop. But so far, so good. Poppy and I took turns sitting in on the interviews all day, so we each heard him say, dozens of times, how pleased he was to be bridging the gap between France and the English-speaking world with his music.

He sang a few verses a cappella for the TV journalists who thought to request it and flirted incessantly enough that most of the women, regardless of age or experience, were reduced to giggling schoolgirls within five minutes. He looked handsome, acted charming, and came across cool, calm, and collected. In short, he was perfect.

“He’s a dream!” bubbled one starstruck reporter from the
Daily Buzz
after she emerged from her interview room.

“He’s hotter than Justin Timberlake and John Mayer and Adam Levine put together!” exclaimed a reporter from the
Orlando Sentinel.
“And omigawd, he kissed me! I’m never washing this cheek again!”

“What a charmer,” said a red-faced reporter for
The Advocate.
“I think I’m in love,” he added.

Poppy and I celebrated the success of the day’s interviews that evening in the hotel bar with a big dinner and a bottle of wine between us. Most of the journalists would be leaving in the morning, after a lavish breakfast, during which Guillaume would perform a surprise acoustic rendition of “City of Light.” Then Poppy and I were to escort Guillaume back on the four-twelve Eurostar train, so as long as we made it through tonight, we’d be through the junket virtually scot-free. Neither of us could quite believe how easy it had all been.

After dinner, Poppy yawned and said she was tired; she was thinking of turning in. I was a bit disappointed; I’d hoped that now that the bulk of the junket was over, she’d feel up for a night on the town and I’d be able to see a bit of London. Poppy had given her mobile number to the security director of the hotel so that if there was any sort of problem, we could be reached anywhere. But I’d have to resign myself instead to a night of watching pay-per-view movies on TV from my king-size hotel bed.

Thirty minutes later, I sat in bored silence in my room, flipping aimlessly through muted channels on the television. I found myself thinking of Gabe and feeling disappointed that I hadn’t seen more of him. He had somehow managed to change his interview time today without my knowing it, and I’d been taking a lunch break downstairs the entire time he was in the press suite.

I thought about calling him but eventually nixed the idea. After all, what would I say? Still, it felt strange to be all by myself in an unfamiliar city, sitting alone in a hotel room at 9 p.m. when Gabe was just a few floors away. All I could think about was how much I wanted to kiss him again.

But evidently, he wasn’t feeling the same way. If he was, he would have called me, right?
Perhaps
, said the little self-conscious voice in my head,
he was just using you to get access to Guillaume.
That couldn’t be true, could it?

Just then, the hotel phone in my room began jangling. It startled me, and I whipped my head toward it immediately. It couldn’t be, could it? Could Gabe be calling me? It had to be him, right? No one else who would want to call me knew I was here. Heart pounding, I picked up the receiver.

“Emma?” The worried voice on the other end wasn’t Gabe’s. It was Poppy’s.

“Hi,” I said, startled. “What’s wrong? Are you in your room?”

“Er, not exactly. I’m actually out.”

“You’re out? I thought you said you were tired.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” she said. “I’m kind of on a date.”

“A date?” I was shocked. I hadn’t realized that Poppy’s dating schemes extended across the Channel.

“Well, yes. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to make a big deal of it.”

“But I thought you only dated Frenchmen,” I said, confused. “Your whole French-kissing philosophy and all.”

“Er, right, well, I guess I might have forgotten to tell you that Darren still lives in London.” Poppy’s voice sounded muffled.

My jaw dropped. “Darren?” I asked. “As in ex-boyfriend, voodoo-doll Darren?”

“Er, yes,” Poppy admitted, her voice sounding strained. “We’ve sort of been, er, talking lately.”

“Ah,” I said, somewhat confused. “Like, talking talking? Romantically?”

Silence on the other end. “Maybe,” Poppy said, her voice small.

“What do your books say about getting back with an ex who broke your heart?” I asked accusingly.

Poppy paused. “I suppose they would advise against it,” she said. “But you can’t always believe everything you read.”

I pulled the receiver away from my ear for a moment and stared at it in disbelief. Poppy was still talking when I tuned back in. “Anyhow, I feel really badly about this, Emma,” she was saying. “But I just received a call from hotel security. About Guillaume.”

I groaned. “What did he do this time?”

“It seems there is some sort of party going on in his room with loud music and such.” Poppy sighed. “I’m on my way back to help you out. I know it’s just dreadful of me to ask you, but would you please go up and try to put a stop to things before they get out of hand? It’ll be another thirty minutes till I’m there, at least.”

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

“Yes, of course,” I said finally. “I’ll go right now. Don’t worry.”

“Emma, you’re a gem,” Poppy said. “I really owe you. I’m getting back there just as soon as I can.”

“Thanks,” I muttered. I forced a smile that I hoped she could hear through the phone. “Good luck with Darren, okay?”

Grumbling to myself, I threw the covers off the bed, disentangled myself from the sheets, and found a pair of jeans, an old Beatles T-shirt, and a pair of black ballet flats that were so worn I generally used them as slippers around the house. In front of the mirror, I swiped on some blush as well as a bit of mascara and lipstick so that I would look vaguely presentable. Then, grabbing my room key and sticking it into my back pocket, I reluctantly left and headed for the elevators.

Two minutes later, when the elevator doors opened on the penthouse floor, I could indeed hear loud music blasting from the direction of Guillaume’s suite.

“Can’t he control himself for
one
night?” I said aloud, throwing in a few expletives for good measure.

I had to pound on the door three times—the third time with all my strength—before the door swung open to reveal Guillaume standing there, in just a pair of jeans, holding a glass of champagne in his hand. His dark hair had gone haywire, shooting off in all directions, and he evidently hadn’t shaved since earlier in the day, as he was sporting the beginning of a five o’clock shadow. I tried to tear my eyes away from his body and focus on his face, but that took considerable effort given the obvious solidity of his pecs and the impressive definition of his chest.

I took a deep breath and locked eyes with him.

“Hi, Emma!” Guillaume said with a broad grin. “You have come to join me?”

“No, Guillaume, I haven’t come to join you.” I fixed him with a reprimanding look. “Honestly, Guillaume, can’t you keep the partying to a minimum when you’re in a hotel filled with media?”

Guillaume looked confused. “Partying?” he asked, swirling around the remainder of the champagne in his glass and downing it in a big swig. “
Chérie
, it’s just me in here.”

I looked at him suspiciously. There was no way our hard-partying rock star was entertaining
himself
with a room full of blasting music and a bottle of champagne. “Come on, Guillaume. I’m not here to get you in trouble. But please, whatever girls you have in there, just send them home before the situation gets worse.”

“Emma, I promise you,” Guillaume said, looking me dead in the eye. “It’s just me. I swear on my life.”

I locked eyes with him, and when his gaze didn’t waver after a moment, I sighed and shrugged. “Fine, whatever you say,” I said, not quite believing him. “But could you turn the music down, at least? Hotel security is getting calls.”

Guillaume stared at me for a long moment then shrugged and disappeared back into his suite, leaving me standing in the open doorway. I waited and waited for what felt like an eternity, but the volume never went down, and Guillaume never returned. I waited a bit more. Then, looking from side to side to make sure no one was watching who might get the wrong idea, I left the door ajar and walked into the suite and down the hallway to find Guillaume—or at the very least, to find the volume knob on the stereo, which was currently blasting an old Rolling Stones album.

“Guillaume?” I called out above the music as I made my way down the suite’s long hallway and into the living room. “Where did you go?”

Just before I reached the living room, Guillaume appeared from around the corner, scaring me half to death. I jumped, startled. Guillaume grinned and thrust a full flute of champagne toward me.

“Guillaume? What are you doing?” I demanded, eyeing the bubbly warily. Inside the glass, it fizzed mesmerizingly.

Guillaume thrust the glass forward again insistently. “Drink up, Emma!” he said cheerfully. “We must toast!”

“Guillaume, I—”

“Listen, Emma,” he said. “The hotel gave me two complimentary bottles of this wonderful champagne. Now, it’s up to you, of course, but if you don’t have a drink with me, I’ll be forced to drink both bottles myself.”

“Guillaume—” I began wearily, but this time he interrupted before I could even get to the frustrated eye rolling.

“We both know what happens when I drink too much,
oui
?” he continued. “So really, if you think about it, it’s in your best interest to drink with me, because that’s less champagne for me, now, isn’t it?”

I started to say something, but the protest got lost in my throat. After all, he was right, wasn’t he? I couldn’t exactly argue with the more-for-me-equals-less-for-him theory, could I?

“Fine,” I said, reluctantly accepting the glass. “But only if you promise to turn the music down.”

Guillaume beamed at me. “As you wish, my dear.” He raised his glass and waited until I reluctantly raised mine, too, in a toast. “Here’s to you, my dear Emma,” Guillaume said. I made a face as we clinked glasses, and Guillaume looked delighted. He waited until I took a small sip from my glass.

“The volume, Guillaume?” I reminded him.

“Ah, of course, of course!” he said. He dashed toward the living room. The moment he had turned his back, I emptied half my flute of champagne into the potted plant at the end of the hallway. Then I innocently righted the glass and put my lips to the edge as if I’d been sipping it just in time for Guillaume to return.

“Emma, you
do
drink!” he exclaimed, eyeing my glass with delight. “Very good! Very good!”

I smiled wanly at him.

“Well, aren’t you going to come in?” he asked. “Or do we have to drink standing up in the hall?”

I didn’t see that I had much of a choice. With any luck, I could sit beside another potted plant and proceed to get rid of as much of Guillaume’s champagne as possible before he could drink it and do something stupid. I followed Guillaume into the living room. He grabbed the open bottle of champagne from where it sat in a bucket of ice, and topped off my glass.

“Have a seat, Emma,” he said, gesturing to the couch. “Please, make yourself at home. My suite is your suite, my sweet,” he said, laughing uproariously at his own pun.

“Thank you.” I tried to stifle a yawn. It had been a long day, and I should have been falling asleep in my own bed, not playing AA sponsor to my client. This surely wasn’t in my job description, although I had to admit that very little of what I’d had to deal with in the past few weeks fell under the umbrella of officially outlined duties.

I sat down on the couch, beside another potted plant, feeling a bit surprised at how comfortable the cushions were.

“So,” Guillaume said, settling down beside me. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong? Or do I have to begin guessing?”

I looked at him, startled. “Nothing’s wrong. What do you mean?”

Guillaume shook his head knowingly. “You were sulking today.”

“I wasn’t sulking!”

Guillaume laughed. “Yes, you were. You were sulking. You cannot deny it.”

I sighed. “It’s nothing.” I took a long sip of the champagne—one sip couldn’t hurt—and felt a small tingle of warmth spread over me.

Guillaume watched me closely. His near nudity was beginning to get to me.

“Could you put a shirt on please?” I asked crossly. I took another sip. After all, if I was going to have to sit here with him and dispose of half his champagne, I would appreciate us both being fully clothed.

But Guillaume only laughed. “It’s hot.” He shrugged. “Does my body offend you?”

No
, I wanted to say.
It’s making me feel attracted to you.

“No,” I said. “It just seems weird that you don’t have a shirt on.”

Guillaume laughed again, shrugged, and made no move to go put more clothes on. Instead he topped off my glass again. Obediently, I took another sip. I was starting to feel the alcohol, but not enough to worry about it. Just enough to relax me a little. Besides, it was all for the greater good. Every sip I drank was one less that Guillaume could consume.

After a moment of silence, Guillaume tried again. “So? Are you going to tell me what is bothering you? I want to help.”

I studied his face for a moment. He certainly appeared genuine. His usual smirk was gone, and he simply looked concerned.

“Fine.” I sighed and glanced away. “Look, it’s just that I’m confused, you know?” I turned back to Guillaume and found him listening to me carefully. “I mean, Poppy offered me a permanent job in Paris, working with you, and I think I want to take it. I really do. But I’m just not sure it’s the right decision.”

“Pourquoi?”
Guillaume asked, leaning forward with interest. I took another sip of my champagne and glanced away. Really, I hadn’t intended to share so much.