Honeymoon in Paris (21 page)

I strutted into the chic offices of
Bella France
wearing my tallest pair of black stilettos and a sleek black dress that accentuated my
curves, while still being work appropriate. The silky red scarf I’d wrapped loosely around my neck served two purposes: hide my cleavage—I hadn’t forgotten who my new boss was after all—and bring my outfit up to par with all of my super stylish coworkers.

The same ultra-thin receptionist—or model wannabe?—who’d greeted me each morning stood from her pristine white desk, then silently eyed my outfit for at least ten seconds. I wondered if she was calculating how many more kilos I weighed than her. I was tempted to rest my hand on her bony shoulder and tell her not to worry, that I weighed far more than she probably ever had, and I would never out-stage her because I loved buttery croissants and baguettes and creamy camembert cheese—God, did I forget to eat breakfast?—way too much to give a damn about trying to be
that
skinny. Luckily we were able to skip that awkward conversation as she finally cracked a cool smile, then nodded for me to follow her through the shiny glass double doors into the whirlwind of fashion, design, and story ideas that made up the brand-new offices of
Bella France
.

“Monsieur Boucher is busy on a conference call,” the receptionist said in French as she stiletto-sprinted down the hallway. “Mireille has requested to see you first thing. She will get you set up with everything you need to get started today.”

I hadn’t met with Mireille since that very first disaster of a meeting last Friday, and as we neared her office, I realized I’d rather jump into a snake-filled pit than deal with her again today. Or ever for that matter.

But just before we reached Mireille’s door, the girl turned to me with a curious gleam in her eye. “I have to ask, is it true that you’re the same Charlotte Summers who wrote the blog
Sleeping with Paris,
and who wrote those two articles for
Bella Magazine
’s US version?” she whispered.

“That’s me,” I said, wondering if she was about to tear into me the way Mireille had done the week before.

“My friends and I loved your blog!” she whisper-squealed, pinching my arm. Then she pulled me out of earshot from Mireille’s office. “Is it true that you married Half-Naked French Hottie, and that his ex-wife is Brigitte Beaumont, that bitch actress who’s been running around here all week like she owns the place?”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Yes, I married him—which makes me Charlotte
Olivier
now. And as for Brigitte… no comment,” I said. I’d spotted Brigitte dashing in and out of the magazine offices almost daily since I’d begun, holding secret meetings with Vincent and having hissy fits over the photos that had come back from her shoot. She thought her forehead looked too shiny in all of the pictures.

Oops.

The receptionist chuckled, then extended her impeccably manicured hand out to me. “I’m Chantal. It’s so exciting to have you on board. I hope you get to stay. We could use some positive energy around here. Mireille is a little scary, if you know what I mean.”

I giggled. “Yes, I know exactly what you mean.”

“She’s already threatened to fire four people since I started!”

“Wow, that’s really harsh,” I said, feeling my nerves sloshing around in my stomach. Or was it the three glasses of red wine and the bar of Lindt dark chocolate I’d devoured while writing the night before?

Chantal nodded for me to follow her back to Mireille’s office. “We better go. She’s waiting for you. And she hates when anyone is late.”

“Does Mireille know now about my connection to Brigitte?” I asked.

“She knows
everything,
” Chantal whispered before knocking on Mireille’s door once, twice, then a third time, just as she had the week before. “
Bonne chance
,” she whispered to me as Mireille’s shrill voice permitted her to open the door.

As soon as I spotted Mireille Charbonneau’s slim, yet perfectly curvy frame standing in front of her floor-to-ceiling windows, arms
crossed, severe black glasses rimming her narrowed eyes, I actually wished I could just head straight to Vincent’s office instead. I was going to need more than luck to deal with this woman.

“Charlotte, I need to speak with you,” she said, nodding for me to sit. I hesitated, not wanting to get comfortable. I felt like she was itching to fire someone, and by the way she was staring me down, that someone was most definitely going to be me. My only comfort was in the fact that Vincent had been the one to hire me, and I’d already signed a thirty-day contract, so technically, I didn’t think she had the authority to fire me…
yet.

“Is there a problem?” I dared to ask as I took a seat.

She stalked toward me, eyeing me the whole way before sliding a hip onto her shiny glass desk. “I understand you have recently married Brigitte Beaumont’s ex-husband. You neglected to tell me this last week when we first spoke… and every day that you have been here since.”

I nodded, swallowing my nerves and facing her straight on. “Yes, I had no idea she would be here, and I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

“Well, your translation efforts during the photo shoot last week certainly could’ve been a little more professional, do you agree?”

Just as I was about to apologize for my pettiness, I noticed that Mireille wasn’t shooting me that menacing glare any longer. The scary editor-in-chief of
Bella France
was grinning—and that grin was turning into a full-on evil laugh.

“You were brilliant,” she said. “Most actresses are high maintenance to an extreme, but Brigitte Beaumont is a nightmare. When Vincent told me he was going to bring her on as our first cover model, I almost quit this job. He promised me it would only be for the first issue, then we’d be finished with her, thank God. The way you handled her was impressive, especially considering this is personal for you.”

“Thank you,” I said, trying to mask my shock at Mireille’s kindness.

“Don’t get too excited,” she said. “This does
not
mean I’m going to hire you for a writing position any time soon, even though you convinced Vincent to agree to that possibility once your translating contract is up.” She crossed one thin leg over the other, revealing a pair of scarlet stilettos that perfectly matched my scarf.

I didn’t expect Mireille to change her mind about giving me a chance on the writing front, but I at least hoped she would take notice of the effort I’d made to be a little more stylish today.

“As you are most certainly aware, Vincent’s weakness is beautiful women. Brigitte is perhaps his most pronounced weakness… but as of today,
that
will be over.” She gazed wistfully out the window, her eyes sparkling with hope.

“I don’t want to overstep my boundaries, but I’m not totally convinced that Vincent is finished with Brigitte,” I said. “She’s been in to see him every day since I started, and she doesn’t even work here.”

“Oh, don’t be fooled by Vincent’s flirtatiousness. Monsieur Boucher is a master at reeling in attractive young women who will be beneficial to him—in a purely business sense, of course—then letting them go when they are no longer of use. Brigitte means nothing to him.” The way she spoke of Vincent’s feelings toward Brigitte made me wonder if Mireille didn’t have a little something for that sleazy publisher of ours.

“In fact,” Mireille continued, “we will be seeing a lot less of Mademoiselle Beaumont around here. Vincent has just called her into his office to end their little love affair.”

“Really?” I said. “I don’t imagine that’s going to go over too well.” I wondered if that also meant that Brigitte would be left without Vincent’s powerful lawyer, who’d already initiated custody hearings with Luc. This could be the best news I’d heard all week.

Mireille slid off her glass desk and took a step toward me. “Did Beth Harding ask you any questions about Vincent’s
professionalism
when she was here for the photo shoot last Friday?”

I pinched my eyebrows together, faking confusion. “No, she didn’t,” I lied. “Why do you ask?”

“She mentioned some concerns to me that she and the
Bella Magazine
US publisher had about Vincent’s attitude toward women at the office. It was laughable, actually. I mean this is France—the rules are different here. We aren’t nearly as
prude
as our United States counterparts.”

“The rules are definitely different here, as I’m learning pretty quickly,” I said, wondering where she was going with this.

Mireille flipped her tousled blond hair to one side as she shot a penetrating gaze my way. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Charlotte. I understand that today is your first formal English lesson with Vincent. You will be working in close proximity to him, and it is important that you know he is
taken.
”

“You and Vincent are together?” I clarified.

“We’ve been keeping it quiet until he ends things with Brigitte, but I thought it was important for you to know. I don’t want you getting the wrong idea about his kindness toward you.”

Kindness
wasn’t exactly how I’d put it, but it was hardly worth getting into an argument over semantics.

“I know you already have a relationship with Beth Harding, and she thinks quite highly of you. If she comes to you, you need to know that just because Vincent and I are in a relationship does not mean that anything unprofessional is going on here. This is the way of the world, or at least it is the way of the world in
France.
Your American colleagues may disagree, but that is none of their business. I earned my position here at
Bella France
by being one of the most competent, talented editors in my field, and my connection with Vincent only helped me learn of this exceptional opportunity.”

A smug smile spread across Mireille’s pale face. “Since you’ll be working directly under Vincent, I figured it was best to keep you in the know… just so you don’t get any ideas.”

“Mireille, I’m married,” I said flatly.

“And since when has marriage stopped anyone from having an illicit office affair?”

“That’s not really my style.”

She nodded in approval. “Good. I was just testing you.” Her eyes combed my black dress, resting on my hips. “You’re not really Vincent’s type anyway. I knew I had nothing to worry about.”

Nothing to worry about?
Granted, I hadn’t known him that long, but from what I’d learned so far, Vincent was the
last
man any respectable woman should be entering in a relationship with. He would destroy Mireille, just as he’d destroyed Luc’s mother, and just as he was going to destroy Brigitte.

It was only a matter of time.

After my meeting with Mireille, I took a swift right down the long corridor which led to Vincent’s secluded corner office. Our lesson wasn’t supposed to begin for another ten minutes, but after my little chat with Mireille, I had other reasons for heading to his office early.

On my way, I noted how Vincent had his own wing of the floor entirely to himself. Clearly the man liked his privacy.

Just as I neared his door, I heard Brigitte’s unmistakable, high-pitched voice snapping at Vincent.

I scanned the hallway to make sure no one was coming, then pulled out my cell phone and pretended to mess with it as I inched closer to the door.

“What were you thinking bringing Luc’s new wife in to work here?” Brigitte screeched in French.

“I needed a translator, and Charlotte Olivier just happened to be looking for a job at the magazine,” Vincent replied coolly. “Fate has a way of working itself out like this sometimes.”

“She’s too much of a good girl for you, Vincent. She’ll ruin everything,” Brigitte spat.

“Why don’t you let me worry about Charlotte, and you keep on doing what I’ve asked you to do.” Vincent’s voice was powerful, controlling, calculated.

The coast was still clear, so I continued pushing random buttons on my cell phone while I eavesdropped.

“You’ve humiliated me, and I’m not sure I want to keep playing your game,” Brigitte said. “I can do just fine on my own.”

“Oh, is that so?” he snapped back. “What if Luc were to find out the truth about you? And the press? Your career would be over before it even began, and you’d never see your daughter again.”

“Two can play at this game, Vincent. One word out of my mouth about
les bijoux
and your career—and your entire life for that matter—will be over.”

Les bijoux?
What did any of this have to do with
jewels?
Was Vincent some kind of jewelry thief or something?

A pounding sound emanated from inside the office, followed by Vincent’s deep, growling voice. “Don’t you e
ver
threaten me. We both have a lot at stake here, and that’s why you’ll keep your mouth shut.”

“Marcel neglected to tell me that you were such a cruel bastard when he cut me into your little operation,” Brigitte said.

Operation?
What in the hell was going on here?

“That’s funny, because what Marcel told me about you was exactly right. He said you were a greedy little slut who was hungry for attention, and that you were willing to do
anything
to score more drugs and more money. Which is
exactly
why we chose you.”