Honeymoon in Paris Page 7

  Those gorgeous, sexy Boucher brothers.

  The paparazzi… the limo.

  And the champagne.

  But what had happened after that first glass of bubbly bliss in the limo? I distinctly remembered saying to the girls right after we’d climbed in that we were only having one glass, and then we had to return back to my hotel room so my husband of five days wouldn’t want to divorce me when all of this was through—and so we could get a little bit of shut-eye before my train back to Lyon in the morning.

  My train!

  “Lexi!” I hissed, shooting up from the bed, the threat of my gag reflex immediately making me wish I hadn’t moved so quickly.

  “Oui, Nicolas, oui, je t’aime.” With her eyes still closed, Lexi reached for me once more.

  This time I grabbed her hand and squeezed it as hard as I could. “Lexi, get up!” I screeched. “I’m not Nicolas. We have to go, now.”

  But Lexi didn’t show any signs of life, except for her incessant murmuring of I love you’s in French to the famous actor and my new friend, Nicolas Boucher, whose apartment I could only assume we were currently sleeping in.

  At least the two of us still had all of our clothes on. But where was Fiona?

  I gave up on Lexi and tossed the black sheets off the bed, kicking her butt in the process.

  “Mmmm,” she mumbled, curling into a tight ball and refusing to budge.

  Feeling a mixture of cocktails and stale champagne tentatively sloshing around in my stomach, I scrambled to my feet and dashed out of the sleek bedroom. But just as I skidded around the corner in my bare feet, a catchy cell phone tone emanated from a room across the hall. A muffled male voice took the call, and when I crept up to the closed door, I recognized the voice as Marcel’s.

  Short, harsh responses shot from his lips.

  “Oui, je comprends… Non… Oui… Je sais… D’accord, je m’en occupe.”

  Okay, I’ll take care of it?

  What was this guy up to?

  As soon as I realized Marcel’s heated phone conversation had ended, I scurried away from the door. The slippery hardwood floors made that task a bit tougher than I’d anticipated, and my not-quite-sober butt plunged straight to the floor.

  Merde.

  A shirtless Marcel appeared in the doorway right at that moment, the disapproving look on his dark, handsome features tearing up any last shred of dignity I may have had left in me.

  I needed to find Fiona, wake these girls up, and get the hell out of here.

  Marcel lent me a hand without saying a word, the look in his brown eyes tinted with anger. “I need to speak with you, Charlotte. Please follow me.”

  Oh, God. Did he know that I’d been eavesdropping?

  Marcel led me through a large living room decorated with two square black couches, a smooth black-and-white rug, and four rather scary modern art paintings splashed in red and black paint. The sleek, impersonal décor didn’t fit with what I’d seen of Nicolas’ personality the day before. And with no sign of Nicolas anywhere, that meant we’d spent the night in Marcel Boucher’s Parisian bachelor pad.

  Dear God.

  Empty champagne and wineglasses littered the black coffee table, proof of our wild night—the details of which I could not remember for the life of me. Suddenly a splash of something pink and sparkly lying on the floor caught my eye. I lowered my gaze to find a lacy black thong lined with tiny pink jewels thrown carelessly next to the couch.

  Please don’t let that thong belong to any of my friends, I begged silently.

  The freaky blood-red paintings in the living room were quickly redeemed when Marcel led me out to a beautiful balcony overlooking the River Seine. The early morning sun bathed the bustling city in a soft, orange glow, momentarily making me forget about all of the drama that had transpired since the day—and the night—before.

  Somehow Paris always had that effect on me.

  I scanned the rows of gorgeous Parisian apartment buildings across the river, watching as the green-and-white Six Train crossed the Seine on its way to Passy, one of my favorite shopping neighborhoods, and the quaint little rue where Luc had bought me the world’s best pain au chocolat the day before.

  Marcel lit a cigarette, then cleared his throat, snapping me out of my Paris haze and back to the present.

  “What did Nicolas tell you last night in the limo?” Marcel’s normally sexy jawline tightened as he blew a puff of smoke directly into my face. The charming, heartthrob actor who’d sauntered through the club last night had disappeared. Instead, standing before me was a jaded, pushy rich boy.

  “He just wanted to talk to me about Luc. He was hoping to reconnect with him, that’s all. Why do you want to know? What’s this all about?”

  Marcel took a step closer to me, the stench of alcohol and smoke on his breath making my stomach curl. “After you leave my apartment, I don’t want you to talk to my brother ever again. There’s more to our past with your husband than you will ever know, and if you want to keep your marriage intact, I suggest you stop digging and leave it alone. This is for your protection, Charlotte. Tu comprends?”

  A chill slithered through my body as I took a step back from Marcel. The resemblance to his sleazy father Vincent was suddenly overwhelming. “Yes, I understand. Just show me where Fiona is and we’ll get out of here.”

  “She is sleeping in my bedroom. I tried, but I could not wake her this morning. It was quite a night, you know.” With a lift of his brow and another puff of his cigarette, the shirtless Marcel left me alone on the balcony, wondering exactly what had happened last night—and what or whom I needed protection from.

  “Dude, I’m dying,” Lexi said as she pushed her gargantuan black sunglasses up her nose and plopped her forehead on my shoulder in despair. “I haven’t drunk that much since… since I can’t remember when. What even happened last night?”

  The mood on the Metro was somber as we all tried to keep our breakfasts down and wished we were about eight years younger. Passing the twenty-six mark really did reduce alcohol tolerance.

  “It’s best not to try to remember,” Fiona said, pressing her cheek up against the cool window, her eyes drawn shut.

  After Marcel’s warning on the balcony earlier, I’d discovered the normally conservative and very British Fiona curled up in a topless ball underneath Marcel’s sheets. Fiona’s black dress crumpled up in one corner of the master bedroom and her heels and bra strewn in another confirmed my fear that outrageously high champagne consumption combined with Marcel Boucher’s irresistible allure had led her astray. And I could only assume that the jewel-studded thong on display in Marcel’s living room had belonged to Fiona, although I would never have pegged her to wear something so racy.

  I’d helped her get dressed without saying a word, but the shame in her eyes had said it all. She loved Marc, her handsome doctor boyfriend, and they’d recently moved into an adorable apartment together in Lyon.

  Fiona wasn’t a cheater. It simply wasn’t part of her character.

  But, as I knew all too well, there are days when we look in the mirror and don’t even recognize ourselves.

  Fiona was clearly having one of those days, and if only I hadn’t dragged her into my honeymoon mess, she never would’ve met Marcel and none of this would have ever happened.

  Back on the Metro train, which barreled away from la Tour Eiffel, I squeezed Fiona’s knee, hoping she knew I would never tell a soul what I’d seen this morning. And hoping that she knew how awful I felt about my part in it. Lexi eyed Fiona, then raised a brow at me. I shook my head in response. She nodded in understanding.

  Sometimes girlfriends are telepathic like that.

  Lexi squeezed Fiona’s hand. “With situations like these, it’s best to leave the past in the past. So the two of you missed your train back to Lyon, and our boyfriends and Charlotte’s new husband are going to be pissed at us for a few days. We’ll survive as long as we keep our mouths shut about this whole Boucher brother business. When t
he boys ask why we look like hell this morning, we tell them that we had a little too much to drink, then spent the night in Charlotte’s luxurious honeymoon suite and overslept. That’s all there is too it. Sound good?”

  Deep gray circles swallowed Fiona’s blue eyes as she finally lifted them to the group. “I’m in.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I said.

  “It’s settled then. This secret stays with—” Lexi stopped when her cell phone buzzed inside her purse. She glanced at the caller ID, but immediately silenced the phone. Red blotches splashed across her cheeks as she lifted her gaze back up to us. “What was I saying again?”

  “The secret?” I prodded.

  “Oh, right. Keep it quiet, ladies. For the sake of all of our relationships.”

  Lexi’s phone buzzed once more, indicating a voice mail. A few seconds later, she practically jumped out of her seat when we reached her stop. “That’s me!”

  I shot her a questioning glance, but she dismissed it, kissed me on the cheek, and dashed out of the Metro, leaving two terribly hungover, memory-challenged friends in her wake.

  TEN

  Three hours and one more expensive high-speed train ticket later, the TGV pulled into the Part-Dieu train station in Lyon. Fiona and I grabbed our bags and rambled through the crowds in silence. The pounding of my temples was about all I could handle for the duration of our train ride, but there was something I needed to say to Fiona before we parted ways.

  Just as we rounded a corner and the train station crowds died down a bit, I placed a hand on her arm. “Listen, Fiona, I just wanted to say I’m so sorry for getting you into this mess. If it wasn’t for all of my ridiculous honeymoon drama, this never would’ve—”

  “I’m an adult, Char. You don’t have to take responsibility for this. Just please don’t tell anyone what you saw this morning. Not until I figure out what I’m going to do about it anyway.” Fiona’s mouth quivered, her eyes watering up.

  “Do you remember what happened after we got to Marcel’s apartment?” I asked her.

  Before Fiona could respond, the tabloid featured in the newsstand behind her head caught my eye.

  “Oh, my God,” I whispered, reaching for the magazine.

  On the cover of the trashy French tabloid was a photo montage of my entire day yesterday. Our first encounter with Brigitte and Vincent outside the Château Frontenac Hotel, my private chat with Vincent, me climbing into Nicolas’ fancy sports car, and finally our girls’ night out stumbling into the champagne-studded limo with the Boucher brothers.

  I flipped through the glossy pages to see what other prize moments they’d caught on camera. My heart sank when I discovered photos of me, Lexi, and Fiona following Nicolas and Marcel into Marcel’s swanky apartment building late last night (a moment of which I still had no recollection) and another picture of us girls emerging from the same building early this morning, wearing the same skimpy dresses we’d been wearing the night before.

  The translated headline read: “Another Wild Night for Bad Boy Marcel and Brother Nicolas.” The article on the following page retraced the cover’s photo montage with grossly inaccurate descriptions of what had gone down yesterday, including but not limited to:

  Brigitte Beaumont leaves media mogul Vincent Boucher to reunite with hotty ex-husband, Luc Olivier.

  Devastated by Olivier’s infidelity, his new wife Charlotte Summers is seduced by the entire Boucher family. Which one will she choose?

  Summers invites the girls to join her for a sleepless night chez Marcel. Will bad boy Marcel ever settle with just one woman?

  A drunken Brigitte makes a scene at the premiere party of her new film, embarrassing Vincent and herself. She is later spotted fighting with Vincent in front of the Château Frontenac Hotel before storming off into the night, drunk and alone.

  Well, that last one probably wasn’t so inaccurate.

  Those damn paparazzi hadn’t missed a single moment.

  “Merde,” Fiona mumbled shaking her head.

  “So much for our story of what happened last night,” I mumbled. “I wonder if Lexi has seen this yet.”

  “Never mind Lexi. What about Marc, Dylan, and Luc? They’re going to hear about this one way or another. What are we going to tell them?” I’d never heard Fiona’s tone so desperate before.

  I didn’t even want to think about how we were going to explain these photos to our respective men.

  Trying to whip up a story in my dazed, pounding head, I turned the page.

  The final incriminating photo staring back at us made me realize I’d have to improve my story-telling skills if I wanted the four of us to get out of this unscathed.

  The horrified gasp coming from Fiona’s lips echoed my sentiment.

  A photograph of two blurry silhouettes wrapped in a passionate embrace on Marcel’s balcony was featured on the last page of the article. The picture had been taken at night, so it was impossible to make out which one of us was kissing one of the Boucher brothers.

  Guilt washed over Fiona’s pale blue eyes as she ripped the magazine out of my hands and snapped it shut.

  “We need to put our sunglasses on and get the hell out of here before someone recognizes us,” she ordered. “I won’t lose Marc over these pretty boy actors. I just won’t.” Fiona flipped her dark sunglasses over her eyes and took off through the station.

  “Fiona!” I called, grabbing onto her elbow. “I know after what happened this morning, you’re thinking it had to have been you on that balcony, but we don’t know for sure that it wasn’t Lexi. She woke up murmuring Nicolas’ name and saying she loved him in French.”

  “Right, but she woke up next to you, not in Nicolas’ bed,” she hissed. “And besides, neither of your significant others have a mother who will rake you over the coals for this, and who’s arriving tomorrow to stay for twelve sodding days.”

  Fiona was right—Madame Rousseau, Marc’s dreadful mother, would never forgive Fiona for this if she got wind of it. Judging by the fact that the wretched old woman had easily found out about my scandalous Bella Magazine article only a few months earlier, she’d be all over the fact that her precious son’s new girlfriend’s face was splashed all over the French tabloids.

  “I have to get home to Marc. I’m telling him the truth,” Fiona announced. “That’s the only option.”

  “But we don’t even know for sure what happened last night.” I sighed, exasperated. “The balcony picture might not even be from last night for all we know. These are tasteless tabloids that specialize in distorting the truth.”

  Fiona looked as unconvinced as I was by my own words. “What about Nicolas? Do we know if he stayed the night? He wasn’t there when you woke up this morning, was he?”

  “No, he was already gone.”

  “You have his number; maybe you can call and ask him what he remembers about last night?” Fiona asked.

  I thought of Marcel’s harsh warning on the balcony earlier this morning to stay away from Nicolas. That there was more to the story than I knew, and if I wanted to keep my marriage intact, I needed to stay out of it.

  I decided now wasn’t the best time to freak out Fiona any further by telling her about that bizarre incident. “I’ll see what I can find out,” I said.

  “God, what a mess,” Fiona mumbled.

  I leaned in and gave Fiona a hug before we went our separate ways.

  Fifteen minutes later, I emerged from the Metro in Vieux Lyon, silently cursing the blaring sun as I started off toward Luc’s apartment—which was technically ours now. A few blocks down the cobblestone stretch of rue Saint-Jean, my phone buzzed.

  Expecting to see Luc’s name on the screen, I was relieved to find my boss’ number. That relief quickly evaporated when I realized that Jean-Sébastien never called me on the weekends.

  Oh, God. Had he seen the tabloids?

  I answered the phone and dove right in.

  “Jean-Sébastien, I’m so sorry,” I rambled in French. “You have to let m
e expla—”

  “Charlotte, why are you sorry? What are you talking about?”

  “Um… I… you mean you haven’t seen…?”

  “Seen what?”

  “Oh, never mind. Sorry! What can I do for you?”

  A heavy pause traveled down the line. Why did I get the feeling that even though Jean-Sébastien clearly hadn’t seen my trashy tabloid action, he wasn’t calling to give me a promotion?

  “Jean-Sébastien, what is it?”

  “Your classes have been cancelled, Charlotte. In fact, I can’t believe this is happening, but unfortunately, most of the classes this semester have to be cancelled. Our enrollment is lower than ever, and we’ve been in big financial trouble for the last several months. Apparently taking language classes for fun just doesn’t fit into people’s budgets anymore. That or I’ve done a horrible job at running this school.” Jean-Sébastien’s usual upbeat voice was completely deflated.

  “But we’re supposed to start class tomorrow. There has to be some way—”

  “Unless a massive contract comes our way soon, we’ll be forced to close down the school by next semester. I’m sorry, Charlotte.”

  I turned away from the direction of our apartment and headed down a skinny cobblestone alley toward the Saône River. I couldn’t see Luc right now. Not yet.

  “How long have you known about this?” I was careful to only allow a hint of panic to settle into my voice. I felt like screaming at the sky.

  “I was hanging on until the last minute, hoping we’d have a high enough enrollment to at least make it through the semester. But we didn’t. It was wrong of me to wait so long to tell you. You’re an amazing teacher, Charlotte. You know you’ll have my recommendation.”

  “Thank you. But what about you? Are you going to be okay? And your family?” Jean-Sébastien’s wife, Marie-Élise, had just given birth to their second son and had decided to permanently leave her job to be a stay-at-home mom.

  “I will figure out a way. But for now, there is little to no hope that the language school will survive in the long term. I’m sorry, Charlotte. I wish I could give you a different answer, but that’s all I have for you today.”