French kiss (14 page)

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her lips touched Sven's perfect earlobe. "And I do speak English. But we won't be talking much, will we?"

Taking her cue --
he's practically a genius!
Alexa thought -- Sven lowered his face and kissed her, soft and deep. Delighting in the feel of his lips on hers, Alexa moved her hand to the back of Sven's head, intensifying the kiss. A second later, though, some of Sven's hair got into her mouth, so Alexa pulled back, giggling and wiping her lips.
The perils of kissing a longhaired boy.
Normally, when fooling around,
Alexa
liked to be the one with the hair dramatically spilling everywhere. Maybe a guy with a shaved head would actually have been better.

"Watch it," Sven chided her, shaking his luscious locks back into place.

Alexa couldn't tell if he was joking or not, but, more turned off by the second, she watched as Sven reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a handheld mirror. Frowning into it, he fussed with his hair, making sure each golden strand was back in place. Then Sven ran a discerning finger over one of his arched eyebrows and puckered his lips at the mirror, as if he'd rather be kissing
it
than Alexa.

Oh my God,
Alexa realized, her stomach plummeting in disbelief.
He's even more vain than ... me.

When Sven was finally finished examining his

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stunning self, he tucked the mirror away and pulled Alexa in for another long kiss. But this time, Alexa didn't move her lips in response, so Sven pulled back and flashed her a pinup-worthy grin.

"Oh,
I
get it, Vanessa," he said, tossing his hair as if he were in a shampoo commercial. "You are, ah, afraid you'll get too carried away by kissing me."

"It's Alexa," Alexa replied, through gritted teeth.

"So come back to my place," Sven continued obliviously. "I'm staying at the Ritz-Carlton. I have a photo shoot in the Bois du Boulogne early tomorrow morning, but we can still party all night." Then he fluttered his lashes at her -- which, Alexa realized, was
her
signature come-hither move. This was all wrong.

Alexa wasn't sure if it was all the champagne she'd had at dinner, the vodka she was drinking now, or the fact that Sven was Narcissus come to life, but suddenly she felt sick to her stomach. A year ago, Alexa knew she would have
jumped
at the chance to spend the night at the Ritz-Carlton with a Swedish supermodel. But now, the thought of a one-night stand with Sven wasn't sitting right with her at all.
Maybe I'm more mature than! was back then,
Alexa thought, removing her arms from around Sven's neck and rattling the cubes in her glass of Stoli.

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Or maybe she just couldn't bring herself to hook up with a boy who was prettier than she was.

Alexa told Sven she had other plans, flipped
her
blonde hair over one shoulder, and sauntered off into the crowd. As she made her way to where Holly and Pierre were sitting, Alexa imagined Holly's reaction to the ridiculous Sven story. Knowing levelheaded Holly, she'd probably tell Alexa that a "revenge" hookup was pointless anyway, and that Alexa should take a timeout from all boys until she'd healed completely from Diego.

And she'd be absolutely correct,
Alexa realized with a resigned sigh. Alexa had many times before tried to swear off boys for a spell, but she'd always wound up surrendering to someone seductive; last year, for instance, it had been Diego. This week, though, she'd have to stand strong. She would simply shop and hang out with Holly, not seek out boys, and
not
let herself be tempted. In the middle of Eurotrash, with the strobe lights swirling around her, Alexa made up her mind: There wasn't a single guy in Paris who'd be able to seduce her. After all, if she could turn down an actual male model, then she could turn down anyone.

Right?

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chapter eight

X Marks the Spot

"Are you sure you're not mad at me?" Holly asked Alexa as they were getting dressed the next morning. Outside their shuttered windows, the day had dawned sunny but brisk, and white-aproned men from the
patisserie
next door were whistling as they washed the cobblestone street with buckets of soapy water.

"Whatever, Hoi," Alexa sighed, tugging on her hip-hugging Chip & Peppers. "If you want to go traipsing around the city like some tacky tourist, I certainly can't stop you." She buttoned the jeans over her flat belly and rolled her eyes. She hadn't
believed
it when Holly had told her that she was blowing off their shopping trip to prance around with Pierre. Hadn't Holly busted out of Wimbledon so the two of them could have quality bonding time?

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Plus, Alexa's head hurt from the toxic champagne-and-vodka combination she'd drunk last night, she was miffed that Sven's hair had looked better than hers at Eurotrash, and deciding to take a breather from boys
always
put her in a grouchy mood.

''I know you think sightseeing is lame," Holly spoke quietly from her bed, lacing her Adidas. It was a point Alexa had been bringing up all morning, despite the fact that Holly had never been to Paris before and was well within her rights to act like a tacky tourist. "But Pierre offered, and --"

"And because you have a huge crush on him, you couldn't say no," Alexa snapped, regretting her words a second later. When she'd come upon them at Eurotrash last night, Holly and Pierre had been cuddled so close on the sofa they'd practically been making out. But it was clear that Holly was also in major denial over their chemistry.

"Hold up." Holly got to her feet, her cheeks hot. "Alexa, I do
not
have a crush on Pierre." Her voice came out trembly when she spoke his name, which killed Holly. She was glad the door was closed; she knew Pierre was making coffee in the kitchen. "I'm with Tyler, remember?" Holly added defensively. "My boyfriend?"
Who you haven't heard from in four days,
a little voice singsonged in her head.

"Are you?" Alexa retorted, turning to face Holly.

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"Then why have you not talked about him even
once
since you've been here?" Alexa couldn't shake the nagging suspicion that Holly had some drama going down with Tyler and, for no good reason, was keeping it from her. Holly could be annoyingly secretive sometimes.

Holly averted her eyes, scooping up her tote bag. Here, again, was her chance to spill the Tyler saga to Alexa. But Holly wasn't about to bare her soul now,
especially
after Alexa had flung that ludicrous Pierre accusation at her. Plus, Holly herself was on edge that morning; her parents had awoken her at six a.m . with a chirpy call, wanting to know how the running was going. Holly, who detested lying and sucked at it -- had hurriedly rattled off an unconvincing "Oh-Mom-and-Dad-England's -great-but-I'm-so-busy" speech before clicking off. Now, she was plagued by the fear that her parents might discover the truth before she made it back to Wimbledon.

"Pierre's waiting," she told Alexa, straightening the hem of her forest-green sweater. "So ... I guess we'll meet up with you at some point?" she added softly. As miffed as she was, Holly hated to leave with things so sour between herself and Alexa.

"I suppose," Alexa sighed, slicking her hair back into a long ponytail. She'd call Holly's cell later that afternoon, once she'd cooled off.

Holly nodded and, without looking back, strode

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out of the guest room. Alexa heard Holly and Pierre exchanging flirtatious good mornings --
God,
she thought,
would those two just get it over with and hook up already? --
and then the creak and slam of the front door as they headed out.

In a way, it was peaceful to be alone in the apartment; Raphaëlle had long since left for work. As Alexa slid on her burgundy Lia Sophia ring, a crisp breeze, smelling of hyacinths, blew into the room. She shivered in her chocolate-colored tank, realizing she'd be cold going out in just that. But besides her sparkly shrug which was so wrong for daytime -- all her cover-ups had been stolen. She
could
probably pilfer something from Holly's duffel bag, but Alexa was still feeling sore toward her friend and didn't want to be seen on the ritzy avenue Montaigne in one of Holly's fleeces.

Then Alexa remembered that when she'd arrived on her cousins' doorstep in tears Monday night, Raphaëlle had said she could borrow whatever she might need from her closet without even asking. Free handbags, free clothes ... Alexa realized she'd been a fool to turn down her cousin's generosity.

Besides, Raphi's hippie-retro style was starting to grow on her.

Feeling like a naughty little sister, Alexa sneaked into Raphaëlle's bedroom, which smelled of incense

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and patchouli and was strewn with wrinkled baby-doll dresses, white patent-leather boots, slouchy metallic clutches, and piles of French magazines. The walls were covered in framed snapshots of Raphi with various hot guys. Alexa knew, from their conversation over dinner last night, that her cousin was juggling about twenty different boys at once a feat Alexa had always aspired to. As Alexa flung open the doors to Raphi's bursting closet, she was wowed by her cousin's effortless Parisian cool.
If I'd stayed in France, and never moved to New Jersey,
Alexa wondered, reaching for a turquoise-studded belt on the top shelf,
would I have ended up more like Raphi? Would I be less into labels and more into vintage?
She wasn't sure.

But she
was
sure that she loved the baby-blue sweater with the shiny round buttons that was staring out at her from the messy closet. When Alexa slipped it on, the fabric seemed to soothe her skin, so she admired herself in Raphi's mirror, scrawled her cousin a
Merci!
note, and returned to her room to grab her Chloe bag. Alexa was starting for the door when, at the last minute, she remembered her camera. What with the Diego disaster and Holly's arrival, Alexa hadn't had a free moment for her beloved photography. She figured she could snap some shots of the city today, in between boutique-hopping.

Maybe all that couture would inspire her.

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***

However, after Alexa had shimmied into dozens of Lolita Lempicka slip dresses, strapped on a slew of Louis Vuitton sandals, and even auditioned a spangly Gaultier bustier, she was feeling more drained than inspired. She did buy a yellow silk Lucien Pellat-Finet shift at Colette how could she resist? and a pale pink Chanel wallet to replace her stolen one. But as she ambled down the rue de Rivoli with her shiny shopping bags, Alexa felt -- for possibly the first time in her eighteen trendsetting years --- designered out. She guessed it had to do with her eye-opening experience in Raphaëlle's bedroom; suddenly, Alexa felt that there might be more to fashion than name-dropping. Maybe she could even check out the vintage shops Raphi frequented in Le Marais instead.

Besides, Alexa reasoned as she wandered along the quai du Louvre, her mother was a buyer for Henri Bendel in New York, so Alexa could get her share of designer goodies back home.

The satiny waves of the Seine glinted in the afternoon sun. Forgetting about clothes entirely, Alexa-the
-artiste
reached spellbound into her bag, taking out the professional Nikon camera her dad had given her for Christmas. Aiming the lens at the river, she zoomed in on the glorious bridges that arched, like a graceful row of dancers' arms, across the water.

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The nearest bridge was the romantic Pont-Neuf, which stretched to the He de la Cité. Alexa had had her first kiss on that bridge, when she was seven, with a green-eyed classmate named Henri. One afternoon, she and Henri had been throwing pebbles into the water when Henri had suddenly leaned in and kissed Alexa clumsily on the lips. She, of course, had kissed him right back. Alexa smiled at the sweet memory as she focused her camera on the Pont-Neuf.

Through her lens, she made out a lone figure leaning against a lamppost in the middle of the bridge: A pale, thin guy in a dark sweater and jeans, smoking a cigarette and brooding, as the wind whipped his auburn hair. It was such the perfect Parisian shot that Alexa decided to get closer; she liked to sneak candid photos of people. It made her feel like the great French photographer Robert Doisneau -- one of Alexa's idols.

Alexa walked onto the bridge with her camera in hand, grateful now that she had the day to herself; Holly thought snapping artsy pictures was completely boring. And though Diego had once admired Alexa's passion for photography, his interest in it had dwindled after a year. Alexa's throat tightened as she zoomed in on Cigarette Boy.
No one understands me,
she thought, feeling tragically poetic.

As the camera clicked, the guy -- who'd been