Amanda's Guide to Love (5 page)

Then she felt her own.

Oh, what the heck.

She untied the strings of her
bikini top, letting the skimpy triangles of fabric fall against her tummy.

He drew in a ragged breath and
stepped closer. With a low growl, he pressed his palms
on
the wall behind her, imprisoning her between his
out
stretched
arms.

For a moment they just stood there,
eyeing each other. As more heat pooled between her legs, Amanda marveled at the
intensity of her lust. She wasn’t used to reacting this way to a man. Even Rob
hadn’t provoked such untamed want in her.

And Kes . . . She
stared into his eyes, trying to gauge the extent of his desire. The only thing
that came to mind was wild. He burned for her. She could swear she saw tiny
flames lick the inside of his dark irises. Besides, the air in the cabin was
definitely getting warmer. As for the blood in her veins, it was beginning to
boil.

With his gaze never leaving hers,
Kes slowly leaned forward and cupped one of her breasts.

She closed her eyes. When she felt his
soft, warm lips around her hardened nipple, she threw her head back and nearly
purred with pleasure. He suckled and kneaded her breasts until she planted her
palms against his chest and pushed him away.

He drew back, his eyes clouded and
his breathing fast. “Amelie.”

She smiled and untied the little
bows of her bikini bottom.

He pushed his trunks down and
stepped out of them.

She looked him over.
“Oh oui.”

In the frenzy of the minutes that
followed, they stroked each other’s bodies with the clumsy and greedy fervor of
unbridled lust.

“We can’t.” Amanda’s face contorted
in despair. “We need a condom.”

He picked up his bag and retrieved
a foil packet from a zipped pocket.

She let out a sigh of relief and
then narrowed her eyes at him. “You planned for this to happen, didn’t you?”

“Good thing I did.” He sheathed
himself, then held the empty packet up and said, “Or else you’d have me snatch
one of these from an innocent tourist.”

She couldn’t help grinning.

Kes dropped the foil and stepped
closer. Effortlessly, he
picked
her
up
, whispering hot and unfamiliar words in her ear.

She wrapped her legs around his
waist and clutched his neck. It felt amazing to be lifted like this and held
against his sculpted chest with their eyes and lips at the same level. She gave
him a sultry look and bit her lower lip for more impact.

His reaction was priceless—he
looked at her as a starved man would look at a yummy meal before devouring it.

She combed her fingers into his
thick hair and pressed her lips to his in a scorching kiss. His tongue pushed
into her mouth. It still tasted of coffee and perhaps a little sea salt, but
its strongest flavor was that of pure masculinity. Without breaking the kiss,
he pressed her hard against the wall and entered her in one deep, delicious
thrust.

And then he pounded
like there was no tomorrow.

“Can I take you out to dinner
sometime, Amelie?” he asked when they sat at the edge of the promenade boards
to take a last look at the sea.

“No.” She didn’t bother
elaborating.

He blinked and gave her a wry
smile. “I expected something evasive and noncommittal like ‘maybe’ or ‘let’s
see.’ But
. . .
wow.”

She shrugged. “What’s the point in
saying maybe when I know it’s a no?”

“None.” He turned to gaze at the
sea. “None whatsoever.”

She studied him. That strong neck.
The delicious biceps. The olive skin. The raven hair and ah . . .
those long-lashed obsidian eyes.

The man was a fire-spitting,
steel-melting furnace.

Which, incidentally, only
aggravated his unsuitability.

Look your fill because you’ll never
see him again.

“I’m grateful for your help last
night,” she said, feeling she owed him a little explanation, after all. “And I
really enjoyed the sex. But I don’t want to start something that would lead
nowhere. I guess I’m too old for dead-end flings.”

There was no way she was going out
with him. Amanda imagined a headline in
Voici
: “Disgraced Hotshot Amanda
Roussel Dates Gypsy Gambler.” And under the headline, there’d be a photo of her
and Kes holding hands. The photo caption would say, “In the wake of her
spectacular downfall, former ENS executive Mademoiselle Roussel, who used to
date captains of industry, adjusts her standards. Who do you think
will
be her next rendezvous? Our bets are on a hip
hop musician.”

She had no doubt the photo would be
all over Facebook within hours, especially in the
news
feeds
of ENS staff. And when it reached Vivienne’s eyes—because it
would—Amanda would never hear the end of it. Her mother would say, “I’m so
disappointed,
ma
chérie
.” She’d remind her that getting fired was
bad enough, but at least it hadn’t been Amanda’s fault. Whereas this . . .
this was an unpardonable lapse of judgment in someone who was hoping to go far.

Amanda
winced. “We’ll just
pretend this weekend never happened, OK?”

He gave a nonchalant shrug. “What
weekend?”

She flashed him her canned smile
then turned toward the sea—and shuddered.

Because sadness had finally kicked
in. Her mind already back in Paris, the delayed reaction to Friday’s events at
the office hit her with a formidable force. She felt
nauseated
and defeated. If only she could push that day out of her mind as easily as she’d
dismissed this interlude with Kes. If only she could pretend that Friday had
never happened. If she could concentrate all her willpower and erase how she’d
been robbed of her job—the only thing she was good at, the source of her
self-worth and pride.

Her only true love.

* * *

The Gypsy
Pilgrimage

~ ~ ~

A Woman’s Guide to Perfection

Guideline # 3

The Perfect Woman bounces back from
job loss easily.

Rationale
: Job loss is a stressful event
,
but it’s also banal. In the past, jobs were
stable. Today’s jobs are to be treated like today’s boyfriends: act as if it
were forever, but don’t expect to be on your first when you retire.

Word
of caution
: When
you love a job, losing it may seem unfair, no matter the circumstances. Often,
the injustice is harder to accept than the financial fallout.

Permissible
exception
: You’re
allowed to sulk for a short while. Just make sure to limit it to a maximum of
3.5 days. After that, get a grip and jump into action.

Damage
control
: Do all
the things recommended in men’s magazines (tap into your networks, treat
finding employment as a job, stay future-focused, etc.). In addition, do the
following:

• get a new
  haircut and hair color,
  
• lose or gain a
  few strategic kilos, as needed,
  
• if you’re
  single, consider getting laid (but make sure to follow Guideline # 1 on ONS),
  
• list all the
  exes that ditched you and look them up. Some of them might be in a position to
  hire you or help you get hired. Use their lingering guilt to your advantage.
  

Pitfalls
to avoid:
feeling
ashamed or inadequate and blaming yourself. Please refer to
Rationale
above: It wasn’t your fault. It couldn’t be—it can never be—because you’re
perfect. It’s just a result of the current job market, or your boss’s poor
judgment, poor eyesight, poor hearing, dyslexia, ADHD, OCD, vanity, jealousy,
and downright stupidity.

~ ~ ~

“My boy,
ap
katé
. Come closer
—
let me take a good look
at you!” Levna Moreno encased Kes’s face with her hands and pulled him down to
her height.

“Mama, it’s been only a month.” He
laughed, presenting his left cheek for her hearty kiss.

“A month away from the clan, among
the gadje
,
is a long time.” She planted
another loud smooch on his right cheek, ruffled his hair, and finally let go of
him.

“It’s good to be back,” he said.

“I’ll pray to Saint Sara tomorrow
that you never leave your family again.”

“Don’t waste your prayers on a
losing battle. Pray for Nouna’s health instead.”

She gave him a disapproving look.
“Of course I will. She’s waiting for you in the caravan
,
by the way.”

He turned to go to the family RV,
but Levna grabbed his arm.

“Kes, I know you’re making good
money and sharing it with your family, like a good son should, but . . .
”

“But what?” He knew what this was
about—he endured the same conversation every time he visited.

“The way you live—it’s wrong, my
son. It’s not the Gitan way. You’re soiling yourself.”

He sighed and stared at her. There
was no point in arguing. He had tried more times than he could remember and had
lost every one of those arguments. He’d quarreled with his parents, uncles,
aunts, and other clan elders until they shouted themselves hoarse, until the
campfire could no longer be revived, and until the rising sun took everyone by
surprise.

But there was no convincing them
that his choices were not so terrible. He’d gone away to live by himself among
the unclean non-Gypsies—the gadje—and had broken a number of age-old
traditions. He had refused several Gitan brides his parents had found for him,
and he mingled with said gadje more than was strictly necessary.

The clan hadn’t banished him yet,
but he had a feeling their “king” itched to do just that.

As he stepped into the caravan, he
took a few moments to adjust to the dim light, in such contrast with the
brightness outside. Nouna was in bed, propped up with large pillows and
embroidering a piece of frilly cloth. He smiled. His grandmother wouldn’t be
caught idling, which included reading and watching TV, even when she was ill.

“Ah, the black sheep has arrived,”
she said, putting her work aside and stretching her arms toward him.

He sat on the edge of the bed and
hugged her. She’d grown so small and frail, diminishing with his every visit.
But her eyes were still bright, and her tongue was as sharp as ever.

He stroked her white hair. “How are
you, Nouna?”

“
Mitcho,
my boy. Especially
now that you’re here. I knew you’d come for Sara la Kali’s Festival.”

“I’ve never missed Saint Sara’s
celebration.”

“And that may be the only thing
standing between you and banishment.” She put her withered hand on his cheek.

“Come on, Nouna. They won’t throw
me out. Banishment is for lying, cheating
,
and
other crimes against the community. I have committed none.”

She sighed and pulled him to her
narrow chest. “Come to your senses,
racli
, will you? Return
to
where you belong and take a wife. You’re my
favorite grandchild, and I swear I’ll die the day you’re cast out.”

He drew back and tut-tutted. “This
is pure blackmail.”

“Not at all. I saw it in the
cards.” She grabbed his hand and cla
s
ped it to
her chest. “And in my heart.”

Nouna had always had a penchant for
drama.

Someone entered the caravan.

“
Tata
!” Kes stood to greet
his father.

“We’ll need your assistance tomorrow.”
Django Moreno patted his son’s cheek.

“I’ll be honored.” Kes hoped his
father could see he meant it. “What do you need me to do?”

“I’ll be carrying Sara’s statue, so
I won’t be able to help with channeling and controlling the crowd—”

“Hang on
.
A
re you telling me the elders picked you to be
one of the riders who carry Saint Sara into the sea?”

“That is correct,” Django said with
visible pride. “Luckily, they turned a blind eye to your antics when
considering my candidacy.”

Kes chose to ignore that comment.
“Congrats, Tata, you’re moving up in the world.”

“Yes, well, what
you
need to
focus on is that the mayor’s office expects fifty thousand pilgrims to show up
tomorrow. We’ll have the usual crowd of Gitan and Manouche
Gypsies
but
also lots of Roma from Eastern Europe. Many of them are participating for the
first time, so you need to keep your eyes open.”

“Do we expect gadje tourists like
last year?”

“More than last year. They mainly
come for the party afterward, but many of them will also want to join the
procession. One of your tasks is to discourage as many gadje as you can from
entering the church.”