The Art of French Kissing (21 page)

I hesitated. “Because there’s a guy at home whom I just ended an engagement with.” The words came pouring out. “Well, I didn’t exactly end things with him. He broke up with me. But now he thinks he made a mistake. He says he wants to try again. And we were together three years, you know? I’m really confused. But I don’t know that I want to go home. I love Paris. I love almost everything about it. I even love the job, even if you make it difficult for me sometimes.”

I stopped, embarrassed. What was in this champagne—truth serum?

Guillaume smiled. “I’m sorry I make your life difficult,” he said.

“No, it’s not that you make my life difficult,” I amended. “And you will never hear me say this again. But really, I prefer working with you to working with the boy-band boys I used to deal with. There was nothing exciting about that job.”

I hadn’t realized until that very moment how true the words were. I
did
like working with Guillaume, despite—or perhaps even because of—the fact that I never knew what was going to happen next with him. How could it be that I preferred talking my clients down from ropes suspended in midair to making excuses for prepubescent boys gone wrong?

I looked down at my glass. Somehow it had become empty. Had I really sipped it all while embarrassingly pouring out my heart? I glanced guiltily at Guillaume. But he wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at my glass. Which he was presently refilling. Why did I have the sudden sense that I was the one drinking the majority of the champagne? Somehow, my pour-it-in-the-shrubbery plan seemed to have derailed.

“Well, I’m glad I can make your life more exciting,” Guillaume said, refilling his own glass as well. He upended the bottle in the ice. We seemed to have finished it all. He reached for the other bucket, which held a second bottle of champagne. “So,” he continued smoothly. “Do you still love this guy back home? The one you just ended your relationship with?”

I blinked a few times and studied my glass of champagne intently, as though an answer to the question might appear on the surface courtesy of the constantly rising stream of bubbles. No such luck.

“I don’t know,” I mumbled. I took another sip of champagne as I contemplated the question. “I don’t think I do. No. Not anymore. It’s confusing. I don’t think you can love someone for three years and then just turn it off.”

“Probably not.” Guillaume nodded supportively.

“But I don’t think I’ve been
in
love with him for a long time,” I continued, still wondering vaguely what was possessing me to confide so much in Guillaume when I had barely even admitted these things to myself yet.

Satisfied with my honesty, at least, I leaned back into the comfortable cushions and watched as Guillaume popped the cork on the second champagne bottle and poured us each a fresh glass. The liquid seemed to be disappearing with surprising speed.

“Plus,” he added nonchalantly, leaning back and taking a sip from his glass, “you have a crush on a certain UPP journalist.”

“What?” I sat up so quickly that I sloshed a bit of champagne onto my jeans. But I was more concerned at the moment with the fact that my cheeks felt like they were on fire. “No I don’t! I don’t know what you’re talking about! I don’t have a crush on him!”

Had I really been that obvious? I’d hardly realized it myself until just a few days earlier, although I suppose I’d been attracted to him since the moment I’d first spotted him in the Hôtel Jeremie press corps crowd.

“Yes, you do,” Guillaume said simply.

I could feel the heat rising to my face. I had no doubt I was beet red.

“No, I don’t!” I don’t know why I felt so compelled to deny it. But I couldn’t have Guillaume thinking that. I was determined to be 100 percent professional. And my idea of professionalism did not include drooling over a cute reporter who seemed determined to be my client’s primary adversary.

“Yes, you do.” The words were singsonged merrily at me this time.

“
No
, I don’t!” I felt annoyed now. Had he lured me into his room for the express purpose of making me feel foolish? “And just what would make you think that, anyhow?” I asked defensively, realizing a bit late that my indignation perhaps wasn’t transmitted as clearly as it could have been, given that I was slurring my words pretty severely.

Guillaume rolled his eyes. “Wow, I don’t know. The way you look at him. The way you’re always looking around for him when you can’t find him. The way you’re blushing now that I am asking you.”

“I’m not blushing,” I said quickly.

“Right. It must be that the temperature in the room has climbed. Perhaps you’re overheating?”

“Don’t make fun of me,” I snapped. “I’m serious. It’s not like I’m even looking for a boyfriend or anything anyhow.”

“Oh?” Guillaume asked with some interest.

I had the dim sense I was talking myself into a hole. But I just kept on digging. “Yes,” I said triumphantly. “I’m
dating.
According to Poppy, I need to go out with as many Frenchmen as possible, but no more than one date each.”

Guillaume grinned. “And you sleep with them, yes?”

I shook my head vehemently. “No, of course not!”

Guillaume looked confused for the first time. “So what is the point?”

I thought about this for a moment. “The pursuit of the perfect French kiss, I think,” I said, realizing that I was slurring even more than before. I’d better stop drinking the champagne and go back to the shrubbery plan. “Can I ask you something?”

“But of course.” Guillaume smiled.

“What’s
with
you, anyhow?” I realized that the words sounded completely tactless, but between my frustration and the champagne, I hardly cared anymore. “I mean, do you have a drinking problem? I’ve never actually even seen you drink until today. Or are you crazy? Or is it like Gabe says and you just want the attention?”

Guillaume looked surprised. Then a slow grin spread across his face. “Gabe said that, did he?”

I shrugged. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Guillaume said. He shook his head. “It’s just typical of him.” He took a deep breath. “Okay. So you asked whether I was crazy. No, I do not think I am.”

“So it’s alcohol then?” I asked.

Guillaume shook his head. “No. Can I tell you a secret?”

I nodded. “Yesh.” I had intended to say
yes
, but the champagne was really kicking in.

“I actually don’t drink at all,” he said.

“But you’re drinking champagne now!” I exclaimed.

“No,” Guillaume said. “I’ve been pouring it in the shrubbery.”

My jaw dropped. “That was my plan!”

Guillaume arched an eyebrow. “Was it? Hmm. I seem to have executed the plan better than you, then.”

Okay. I had to admit that he was right.

“But why did you ask me to come in and have a drink if you weren’t planning on drinking yourself?” I asked.

Guillaume shrugged. “I was lonely. And you and I never get to talk.”

I stared. “I’m your publicist. We’re not supposed to be sitting around bonding, Guillaume.”

“I know,” he said. “Still, this has been fun, right? I mean, that thing you were telling me about French kisses? That’s pretty interesting.”

“It is?” I couldn’t figure out why Guillaume would be so intrigued.

“Indeed,” he said. He scooted a bit closer and smiled. “So what is it you’ve discovered?”

“About French kissing?” I asked. “Well, for one, I think someone needs to tell all the women back in the United States: No one kisses like a Frenchman!”

Guillaume laughed. “Really?”

“Mais oui
,
”
I said with an exaggerated French accent, thinking how much easier it was to speak French while drinking. Hmm, perhaps I would have to begin stashing a bottle of champagne in my desk at work. “You Frenchmen have really perfected the art of the kiss, you know.”

Guillaume studied my face for a moment. He looked sort of fuzzy around the edges, but I supposed that was because of the alcohol, not because he was actually disintegrating. “That’s very interesting,” he said softly. Then, before I realized what was happening, he leaned over and pressed his lips to mine, softly at first and then, when I didn’t protest, with mounting intensity.

Wow, he’s a good kisser
, I thought vaguely.
And being pressed against that amazing body is incredible.
My mouth, which apparently had a mind of its own, kissed him back.
But wait
, I thought suddenly, trying not to sink into the sensation of the kiss.
He’s my client! What am I doing?

I had just started to pull away when there was a voice from the doorway.

“Guillaume,
putain de merde
! You’re such an asshole!” I jerked my eyes open, pulled away from Guillaume, and whirled around, horrified.

Gabe was standing there in the doorway, fists clenched, staring at us. I felt absolutely horrible—and all of a sudden terribly sober. He wasn’t looking at me; he was staring at Guillaume with eyes that flashed with anger. Slowly, I turned back to Guillaume and was surprised to see him smirking again, looking rather pleased with himself.

“Oh, Gabe, I wasn’t expecting you,” he said casually, as if Gabe had just walked in on us playing bridge or sipping tea or something equally mundane.

I looked slowly back at Gabe. He looked even more furious. He glanced at me, then back at Guillaume. “That’s bullshit, Guillaume,” he said sharply. “You called my room thirty minutes ago and asked me to come up! You even had a room key delivered!”

“What?” I asked, startled. I whirled back to look at Guillaume, whose expression was vaguely guilty but still mostly self-satisfied. Then I turned back to Gabe, who was staring at me. He seemed about to say something, but then he shook his head and shut his mouth. His face looked sad, which made me feel terrible.

“Gabe?” I started to say. But he cast one last look at me, shook his head, turned on his heel, and strode quickly back down the hallway.

“Gabe!” I tried again, standing up and staring after him. But the only reply I got was the violent slamming of the door to Guillaume’s suite. I stared down the dark hallway for a moment, feeling totally crushed.

Slowly, I turned back to Guillaume. The smirk had finally vanished from his face, replaced with an expression that I could have sworn looked a bit guilty.

“What is wrong with you?” I hissed at him. He shrugged.

“It’s nothing, Emma,” he said, waving a dismissive hand, as if I was being high-maintenance, in some way, for reacting to what he’d done. “Don’t worry about it so much.”

I could feel my head throbbing with anger—or was it alcohol? “You are
such
a jerk!” I exclaimed. I slammed my glass of champagne down on the coffee table. I heard the glass crack, but I didn’t care. With one last furious look back at Guillaume, I jumped up and dashed toward the door. I pulled open the door and looked frantically out into the hallway. But Gabe was already long gone.

Back in my room, still slightly drunk and completely ashamed, I immediately dialed the front desk and asked to be connected to Gabe’s room. There was no answer. I tried three more times until the hotel operator suggested, in a tone filled with barely concealed annoyance, that
perhaps
the gentleman I was trying to reach had gone out. I hung up, feeling stupid, and wondered where he could have gone.

Checking to make sure I still had my key, I raced out of the room and took the elevator down to the lobby, willing it to go faster. I emerged on the ground floor just in time to see Gabe striding rapidly out of the hotel, pulling his suitcase behind him.

“Gabe!” I called desperately, pushing past the crowd of people waiting to climb aboard the elevator. “Gabe, wait!”

But he didn’t slow down. Nor did he look back. I dashed after him, pulling up beside him just as he reached the front doors.

“Gabe, where are you going?” I asked, my voice laced with a desperation that made me feel ashamed.

“To the train station,” he muttered without looking at me.

A valet appeared from outside to help Gabe with his bag. “Where to this evening, sir?” he asked, bowing slightly.

“The Eurostar terminal,” Gabe said tersely. “As soon as possible.”

“I will get you a taxi right away, sir,” the man responded. He hurried officiously away.

“Gabe, I am so sorry,” I said quickly, my words pouring out on top of each other in my desperation. “Please look at me. Please! Gabe!”

Finally, with obvious reluctance, he looked down at me, his face stony.

“Gabe, I’m so sorry!” I said again. “It’s not what you think!”

“Hey, it’s not my business if you want to make out with your client,” he said coldly. “After all, what woman can resist a rock star?”

“Gabe, please, it didn’t mean anything,” I babbled. “I swear!”

He shook his head as a cab pulled up and the valet approached us with a raised hand. “It never does,” Gabe muttered.

“What does that mean?” I asked. But he ignored me.

The valet began dragging Gabe’s bag away, and he turned away from me to follow.

“Wait!” I exclaimed, desperately searching for any reason to make him stay. “You can’t go! We’re hosting a media breakfast in the morning! Guillaume’s going to perform again!”

He laughed bitterly. “I think I know everything I need to know about Guillaume Riche.” He got into the cab and slammed the door behind him. The valet was staring at us, but I didn’t care.

“Gabe—” I pleaded.

“Emma,” he said. “You’re the only reason I came to this junket.”

The words pierced me like a spear through the heart. “I’m so sorry,” I said in a whisper.

Gabe shook his head. “No,
I’m
sorry,” he said, looking away from me. “I should have known better.”

Gabe said something to the driver and then turned his attention forward. As the cab pulled away, he didn’t look back.

Chapter Seventeen

I
thought I would die on the spot. I sank to the ground, my head throbbing, my face was flushed with shame. The valet was staring at me like I was a lunatic.

Just then, another cab pulled up, and Poppy cheerfully alighted with a tall, sandy-haired, completely gorgeous guy in tow. He had his arm slung over her shoulder, and she was giggling about something he was saying. Then, just as they tumbled onto the pavement in unison, she looked up and saw me.

“Emma!” Her eyes registered surprise as she stopped dead in her tracks. She started to smile at me then seemed to realize that something was wrong—perhaps due to the fact that I was currently crumpled on the sidewalk. “Emma?” she said again, dropping to one knee next to me. “Are you okay?”

I shook my head, and although I was biting my trembling lip and trying not to, I burst into tears. I didn’t know if they were from the shame or the sense of loss or the copious amounts of champagne. I knew only that I was sitting on the ground in front of one of the nicest hotels in London, trying not to cry in front of my friend and the human incarnation of her voodoo doll.

“Oh, goodness, Emma!” Poppy exclaimed in concern, wrapping me in her arms and then pulling back to search my face. “What’s wrong? What is it?”

I glanced up at the man with Poppy—presumably Darren—and flushed. “I’m sorry,” I said to him. I looked at Poppy. “I’m sorry. Now on top of everything else, I’m ruining
your
night.”

“No, no, not at all,” Poppy soothed, stroking my hair. She glanced up at Darren, who was looking at us with concern but not, I noticed, with any sort of disdain. Poppy stood up slowly and whispered to him. He nodded.

“I’m going to head home,” he said with a casualness I knew was forced. I tried to protest, but he shook his head. “No, no, it’s late. I’ll see Poppy tomorrow.”

“Emma, this is Darren, by the way,” Poppy said.

I forced a smile at him and stood up from my spot on the ground, feeling silly. I extended a hand, which Darren shook firmly. This both impressed and embarrassed me, as my hand had obviously just been on the ground—not to mention on the surface of my wet, mucky face.

“Nice to meet you,” I said.

“And you as well,” he said pleasantly, as if I weren’t a pathetic mess. “Poppy has told me a lot about you.”

“Er . . . thank you,” I said, glancing at Poppy.

Darren smiled at me again and then, after a few whispers and kisses with Poppy, he got back into a cab, waved good-bye to both of us, and disappeared.

“I’m so sorry I ruined your date,” I moaned as soon as he was gone.

“Nonsense,” Poppy said firmly. “Now let’s go inside, and you can tell me what’s wrong.”

She put her arm around my shoulder and guided me back to my room, where we both sat down on the edge of my bed.

“I think I’ve ruined everything, Poppy,” I declared miserably, once she’d gotten me a box of tissues and a glass of water. Her eyes widened, but she didn’t say anything. “Guillaume will have a problem with the UPP, I’ve lost Gabe . . . everything is just so screwed up!”

I found myself pouring out the whole story of what had happened this evening, from the champagne-in-the-shrubbery plan gone awry to the hurt-looking Gabe hurtling out of the hotel with his suitcase, slamming the cab door behind him.

“Emma, why didn’t you tell me you felt like this about Gabe Francoeur?” Poppy asked when I was done.

“I don’t know.” I shrugged uncomfortably. “I don’t think I even realized I did before the whole roller thing the night before last anyhow. Or maybe I did, but I didn’t want to. It’s not like it’s professional of me to start falling for one of the journalists I work with.”

Poppy shrugged. “Hey, we live in Paris,” she reminded me gently. “The City of Love. You can’t control who you fall in love with.”

I shook my head. “Anyhow, it doesn’t matter. I’ve totally ruined it. But what’s even worse is I’ve probably ruined Guillaume’s relationship with the UPP. I have no idea what Gabe will write, but seriously, Poppy, he could sabotage us. And I don’t know that I would even blame him at this point.”

I felt tears pricking the backs of my eyes and blinked them back. I was already pathetic enough.

Poppy put a hand on my shoulder. “It’s not your fault, Emma,” she said gently. “First of all, I don’t know that Gabe is necessarily going to do anything. But even if he does, it’s really Guillaume’s fault, not yours, right?”

I paused. “No,” I said after a moment. “I should have known better. I let my personal stuff get in the way. I made a big mistake with Guillaume. I should never have had a drink with him. That was really, really stupid. And then Gabe came in . . .” I stopped and closed my eyes for a moment. I swallowed hard. “And now he hates Guillaume. He’s going to get bad press on the eve of his album release, and it’s going to be all my fault.”

“Okay, now you’re just being silly,” Poppy said firmly. I looked at her, surprised, as she continued. “You were trying to do the right thing. And I must say, it sounds a bit like Guillaume lured you into all of this, although I can’t imagine why. Guillaume obviously planned for Gabe to walk in on you. And Emma, if Guillaume is so intent on sabotaging himself, there’s not much you can do.”

I thought about it for a moment. It
was
very strange, come to think of it, that Guillaume had apparently called Gabe either before or just after I’d arrived and asked him to come up in thirty minutes. Why would he do such a thing? And why on earth would he lean in to kiss me if he was expecting a reporter whom he suspected I had a crush on? Was Guillaume
trying
to hurt me? The thought startled and unsettled me.

“Whether it’s all my fault or not,” I said finally, “I wouldn’t be surprised if Gabe totally rips him apart in print. And that’s going to come down on us. On your firm.” I felt like everything was on the line here, and I’d screwed it up irreversibly. “I’ve put everything in jeopardy, Poppy. I don’t think I deserve to be here anymore.”

I barely slept that night. I tossed and turned thinking about Gabe, worrying about what his next article would say, and worrying about what would happen to Poppy’s company.

After I woke up, I logged on to my computer and was tentatively relieved to find that Gabe hadn’t published an article about Guillaume in the past twenty-four hours. It was mildly comforting, but I feared that it was really just prolonging the inevitable. In a way, I would have preferred to have everything out on the table that day so that it could all end in a cataclysmic burst of shame instead of under a lingering cloud of tense regret, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

The press breakfast that morning was in the grand ballroom on the second floor, a spacious, soaring room with domed ceilings and smooth ecru walls. As the reporters—conspicuously minus Gabe—settled into their seats and chattered happily away, a fleet of waiters filled their water glasses, brought them orange juice, coffee, and tea, and refilled their overflowing pastry baskets. Fifteen minutes after we’d begun, nearly everyone was accounted for.

After the meal, during which Guillaume continually shot me wide-eyed, guilty glances from his table near the stage, he performed “Charlotte, Je T’Aime,” a love song off his album, a cappella, to the delight of the press. Then, with his guitar, he did one final acoustic version of “City of Light,” which had the crowd on its feet, applauding wildly by the time it was over. I met Poppy’s eyes as Guillaume strummed his last chords. We both smiled. In the space of two days, our press plan—and the charm and talent of the crazy Guillaume—had won over a room full of a hundred journalists who were paid to be skeptical. We had somehow done the impossible.

Poppy and I said good-bye to all the reporters as they filtered out of the room. When we finally shut the doors behind us, I leaned back against the wall with a sigh.

“Well, that went perfectly!” Poppy said with a smile. She looked at me carefully. “Are you okay?”

I forced a smile. “I’m fine. You’re right. It was perfect.”

Just then, Guillaume slipped back into the ballroom. I looked quickly around for an escape route, but alas, he was entering through the only set of doors, and there was no conversation about rugby or cosmetics or cricket that I could join and feign interest in.

I could feel Poppy put a hand on the small of my back. “It’s going to be fine,” she said softly. I nodded, trying to summon some strength.

“Emma,” Guillaume said as he approached. He looked shamefaced. “Please, Emma, I’m so sorry.”

I could see Poppy glaring at him beside me. I averted my eyes. “It’s fine,” I mumbled. I dismissively waved my hand and hoped he would go away.

Beside me, Poppy took a step forward. “It is
not
fine!” she declared hotly, putting her hands on her hips and glaring at Guillaume. “Don’t you dare tell him it’s fine, Emma! He totally screwed you over!”

Guillaume looked uncomfortable. “In my defense, I was trying to screw with Gabe, not you.”

“What are you talking about?” Poppy demanded. “Are you
trying
to destroy your career before it even takes off?”

He ignored her and continued to address me. “I, uh, didn’t realize how much you liked him,” he said. “I’m really sorry.”

I felt mortified. Great. Not only had Guillaume ended any chance I may have had with Gabe, but now he was also under the mistaken impression that I was madly in love with the reporter he’d just scared away.

“It’s fine, Guillaume,” I said uncomfortably, wishing he would disappear. But quite irritatingly, he didn’t. “Anyhow,” I added, “it’s not as though I even liked him that much to begin with.”

The lie felt sour on my tongue, but it wasn’t like I had a choice.

The next morning, the world came tumbling down.

After having taken an evening train back to Paris the night before, Poppy and I arrived at the office early in the morning to see what kind of an impact the junket had made.

At first glance, the coverage was good. The
Boston Globe
ran a glowing profile of Guillaume that said his music was “like a bottle of fine French wine: smooth, delicious, and designed to make you feel good.” The
New York Times
ran a piece about how Guillaume—actor, songwriter, singer, and international playboy—was the first real Renaissance man of the twenty-first century. The
London Mirror
ran a front-page story with a headline that screamed: “Prince William, Watch Your Back! There’s a New Bachelor in Town!”

But there was one glaring problem.

There was nothing on the UPP wires about Guillaume. Or about the junket.

“Gabriel didn’t file a story,” Poppy said after a few moments of flipping through various sites. She looked at the computer screen—and then at me—in awe. “He didn’t file a story,” she repeated.

“Well, at least he didn’t file a
bad
story,” I said in a small voice, trying to look on the bright side.

Poppy gazed at me for a long moment. “Right, but there’s nothing at all,” she said quietly. “That means that for all the money KMG poured into this, the junket is conspicuously absent from more than two hundred newspapers around the world.”

I gulped. A knot was beginning to form in the center of my stomach. “Oh,” I said quietly. “Right.” In a way, then, no news was even worse than bad news.

The phone rang, and Poppy reached over distractedly to pick it up. The voice on the other end was so loud that I could hear it from where I was sitting. After a moment, Poppy hung up, her face pale.

“That was Véronique,” she said. “She wants to see us both immediately.”

“Oh, Poppy,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

Poppy took a deep breath and tried to smile. “Don’t worry,” she said. “Not yet, anyhow. Maybe all Véronique wants to talk about is the great coverage we got.”

Fifteen minutes later, we were walking in the door of KMG, where we were promptly ushered into Véronique’s office. After nodding at both of us and telling us to take seats, she sat down behind her desk, crossed her arms silently, and looked back and forth between us for what felt like an eternity.

“Poppy,” she finally began in an even tone. “Do you know how much KMG spent on this junket?”

Poppy gulped. “Yes, ma’am,” she said. “It was quite a lot.”

“Correct,” Véronique said. “And do you know
why
we spent so much money?”

Poppy gulped. “To help promote Guillaume?” she asked uncertainly.

“Well, yes,” Véronique said. “And because
you
insisted that this junket was the way to do it.”

Poppy cleared her throat. “We got some great coverage,” she said in a small voice.

I chimed in: “The
Boston Globe
did a great piece. So did the
New York Times.
And the
London Mirror.
”

Véronique glanced at me quickly, as if I was an insignificant annoyance, then focused her stare back on Poppy.

“I wondered when I got into the office this morning why, with all that money spent on this, Guillaume Riche was missing from hundreds of papers around the world where you had promised there would be coverage.”

There was dead silence for a moment. Poppy glanced over at me and then back at Véronique. She cleared her throat nervously again.

“I can explain,” she said finally.

“No need,” Véronique said crisply, holding up a hand. “Because I already have this issue answered, you see. When I realized the omission, I thought to myself,
Why? Why is there no coverage in more than two hundred papers Poppy promised would carry news of the junket?
”

“Véronique, I—”

“Do not interrupt,” Véronique said, again holding up a hand. I felt ill and sunk down lower in my chair, wondering if it would be possible to simply vanish into the upholstery.

“In any case,” she continued, “I began calling around and realized that the omissions were all in papers that rely on UPP content.
But
, I said to myself,
I thought there was a UPP reporter on the list for the junket.
”

“Véronique, I—” Poppy tried again.

“Let me finish,” Véronique said icily. “I checked your junket list, and indeed, there was a listing for a Gabriel Francoeur from the UPP. And according to your master billing list, he checked in and stayed all weekend.
Well
, I thought to myself,
perhaps he did not like the music.
So I called the Paris bureau chief for the UPP to find out.”