The Good Girl's Guide to Bad Men (31 page)

Three Months Later . . .

I Step out onto the balcony of my new two-bedroom apartment in the Latin Quarter of Paris. The morning March sky is gray and somewhat gloomy, but by now I've come to appreciate the characteristic weather of Paris. It wouldn't be the same city without the rainy mornings and dreary afternoons. And I've been told the months of May and June make the long-drawn-out winter worth every drop.

I pour myself a cup of tea in the kitchen and sip it slowly as I sit down in front of my laptop and begin scrolling through my morning e-mails. Five total. Three personal and two business related.

More requests for my services, no doubt.

Ever since I started working for Alain Dumont three months ago, my new career has taken off at a steady pace. At first I simply sat in on the meetings and quietly informed him when the other party was not being entirely truthful. But then eventually I started to get the hang of the negotiation process and was able to run a few meetings on my own.

When it became pretty obvious to Alain that my "sixth sense" (as he liked to call it) about lying men was not just a fluke, he started recommending my services to his friends. Not only other real estate brokers, but sales reps, ad men, consultants, small corporations, basically anyone who did business with Americans and were looking for the competitive edge that I was apparently able to provide.

Who knew freelance negotiators who could read American men were in such high demand in Europe? Almost as much as fidelity inspectors in the States.

Within two months, my income was enough to support me full-time, and I quit my job at the bar and signed a lease on my own apartment in the fourth arrondissement. Not that I didn't enjoy living with my dad, but it was nice to have a place of my own again. And with my condo in Brentwood currently being rented to a lovely young newlywed couple expecting their first child, there was something to be said about the feeling of permanence that came when I signed the lease on my new Parisian home.

I read and respond to the personal e-mails in my in-box first, because they're more important. I've learned a thing or two about priorities over the past few months. Friends and family come first. Everything else can wait.

The first e-mail is from Sophie. I tap on it and skim the text, although I already know exactly what the e-mail is pertaining to. For the past few months, she's been planning a trip with Zoë and John to visit me in Paris, and with the departure date rapidly approaching in less than two weeks, my in-box has been flooded with questions about what to pack, where to exchange money, and what my thoughts are on the latest Paris-related articles in
Condé Nast Traveler.
The usual international travel provisions. But of course, with Sophie in the equation, it's always a much more urgent affair.

Today her e-mail is contesting the appalling weakness of the American dollar against the euro. As if I am personally responsible for setting the exchange rates on the international currency market and she is lodging a formal complaint.

I shake my head with amusement and quickly tap out a reply before continuing to the next message. This one is from Zoë, a much more concise e-mail (albeit half of the text consisting of profanities) updating me on the new hot guy she met at the gym, who, she was happy to report, has never been married and has not fathered any children . . . that she knows of.

I tap out an enthusiastic reply and keep going.

The last e-mail is from John. And the subject line reads, "HAVE YOU SEEN THIS???" in all capital letters with about twenty question marks following it. He appears to have maxed out the number of allowable characters in the subject line field. As I scroll down further into the message, I have a feeling I know exactly what all of this exaggerated punctuation is referring to.

And when I see a blue link leading to an online article from the
L.A. Times,
I realize that I was correct in my assumptions.

I don't need to click on the link to know what is written on the other end of it. I came across the article myself just a few days ago, and although the shock of its contents has still not worn off completely, I have spent the past forty-eight hours making peace with it.

It's a story in the
L.A. Times
about an unknown little company called the Hawthorne Agency, which specializes in exposing infidelity. And apparently, it's taken the nation by storm.

I remember the way I felt the morning I first laid eyes on the full-size color photograph on my screen. It was a picture of none other than Lauren Ireland (whom the article refers to as "Bella Grace"), and the caption read, "President Bella Grace, who inherited the agency from an anonymous previous owner, calls her business the next frontier in private investigations."

Apparently, as I was attempting to piece my life back together, Lauren—or rather
Bella
—was working hard to build public awareness around the agency I left behind. And this article is the direct result of those efforts.

My eyes skimmed wildly over the text as I caught sight of key phrases like "intention to cheat test," "fidelity inspector," and "hopes to open offices in New York and Chicago later this year."

I sigh as I type out a response to John, explaining that yes, I've seen it and I'm fine.

Which is true. Of course, it was disconcerting at first. All that time and energy I spent trying to keep the agency a secret. Clearly, it was necessary only to protect my own identity. Because Lauren quickly made a decision to put it all right out there in the open, and what do you know? It worked.

Just goes to show she was a better woman for the job after all.

I skim through the rest of my e-mails and then wander into my bedroom to shower and dress for my appointment this afternoon with a new client.

Although I suppose it's hard to describe him as "new" when I've known him my entire life. But to be perfectly honest, I never really
got
to know him until recently.

My dad called me a few days ago and asked if I would come in and help him with a last-minute negotiation he had just set up. Apparently, an American man he had once done business with was looking to renew their partnership.

I am scheduled to arrive at his offices in the
La Defense
district of Paris in two hours, which leaves me just enough time to drop by my favorite cafe and enjoy a brioche and a quick chat with my favorite French waiter.

Pierre and I continue to hang out occasionally, although obviously not as often as we used to since I no longer work at the bar. And once I began booking early client meetings, my leisurely mornings of brioche and long conversation were limited to once or twice a week.

He continues to ask me out on a regular basis, and I continue to say no. Yet his confidence never falters, and I'm repeatedly impressed with his unyielding persistence. Every time I turn him down, he simply vows that one day I will change my mind. But after four months of living in Paris without a single date, I am still pretty sure that I want to be on my own for a while.

I finish dressing, drying my hair, and applying my makeup, then slip out the front doors of my seven-story classic Haussmannian-style building, with my briefcase in hand. I hop in a cab and direct him to Cafe Bosquet near the École militaire, and he steps on the gas.

After a quick breakfast of my usual
thé au lait
and brioche and a few delightful jokes from Pierre, I get into another cab and settle in for the drive to the outskirts of the city, where the metropolitan business district of Paris is located.

As I slide into a seat at the conference table, my dad says to me, "I'll probably just stick around for the introduction and then slip out and let you handle the negotiations. I think it'll go much smoother if I'm not around to interfere."

I pull my legal pad out of my briefcase and set it in front of me. "No problem. That's fine. I've done plenty of these things on my own," I reassure him as we wait for the other party to arrive.

My dad leans back in his chair, looking extremely at ease. "Sounds good."

"So tell me what the story is with this guy again?"

He folds his hands in his lap and explains, "We formed an LLP about a year ago, but things got complicated and he said I wasn't keeping up my end of the deal. The partnership eventually dissolved a couple months back."

"So why are we here, then?"

My dad shrugs. "He called me a few days ago and said he wants to try to reconcile. You know, set up a new agreement."

I jot down a few notes on my legal pad. "And you're cool with this?"

He nods. "Yeah. I've always thought it would be a good partnership. I'm just glad he finally came around and realized it, too."

My dad seems to find amusement in his last statement, and a knowing smile creeps its way across his lips.

I shoot him a strange look. "What?"

But he simply shakes his head and continues to smirk. "Nothing."

I roll my eyes. "Whatever, Dad."

He laughs at this. "Is that part of your sophisticated negotiation vocabulary?"

But I just smile in return. "Yeah, I suppose it is."

A few moments later, the door opens and my dad's assistant enters. She speaks in a rich French accent, the elongated syllables rolling off her tongue like an enchanting melody. "Mr. Ree-shar has arrived. He is in the restrooms."

"Merci,
Yvette," my dad responds with a courteous smile.

I lean closer to him. "What's this guy's name? Ree-shar?"

He laughs. "No, that's just the French pronunciation. Yvette sometimes has a hard time with the American names."

I nod understandingly. "So how
do
you pronounce his name?"

"It's Richards in English."

I scowl and lean back in my seat. "Ugh. That's Jamie's last name."

Another knowing smile stretches across my dad's face. "It is, isn't it? I forgot that. Common name, I guess."

"Yeah," I mumble as I drop my head down and start doodling on my notepad.

But when I look up again and study my dad closer, for some reason he doesn't seem like himself. He seems . . . I don't know . . . smug or something. I am just about to comment on the fact when the door squeaks open once again and into the room walks Mr. Ree-shar himself.

Except it isn't just any other person with that name.

As common as it might be, the man who enters that conference room is the only Richards
I
have ever known.

And his first name is Jamie.

I sit paralyzed in my chair, a stunned expression plastered onto my face.

I'm dreaming. I have to be dreaming.

There's no other explanation for this. Jamie only appears in my dreams. In my late-night fantasies as I'm lying in bed trying to find something to sleep to. He doesn't appear in my real life.

Our eyes meet, and I wait for a similar (if slightly less frantic) expression to register on his face. But it never does. He simply flashes me a polite, professional smile and then turns his attention to my dad.

As if he doesn't even recognize me.

As if he's seeing me for the first time.

Does he have amnesia?
I think. Has he been in a terrible accident and lost all of his memories? That would certainly explain the absence of a phone call or e-mail in the past four months.

My dad leaps into action, rising and offering his hand for Jamie to shake. "Hi, Jamie. Good to see you again."

"Good to see you, too, Jack."

Then my dad turns to me. "This is my associate, Jennifer Hunter. She's here to assist with the negotiations."

I stare blankly up at my dad.
What on earth is he doing?
Does he have amnesia, too? This is Jamie standing here.
Jamie!
The man I lived with. The man I once agreed to marry. Has it been so long since the two of them met that he can't even put two and two together?

"Pleased to meet you, Ms. Hunter." Jamie extends his hand to me, his face once again void of any recognition.

But I don't shake it. I just sit there gawking at it. As if it's a foreign object I've never seen before. But in actuality, it's a hand I once knew very well. A hand that once caressed me, held me, comforted me.

My dad nudges me with his elbow, and I blink rapidly to wake myself from my trance. With cautious, unsteady fingers, I reach out and shake the hand that is extended toward me, feeling a million tiny tingles shoot up my arm.

Jamie sits down, tugging at the lapels of his jacket. "So," he begins, his voice all business, "shall we get started?"

But my dad doesn't return to his seat. He simply looks down at me and says, "I think you can take it from here, Jen. I have a lot of work to finish up, so I'll leave it to you." He gives me a reassuring pat on the back.

Jamie flashes a tight-lipped smile. "Good to see you again, Jack."

My dad points a finger at him. "You, too, Jamie."

My head bobs frantically between the two of them, trying to figure out what the hell is going on in here and why I don't seem to be in on it.

"Are you kidding?" I finally sputter out, speaking (or more like
spitting)
for the first time since my amnesiac ex-fiancé entered the room.

But my dad just looks at me as if he has no idea what I could possibly be referring to. "Is something the matter? If you have any questions, I'll be right down the hall."

I look back at Jamie, and he offers me an innocent little shrug.

Okay, maybe it's just me. Maybe
I
am the delusional one with the mental malfunctions. Maybe the man sitting across from me is just another stranger I've never met and I'm sitting here imagining the entire thing. I mean, it certainly wouldn't be the first time I pictured Jamie walking back into my life with no warning. But during most of those fantasies, I don't sit there with my mouth hanging open like an idiot. I jump into his arms and make out with him passionately.

But this feels so much more real than any of the others.

"Um, nothing," I mumble, staring down at the table. "I'm fine."

My dad smiles. "Good." He motions toward a phone in the middle of the table. "Just call if you need me." And then he steps out the door, leaving me alone with the one man I never thought I'd ever see again. Especially not in a scenario where he doesn't even seem to recognize me.