Honeymoon in Paris (16 page)

On the home front, Luc had worked late every night this week, which left me to pick Adeline up from the
crèche
, make her dinner, and play endless games of penguins with her until she’d throw her
nightly “I don’t want to go to bed” fit and beat me with said penguins until I caved and allowed her to stay up for another half hour.

By the time Luc returned home from the university each night, sometimes as late as ten thirty, I was already passed out—meaning we
still
hadn’t found a time to discuss our finances
or
my job situation. In the mornings, Luc was always rushing out the door, and he’d been more stressed and tired than I’d ever seen him. I couldn’t imagine dropping the unemployment bomb on him when we only had two minutes to talk.

Plus, the thought of a complete financial merger taking place so early in the marriage didn’t sit well with me. That’s never how I’d imagined my marriage to be, and from what I’d witnessed in my parents’ union, it was a recipe for disaster. I was hoping that by the time Luc and I
did
have the talk, I’d already have another job lined up.

In other news, Fiona was still entertaining the dreadful Madame Rousseau in her small Lyon apartment while trying to convince her boyfriend that she hadn’t been the girl kissing one of the Boucher brothers on Marcel’s Paris balcony that night—when in fact we both knew she had been.

Lexi and Dylan’s fights had escalated from bad to worse since our romp through the French tabloids, and I had a sneaking suspicion that Lexi’s celebrity crush on Nicolas Boucher was turning into more than just a crush.

As for Luc’s secret past with the Boucher family, he still hadn’t opened up any further, and I’d stopped questioning him. I wanted to trust that whatever was going on, he had it all under control. The problem was, I couldn’t stop thinking about his words from that mysterious bathroom phone call he’d made on the last day of our honeymoon. What on earth could be going on that would put me in danger? And if I was in danger, what about Adeline? And what about Luc?

My meeting with Nicolas was to take place in one week, so if Luc didn’t tell me before then, I figured I would find out soon enough.

Back in my apartment, I signed into my e-mail, ready to gear up for another day of job hunting and writing. But when I opened my in-box, excitement flooded through me.

Finally, Beth Harding, the editor I’d written for at
Bella Magazine,
had responded.

Hi Charlotte,

So sorry for my late reply. Congrats on the wedding! I can’t believe you married Half-Naked French Hottie and that this all stemmed from your
Bella Magazine
article in August. I’m thrilled we could play a part in your finding and marrying the love of your life. I guess I should stop calling him Half-Naked French Hottie now that he’s actually your husband. Luc is a good name too, and doesn’t make him any less hot.

I’m sorry to hear about your job at the language school. But I think I have some news you will be excited to hear.…

Bella Magazine
is starting up a French version, and I have been given the lovely task of flying to France to help them prepare for the release of their first issue. The really great news is that the magazine is headquartered in Lyon. This all happened rather quickly, and I actually flew in last night. I know this is last minute, so as long as someone hasn’t scooped you up by now, I’d love for you to come in today at ten
A.M.
for an interview with the editor-in-chief, Mireille Charbonneau. I can’t promise anything of course, but our US readers loved your articles so much that I’m sure that will hold some weight here.

Regardless of what happens, I would love to finally meet you in person.

P.S. Are you working on anything new on the writing front? If you are, send it my way!

All the best,

Beth Harding
Editor,
Bella Magazine

I responded to Beth immediately, telling her that of course I was interested and that I would be there at ten sharp.
Bella Magazine
in Lyon? Could this be any more perfect?

I also sent her a quick description of my book idea for
The Girl’s Guide to Tying the French Knot
, hoping that once I’d written a solid portion of the book, Beth might be willing to take a look and put me in touch with some of her contacts in the publishing world.

Closing my computer, I smiled at the thought that hopefully I wouldn’t have to break the job news to Luc because there wouldn’t be any bad news to share.

Twenty minutes and one wild closet raid later, I took a look at myself in the full-length mirror. With my black pencil skirt, violet button-down shirt, tall black pumps, and long, wavy brown hair, I felt I’d nailed the chic, sassy, professional look that encompassed
Bella Magazine
.

Underneath, I was wearing my favorite black bra from Chez Isabelle just for that extra boost of confidence.

With my résumé in tow, I jetted down the skinny, winding staircase in my apartment building, being careful not to take a nosedive in my tall heels, then ran out to the corner to hail a cab. After three available taxis passed by without a second glance, I jutted my hip out to the side and showed a little leg. Within seconds, a cab swooped across two lanes to pick me up.

Sometimes it paid to be a woman.

The new offices of
Bella France
were located in the only skyscraper in Lyon, nicknamed
le crayon,
or
the pencil,
because of its sharp pencil-like point at the top. This was my first time inside
le crayon
, and as the elevator shot me up to the eighteenth floor, I hoped I would be spending a lot more time here.

Inside the lobby, a glossy black sign reading
Bella France
hung high above the receptionist’s smooth white desk.

“Mademoiselle Summers, I presume?” she asked in French.

“Yes, I’m here to see Beth Harding and Mireille Charbonneau,” I responded, noting the strong scent of perfume wafting from her side of the desk.

She nodded, giving me a curt smile. “Beth is in a meeting at the moment, but Mireille is expecting you. Follow me, please.” Standing, she revealed a lanky, rail-thin body propped up on the tallest set of black stilettos I’d ever seen. I wondered if she modeled for the magazine on the side.

I also wondered if she had ever eaten in her life.

I followed the thinnest girl alive through a set of glass double doors, the scent of fresh paint swirling underneath my nose as we walked down a long hallway. Two women dressed in chic black dresses and four-inch heels showed off their perfectly accessorized outfits as they rolled a rack of wispy scarves, short skirts, and skimpy tops toward us.

A man dressed in skinny jeans and pointy black boots trailed the girls. “Move it,” he squealed in French. “She’ll be here in ten minutes!”

I smashed myself against the wall as the girls broke into a wobbly stiletto jog and Monsieur Skinny Jeans snapped at them to move even faster.

If I landed this job, I would definitely need to spice up my wardrobe—and practice running in four-inch heels.

We passed by the art department and several smaller, bustling offices where writers were tapping away on their computers, making calls, and prepping for
Bella France
’s first issue.

Squeezing past two more sets of moving racks of designer clothing being hurled down the hallway, we finally reached the editor-in-chief’s office.

My heart sped up as I took in the excitement buzzing in the air. The receptionist-slash-model who led the way knocked on Mireille Charbonneau’s door. She waited a moment, then knocked a second time, and finally a third.

A shrill voice sounded from inside the office, prompting her to open the door and announce my arrival. “Charlotte Summers is here for her ten o’clock appointment.”

“Send her in.”

The girl ushered me ahead of her, then swiftly closed the door at my back.

Mireille Charbonneau sat at a long glass desk in the center of her pristine, chicly decorated office. The impressive floor-to-ceiling windows behind her looked out over the entire city, while colorful
Bella Magazine
covers splashed the other three walls.

Mireille sat back in her chair, crossed her thin legs, and lowered her stylish black glasses as she gave me the once-over. Her dirty blond hair was pulled up halfway, creating that disheveled but sexy look only French women could pull off. Her full lips pursed in a near frown as she waited for me to speak.

“
Bonjour, Madame Charbonneau. Je suis Charl
—”

“I know who you are,” she responded in English, her thick accent strangely full of suspicion. “Please, have a seat.” She nodded toward the two stiff white chairs that faced her desk.

“Thank you.” I smoothed down my skirt, taking note of her impossibly thin body with curves in all the right places. God, sometimes French women were such a mystery. Would I ever truly fit in here?

“I received your CV from your editor in New York, Beth Harding,” Mireille said, switching into French. “She has spoken very highly of you, so I took a look at the pieces you wrote for
Bella Magazine.
”

“Thanks so much for taking the time to read them,” I said with a smile. Even though Mireille had yet to show even a hint of kindness in her thickly lined eyes, it did seem like we were at least headed in the right direction. “What did you think?”

“What I
think
is that it is quite pretentious of you to assume that writing two freelance articles for the US version of our magazine would qualify you for a staff-writing position at
Bella France
. I have personally hand-selected each of our writers, and all of them have years of experience writing fresh, relevant copy that will appeal to our readers.” Mireille snatched up a piece of paper from her desk. “From what I see here in your CV, you have been teaching French and English for the past several years. You have established a career as a teacher, not as a writer, Miss Summers, and your inquiry has been nothing but a waste of my time.”

I wasn’t sure how long my mouth hung open as I stared back at Mireille in astonishment, but it was long enough for me to imagine pointy red horns growing from that messy mop of hair on her head.

“I’m sorry I’ve wasted your time,” I said, standing to leave.

“I didn’t tell you to leave yet, Miss Summers.”

“I wasn’t going to wait for your permission,” I snapped. I didn’t owe this woman anything, and I certainly didn’t owe her the courtesy of staying around for further humiliation.

She raised a brow at me, seemingly intrigued by my attitude. “You didn’t think I’d call you in simply to tell you that your writing proposition is laughable, did you?”

“That’s certainly what it seems like,” I said. “Do you have something else to say to me? Because if not, now you’re wasting
my
time.”

A sadistic chuckle left her lips as she slipped off her glasses and stood to meet my gaze. “Beth Harding is quite insistent that we find
something for you to do here, and as it turns out, our new publisher is in need of someone to translate outgoing and incoming correspondence from our sister magazine in the States. I noticed on your CV that you have some experience in this field, no?”

“Yes, I was a translator for a publisher back in DC.”

“At the request of both Beth Harding and our new publisher here at
Bella France
, I put in a call to your former employer. Contrary to what I thought I might hear, they informed me that you were quite competent. Our publisher would like to interview you himself, of course, but I wanted to get a first look. Make sure you had what it takes to deal with a man of his…
stature
.” She eyed me up and down once more, her judgmental gaze lingering on my outfit.

“And?” I asked, trying to ignore the feeling that this chic, forty-something, bitchy woman was mentally undressing me with her eyes.

“If he likes you, you’ll start today.” She tossed my résumé back onto her desk and strutted past me. “Follow me.”

Mireille hauled some serious ass in her pointy heels while I struggled to keep up with her. I wondered if the magazine offered a stiletto speed-walking course during training. If they did, I’d be the first to sign up.

Inside the publisher’s massive corner office, a tall black chair on the other side of the room faced a magnificent view of the city. As Mireille cleared her throat, the chair slowly swiveled around.

With his jet-black hair and that slight peppering of gray making him look mysterious, distinguished, sexy, and sleazy all at the same time, there was no mistaking the infamous Vincent Boucher.

“Vincent, this is Charlotte Summers,” Mireille said in French. “She’s interviewing for the translating position.”

The right corner of Vincent’s mouth slid up into a sly grin. “Thank you, Mireille. I’ll take it from here.”

A flash of apprehension appeared in Mireille’s cool eyes as she looked from Vincent back to me, and finally left us alone.