The Good Girl's Guide to Bad Men (30 page)

And now I had to admit, when I glanced over at the American at the bar, dressed in his smart black suit, crisp white button-up, and conservative navy striped tie, he looked so . . . stiff. And boring.

The American swigged down the last of his wine, and I sidled over with the bottle. "Another glass?"

He nodded gratefully, and I poured.

"Well, I'm positive my client won't agree to those terms," the French man was saying in impressively solid English. "He's not going to spend a half a million euros on tenant improvements for a five-year lease. It's just not worth it. He has no guarantees that you will renew the lease in five years or that your company will even make it here for that long."

"We'll make it," the American assured him, sounding cocky and confident as only a slick American businessman can. "Projections for the European market are extremely strong."

I finished pouring and indicatively held up the bottle to the second man. He nodded and pointed toward his glass. I began refilling it.

"But this is your first venture outside the United States," the French man replied. "And projections are just that: projections. They are not guarantees. Now if you agreed to sign a ten-year lease, then I'd have something to go back with."

The American man shook his head, keeping his composure despite his evident aversion to this suggestion. "Look, we both know this space has been vacant for more than eighteen months. I'm sure your client hasn't enjoyed covering the mortgage out of his own pocket. He needs cash flow. And we can help. But if he doesn't agree to the terms, we'll have no choice but to set up the European headquarters in Brussels."

I stifled a groan as I listened to the conversation.

What a bunch of bullshit, I thought. Brussels? Yeah, right. It was so obvious that this man was absolutely
desperate
to set up his company's new offices in Paris.

"The Belgian landlord has already agreed to the five-year lease term
and
the five hundred K in improvements. All we have to do is sign the paperwork," the American was now saying.

I fought back a laugh. Another load of crap.

The wineglass in front of me was nearly full, but I just kept on pouring. I was hardly paying attention to what I was doing because I was too distracted waiting for the Frenchman to call the American's obvious bluff.

But he didn't. His expression remained grim and defeated, and he sighed in frustration, clearly not catching on to this blatant lie at all.

Then I heard a gasp, and I looked down to see a sea of red wine flooding the top of the bar and spilling over the edge. I jumped in surprise and pulled up the bottle. The two businessmen had leapt up from their seats to avoid a Cabernet shower.

"Oh, God!" I exclaimed as I mopped up the mess. "I'm so sorry about that. I just totally blanked out."

"It's fine," they both assured me with smiles, although the Frenchman's was slightly less genuine. No doubt his head was still stuck on the ultimatum he had just received.

The American excused himself to use the restroom and try to reduce some of the stain's damage, and I continued to wipe up the spill and apologize profusely.

"Je suis si desolée,"
I transitioned into French.

"Pas de problème,"
the Frenchman repeated, wiping his pants with a spare napkin I had tossed to him. "The deal was going sour anyway. It was perfect timing, in fact."

I studied him intently, taking note of the disappointment on his face. Did he really not know the man was lying? Was it really not obvious?

My mind flashed back to the dinner meeting I had attended with Jamie. I thought Hank Chandler's bluff about having an offer from another company was the most transparent thing in the world, but Jamie didn't have a clue.

Ever since I had arrived in Paris, I had found it difficult to read French men. But that man in the bathroom was American. And I had been able to read his true intentions as clear as day. Was it really just a question of language? Did the secret behind my special men-reading superpower all come down to nationality?

"You know," I began cautiously, eyeing the restroom for the American's return, "he doesn't have the option to go to Brussels."

He looked up at me with curious eyes. "What are you talking about?"

I continued wiping the bar with slow, purposeful strokes. "I overheard what he said. About putting the European headquarters in Brussels." I shook my head. "It's a lie. He has to put it in Paris."

The man continued to study me with apprehension. "How do you know that?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. I just do. To me, the lie is as obvious as that wine stain on your shirt."

He glanced down at the front of his soiled pink shirt, wiping it haphazardly with his napkin. He was far less concerned about the stain than he was about the questionable information I was imparting to him.

"And I'm sorry about both," I offered quietly. "The stain
and
the lie."

Another stunned silence. He wasn't sure what to make of this new development. Or if he should even believe it. "So what are you suggesting I do?"

I tossed the now-red rag into a bucket of soapy water by my feet. "Don't give in to his demands. He'll rent the space regardless."

The American returned to the bathroom just then and tossed a fifty-euro bill down on the bar. "Let's get out of here," he said. "I've got an early call tomorrow morning with the New York office."

The Frenchman nodded absently and followed his drinking buddy out the door. He took one last inquiring glance in my direction, and I smiled back, happy to have offered some advice that didn't have to do with someone's love life. Whether he took it or not.

Pierre showed up a few minutes later and ordered his usual Jupiler beer. Like every night, tonight he stayed with me until it was time to close up. It was all part of our usual routine. I sometimes wondered why he never seemed to have anything else to do than come down here five nights a week and drink beer at the bar. But I always assumed it was because he enjoyed my company as much as I enjoyed his. He would always tell me funny stories and jokes while I cleaned up the bar and counted out my cash register. And then after Carlos locked the door behind us, he would usually offer to walk me back to my apartment, which I would always insist was unnecessary since I lived only a block away. Then we would part ways with a double-cheek kiss. Very French.

Yes, he was attractive, and I definitely noticed how the American female tourists and even the French local women looked at him when they came into the cafe. But I never saw him as anything more than that: a double-cheek kiss.

And he seemed perfectly fine with our casual, platonic relationship. Never crossing the line, never implying or hinting that we could be anything more than just friends.

Which is probably why I didn't see it coming when he asked me out.

Although in retrospect I probably
should
have. You would think that someone who had flirted with men for a living would have been able to pick up on something like that. But whatever the reason, I was caught completely off guard.

Carlos had just locked the door behind us and I was still buttoning up my coat when Pierre said,
"Tu veux dîner avec moi demain soir?"

I stopped midbutton, and my hands fell lifelessly to my sides. My head slowly tilted toward him as I struggled to keep the look of panic from registering on my face.

I knew what the sentence
translated
to: "Do you want to have dinner with me tomorrow night?"
Dîner
is one of those classic French verbs that you learn early on because it's easy to remember and its conjugation is regular.

But I couldn't be sure what kind of "dining" he was referring to. Because obviously it was one thing to grab a ham-and-cheese sandwich from one of those carts on the sidewalk, but it was quite another to sit down to a candlelit meal at some romantic French bistro. Plus, he was so casual about the whole thing. Just slipping the question into the conversation as if it were nothing. What if
dîner
was just another of those "false friends" that I kept learning about? And in this context it actually meant "to visit an educational museum in a very platonic, nonsexual way"?

Pierre laughed at my stunned silence, and it was then that I realized my mouth was hanging open. "Can I take that as a yes?" he asked hopefully.

I quickly shut my gaping jaw. "Um," I stuttered, trying to find the right words. They didn't really teach you how to let someone down easy in high school French class. "I . . . I don't think so," was my eloquent reply.

"Pourquoi pas?"
he immediately asked, his face dripping with evident disappointment. French men certainly didn't have any problems showing their emotions. An admirable quality. Just not for me. Not now.

I knew that after I said no, things probably wouldn't be the same between us. That's how it always is when someone reveals secret feelings that turn out to be unrequited. And the thought of losing Pierre as a friend saddened and frustrated me at the same time. Because knowing that all his helpfulness and affections and funny jokes had probably been just one big ruse to take things to the next level suddenly made me feel somewhat betrayed. As though
he
had been the
faux ami.

I continued buttoning up my jacket, this time with considerably more fervor than when I had first started. "Because I just don't think it would be a good idea."

Pierre looked at me with a slightly confused expression. "Do you have a boyfriend?"

I yanked my gloves out of my pocket and slid them over my hands. "No."

"But you used to," he speculated observantly. Then, upon seeing my silent reaction, he added, "Very recently."

Emotionally transparent
and
astute. What a combo.

"Yes," I replied curtly, wrapping my scarf tightly around my neck as if I were preparing for a mile-long stroll across town, not the fifty paces it took to get to my dad's apartment from here. "I used to, but not anymore."

He cocked his head to the side and studied my distressed expression. "That's why you're here, isn't it? In Paris."

I stared down at the ground, kicking my left toe against the sidewalk. "I'm here for a lot of reasons."

Pierre sensed my uneasiness and placed his hand gently on my shoulder. "I can help you forget him. French men are good at that sort of thing."

I chuckled politely. But it wasn't because what he said had been funny. It was because the very same thought had crossed my mind the minute he asked me to dinner. I knew that Pierre was the kind of man who
would
make me forget about Jamie. Or at least distract me long enough for the pain to dull. And believe me, it was tempting. As tempting as a lifeboat in a tumultuous sea.

I hesitated, fingering the frayed ends of my cashmere scarf. "I'm sorry, Pierre," I replied as graciously as possible. "I just don't think I can."

I expected his shoulders to slouch, his head to drop, and his hands to shove into his pockets in bitter defeat. But instead he just flashed me this coy little smile, as if he knew something I didn't, and leaned forward to kiss me on both cheeks.

"You'll change your mind," he assured me. The way he said it wasn't in any way foreboding or threatening. In fact, it was actually somewhat endearing. He was so confident of himself, as though he had been given a rare glimpse into the future. I had to laugh.

He grinned back at me.
"Oui?"
he presumed, misreading my amusement.

I laughed again.
"Peut-être,"
I finally admitted with a shy smile.

And it was true. Maybe I would change my mind. Maybe someday I would wake up in the morning and the first thought that popped into my head wouldn't be about Jamie. And maybe one night I would fall asleep to the fantasy of someone else's arms wrapped around me. But I knew I couldn't depend on anyone else to save me. I had to get there myself. In my own time. With my own lifeboat.

When I got home from the bar that night, my dad informed me that someone named Zoë had called for me on the landline while I was gone.

My immediate response was disbelief. Zoë hadn't returned any of my calls or answered any of my e-mails since I got here more than a month ago. "Are you sure it wasn't Sophie?" I verified, standing in the middle of the living room with skeptical eyes.

My dad pursed his lips. "Pretty sure she said Zoë." He nodded toward a piece of paper on the kitchen counter. "I took a message and told her you'd call her back when you got home."

I felt nerves boiling up in my stomach. I checked my watch. "What time is it there?"

My dad glanced at the clock on the stereo. "A little after three in the afternoon."

"Thanks!" I said as I grabbed the landline phone from the cradle and skidded down the hallway toward my room, dialing Zoë's number as I went.

The line rang twice before she picked up. "Hi," she said in a low voice without any formalities.

"Hi," I returned in an equal tone, even though my heartbeat was racing. "I'm glad you called. I've been wanting to talk to you for so long and—"

"I know," she interrupted, clearly not wanting me to keep going. "I need to tell you something, and I need you not to speak until I'm done."

There was a certain firmness to her voice that caught me off guard. It didn't sound like Zoë. She was too calm, too reserved, and I had a feeling I was in for a harangue. But I also had no doubt that I deserved it. And if listening patiently while she got a month's worth of frustration off her chest was what it was going to take to get my friend back, I was more than happy to do so.

"Okay," I obliged softly.

Zoë took a deep breath that I could hear from across the entire Atlantic Ocean. "Dustin and I broke up," she stated. I imagined this was the part where I was supposed to stay quiet. So I did.

"After you told his wife," she continued, the emotional struggle apparent in her voice, "things were pretty good for a while. We didn't have to sneak around anymore, and I felt like I finally had the relationship that he'd been promising me since we started dating.

"But then Alice filed for divorce. And he panicked and tried to leave me. He mumbled something about losing his kids and his house and the only family he'd ever known. I tried to remind him of his promise to me, that he was already planning to leave her. And he
did
promise me that. And I really think that he meant it . . . at the time. . . ." Her voice trailed off for a moment, as if she were trying to muster the strength to continue. "But as soon as the reality of it all set in, as soon as it was
her
who was doing the leaving, then suddenly it wasn't so appealing anymore."

She exhaled loudly and painfully. "Apparently, Alice told him that she'd take him back if he left me and started seeing a shrink. And that was that. I was dumped. Like a hooker he had picked up on Hollywood Boulevard. I was no longer useful."

There was a time not too long ago when I'd willed this day to come. When I'd fantasized about how good I would feel when it did. Satisfied, triumphant, pleased with myself. But I felt none of that now. My heart did not rejoice. It only broke for her.

"Oh, Zoë," I cried, wishing I could reach through the phone and comfort her. "I'm so sorry. I can't belie— Oh wait, can I talk now?"

She laughed weakly. "Yes. Go ahead."

"I can't believe he would do that to you," I continued.

"Yes, you can," she stated matter-of-factly. "It's exactly what you said would happen."

I bowed my head in shame. "I'm so sorry about what I said and what I did. I shouldn't have sold you out like that. I should have supported you. The way you always supported me, through all my horrible, not to mention
unethical,
mistakes."

"I know," Zoë stopped me before the apologies started flooding out with no foreseeable end. "I got your e-mails."

I could hear the faint smile on her lips, and I smiled back. "Right."

"But you were right," she pointed out. "About all of it. And if you hadn't told her, I would still be with him. And this horrible breakup would have been prolonged even longer. Possibly years. And I can't even imagine how much that would have hurt."

Even though Zoë was letting me off the hook, I couldn't seem to do the same for myself. I still felt the need to earn her forgiveness. "I still should have chosen you," I whispered.

"Yes," she agreed. "And I should have told you about him from the beginning. I was afraid of what you might say. Because I knew I would have to deny it, and yet deep down, I also knew that you would be right."

"Trust me when I say that this brings me no joy."

She laughed. "I trust you." Then after a brief pause, "Now, can we forget this sappy bullshit and start talking about real stuff?"

I laid my head down on the pillow and smiled into the phone as I began to fill her in on everything that had happened to me in the past month.

Zoë was back.

When I arrived at Cafe Bosquet the next night for my shift, Carlos informed me that someone was waiting for me at the bar.

A knowing smirk stretched across my lips as I tied my apron around my waist and crossed the restaurant. I had been feeling anxious about seeing Pierre all day, wondering how he would react to our conversation last night. Wondering if he would even continue to come in and see me.

But when I reached the bar, I saw that it wasn't, in fact, Pierre who had been waiting for me, but a man I didn't recognize.

"Bonsoir,"
he said politely, rising from his bar stool.

"Bonsoir,"
I replied warily, trying to figure out who he was and why had supposedly told the owner that he was here to see me.

"I don't know if you remember me," he transitioned smoothly into perfect English with just the trace of an accent. "I was in here last night with an American man. We were discussing his company's plans to open a European headquarters in Paris—"

"Of course!" I interrupted, recognition instantly flashing across my face. "The guy with the
big
opportunity in Brussels." There was clear mocking in my tone as I remembered the bogus ultimatum the American had given him. Well, at least it had been bogus to
me.
If I remembered correctly, this guy didn't doubt its authenticity for a second.

The man in front of me smiled. "Yes. That one. I wanted to talk to you about it."

I made my way to the side of the bar and ducked under the lift-up countertop. "Sure. Would you like something to drink?"

He nodded gratefully. "Yes. A glass of Bordeaux would be great."

I smiled and turned to grab a glass from the rack.

The man reclaimed his seat as he watched me pour the drink. "If I may, I'd like to ask how you knew he was lying. About being able to set up the deal in Brussels."

I slid the wineglass across the bar to him. "I'm just perceptive, I guess . . . about men."

"Yes, very," he agreed, sipping his wine.

I chuckled and leaned back against the counter behind me. "It seems to work better on Americans than anyone else, I've recently discovered."

He leaned forward, intrigued. "So you just have this sense when men are lying?"

I shrugged. "Yeah, I guess you could put it that way." I didn't feel like telling a perfect stranger that it was a bit more than just a sense. That I actually had the ability to read men's minds.

Unfortunately, my answer didn't seem to satisfy him. "But how did you know that the French distributor would only work with him if he was located in Paris?"

I scrunched up my mouth in confusion. That part I certainly didn't remember. "I didn't. I don't know even know what you're talking about."

Frustration flashed briefly over his face. "But when he was in the bathroom, you told me that he had to put the headquarters in Paris. I remember."

"Oh, right," I replied, suddenly recollecting that part of the conversation. "Well I didn't know exactly what all the details were, but I could just
sense"
—I chose his word—"that he had to put the offices here."

The man gazed at me, awestruck. "But how?" he insisted.

I shrugged again, starting to feel uncomfortable under all this scrutiny. "I don't know," I said. "I just did. I could hear it in his voice and see it on his face."

"Well, how is it that you were able to see and hear those things and I wasn't?" The man's frustration was back. Clearly I had him doubting his keen negotiation skills.

"Maybe because I'm a woman," I stated simply.

He found humor in this and laughed. "You're probably right." He took a long gulp of his wine, not bothering to swish it around in his mouth to absorb the flavor. "Well, I just wanted to come by and tell you that you were spot-on. He
was
lying. And when I told him this morning that my client wasn't going to accept his terms and that he should probably just take the deal in Brussels, he caved."

Unable to hide my contentment, I felt a sly, satisfactory smirk stretch across my lips. Not that I needed him to come here to tell me that I was right. My instincts were rarely ever wrong.

"Then I found out the French distributor that he had agreed to partner with wasn't going to work with him unless he was located in Paris."

"Well, there you go," I said, crossing my arms over my chest. "Congrats on winning the deal."

He shook his head, his expression troubled. "But that's just the thing. I wouldn't have won if it weren't for you. My client probably would have been the one to give in."

I smiled, thinking about how I had saved Jamie's firm $50,000 in pretty much the same way. But then the thought of Jamie started to make my stomach wrench, so I struggled to push it from my mind.

The man finished off his wine and I offered to pour him another, but he declined politely. "I have to get home for dinner. My wife's cooking." He stood up and removed a ten-euro bill from his wallet and a cream-colored business card from his pocket, then placed them both on top of the bar. "But I wanted to leave you my card."

I took a step forward and slid the card over to me. "Alain Dumont," I read the name on the front.

He grinned.
"Enchanté."

"A corporate real estate broker?"

"Yes. My firm does a lot of work with American corporations coming to Europe."

Jean-Luc, one of the cafe waiters on duty tonight, approached the bar just then and ordered two drinks for one of his tables. "A vodka soda and a Heineken,
s'il te plaît."

I smiled graciously and placed the man's business card in my pocket before turning to prepare the drinks. "Well, I'll be sure to pass along your name to any American business owners who come into the bar."

He seemed to find amusement in that. "No," he replied, shaking his head. "Actually, I was hoping I could hire you."

I nearly dropped the bottle of vodka I was pouring from.
"Hire
me? To do what?"

He looked at me as if the answer were obvious. "To help me negotiate. To use that sixth sense of yours or whatever it is."

Jean-Luc glanced uneasily between the two of us, knowing that he had missed some important piece of this conversation. I hastily finished off his drink order and splashed them down onto his tray. He hoisted it up and disappeared around the corner.

I turned back to the man now identified as Alain Dumont. He was staring at me expectantly. "Well?"

I threw up my hands. "Well what?"

"I have another deal with an American company coming up in a few days, and I could really use your help. I'll pay you well. A percentage of my fee." He glanced around the bar. "I assure you it'll be more than you're making here."

I slinked back against the counter, disbelief on my face. "You really want to
pay
me just to tell you if a man is lying?"

Now it was his turn to shrug. "Pretty much."

I nodded slowly, taking it all in.

He picked up on my hesitation. "Look, you have my card. Take your time. Think it over and get back to me."

And with the flash of a smile, he was out the door, leaving me wondering what the hell had just happened.

I continued to lean against the back of the bar, staring out into space and trying to process the conversation that had passed between us. A stranger had just offered me a job. Just like that. And I had to admit, it was a highly intriguing offer. A chance to use my men-reading superpower
without
ending up in a hotel room at the end of the night? I didn't even know a job like that existed.

But then again, I didn't know that fidelity inspectors existed until I actually became one.

So I suppose it was fitting.

And although the magnitude of what would eventually transpire from Alain Dumont's offer would not become completely apparent until much later on, I had a feeling something was about to change.

Looking back, though, I suppose it was fairly obvious.

I had found my next calling.

Or rather, it had found me.