Two Nights in Paris Read online

  “I’ll take the one upstairs,” she replied.

  “We give the lady whatever she wishes,” Giles said.

  “Always,” Stephan agreed.

  Giles took her carry-on up the stairs, and Stephan took his through a door behind the stairs. Roselle took her time alone to get acquainted with the apartment.

  She walked through the sitting room to the dining area where there was a plate of colorful macaroons waiting under a clear glass cover, and a vase of fresh flowers probably purchased from the neighborhood flower shop they’d passed on the way in.

  There were two large windows—one in the sitting area and the other in the dining area. She stepped over to the one near the table and looked down onto the street. Because of the early hour, most of the shops were still closed, and only a few people traveled around on foot. In the distance, the grandeur of the wrought-iron Eiffel Tower loomed so close she almost believed if she stretched out her hand she’d touch it. Her face broke into a wide grin.

  “Is there anything I can get for you, mademoiselle?” Giles asked.

  Roselle turned around at the sound of his voice. “No, I’m fine.”

  “If you need anything, please do not hesitate to call me. Pick up the phone there and dial.” He gave her the number. “Day or night.”

  “Day or night?” Roselle repeated.

  “Yes, that’s correct. I am here to make your stay as comfortable as possible.” He smiled at her.

  “Thanks, Giles,” Stephan said, standing near the door.

  Giles walked back over to him, and both men spoke French for several minutes. Then Stephan handed him a few euros, and Giles left them alone.

  The finality of the door closing behind him made her think about how she’d be in this house, alone, with Stephan, for the next two nights.

  The two morning meetings went well. Then they visited a couple of Rue de la Mode stores, ending with the flagship store, where the reps planned to launch the Sylvie brand products. The last visit took approximately one hour, during which they talked to employees and checked out the front and back of the store. Roselle discussed how SJ Brands would fit in with the rest of the brands they carried. By the end of the meeting when they broke for lunch, Roselle felt confident that Sylvie would be pleased with the location. They shook hands with their hosts and then left.

  Sébastien picked them up outside and took them a couple of miles away to a restaurant where Parisians leisurely dined on salads and baguette sandwiches and sipped wine. Roselle let Stephan order for her, and he chose a meal that consisted of a side salad and something called a croque monsieur, which was a leveled-up version of a ham sandwich made with Gruyère cheese and covered in a creamy béchamel before toasting under the broiler or cooking on a griddle.

  “Well, what do you think?” Stephan asked, inclining his head toward her plate.

  “Delicious.” She crossed her eyes and he chuckled, leaning back in his chair.

  “That good, huh?”

  “I can’t go back to a regular ham sandwich.”

  “Wait till you have a Nutella crepe.”

  “That sounds good, but I don’t want to be greedy,” she said, though the idea was tempting.

  “You’re in Paris, you have to have the full experience. Crepes are part of the Paris experience.”

  “And bakeries, apparently. They’re everywhere.”

  “The whole city should be obese, but they’re not.”

  She nodded. “Yeah, and the portions are smaller here.”

  Stephan folded his arms and studied her from across the table, his eyes lit up in amusement.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked, suddenly self-conscious.

  “You’re noticing things that I take for granted. I’ve been here so many times I don’t pay attention to the differences as much.”

  She leaned across the table and whispered, “And I can’t believe people actually do walk around with baguettes in their hand. I took a picture to show my aunt when I get back.”

  Stephan did a full-on laugh this time. A man’s laugh. Throaty and masculine, it made her fingers and toes tingle.

  “She’s going to live vicariously through you, I guess?” he asked.

  “Yes. Definitely.”

  Stephan’s phone rang, and when he answered, he started speaking in fluent French. Listening to him, she wished she understood what he was saying. He was definitely animated and very sexy. The accent and his intonation completely changed. Sleeping with the boss’s son was probably high on the list of things one should never do, yet hearing him talk in another language and hearing his easy laughter tempted her resolve.

  Stephan hung up the phone. “That was my buddy Franck. He wanted to confirm that I’m going to the club tonight. You have to come. It’ll be a great way to let loose, and you said you wanted to see the Champs-Élysées, right?”

  “I do.”

  “The club is on a side street off the Champs-Élysées. They play all kinds of music—hip-hop, rock, funk, Afrobeats. A lot of indie artists but also well-known artists from here and the States. To be honest, it’s basically a tourist trap with a high cover charge and overpriced drinks, but a good number of French-speaking people go there, too. Franck’s uncle is the manager. You game?”

  She hadn’t been to a club in years and wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to go now, but Stephan’s roguish grin enticed her.

  “I’m game,” she said.

  Chapter 9

  After their afternoon meetings, Roselle told Stephan she’d explore the neighborhood on her own. He’d been hesitant to leave her at first, but she insisted that she’d be fine for a while until they met up again to go to the club. He had friends he should be spending time with instead of babysitting her.

  It was clear he felt some responsibility for her, and since she didn’t speak the language, it was nice having him around, but she wanted time to herself—away from him. While he was still friendly, his behavior toward her had changed, and she didn’t know how to process that. He’d obviously lost interest.

  The same could not be said for her. Spending the entire day with Stephan had been a harrowing experience because of her intense attraction to him. He had a certain pull, and she couldn’t deny wanting to stay in his orbit. So getting a break where he went off by himself and she went off by herself, was a welcome relief and a chance to clear her head.

  She took her time exploring the neighborhood, walking along the cobblestoned streets and snapping photos of the buildings. Along the way, she browsed the specialty shops, careful to say “Bonjour” upon entering each one, as recommended in her reading material.

  She spent only a few minutes at the boucherie, butcher shop, and didn’t buy anything. At the boulangerie, bakery, she purchased a delicious little strawberry tart and tucked it in her purse to snack on later. At the fromagerie, cheese shop, the owner talked animatedly about his seasonal bests in halting English. She left with a small selection that included sharp gorgonzola, creamy sheep’s cheese from the French Basque country, and a jar of strawberry lavender jam as an accompaniment.

  One of her last stops was a boutique where she purchased an outfit for later. Stephan had warned her that getting into a popular club meant dressing well, and that did not necessarily mean wearing tight or short clothing. The dress she chose was a splurge but one she didn’t regret.

  That night in her room, she squirted perfume on her neck and wrists and pinned her hair at her nape, showing off the gold earrings she brought on the trip. They went perfectly with the metallic gold of the shift dress, which featured a matching band that tied around her waist. The long, sheer sleeves cinched around her wrists with a balloon effect, and the hemline fell to her knees. She paired the outfit with strappy sandals with thick heels that were comfortable for walking. If Stephan’s intense stare was anything to go by when she walked down the stairs, she’d done well.

  “You look great,” he said when she stopped in front of him.

  “So do you.
”

  His outfit consisted of dark gray chinos, a navy-blue blazer, and a white collarless shirt under it. His only accessory was a Vacheron Constantin brand watch with a brown leather band, which easily cost as much as her annual salary.

  “Let’s go,” he said, and let her walk ahead of him.

  Sébastien dropped them off in the middle of the Champs-Élysées. The busy avenue was over a mile long and filled with tourists and residents strolling the sidewalks on both sides and checking out the souvenir shops, car showrooms, restaurants, and high-end clothing stores like Sylvie and Louis Vuitton.

  They stopped at the Sylvie store and introduced themselves to the workers, letting them know they were from the US head office. When the staff learned Stephan was Sylvie Johnson’s son, they became excited, and she and Stephan had to practically tear themselves away, or they might not have been able to leave.

  Roselle asked Stephan to take a photo of her with the backdrop of the Arc de Triomphe, a massive monument on the western end of the avenue which had been commissioned by Napoleon. Then they took a side street and approached Le Rêve nightclub on foot, and Roselle was doubly glad she’d bought a new outfit.

  Women of all races were lined up outside wearing stylish, figure-hugging outfits that flattered their bodies while showing off their fashion sense.

  Stephan took her hand in his and led the way past the line to the front door.

  His warm clasp made her belly tighten. A quick glance at his profile suggested he hadn’t experienced a charge the way she did, and once again, she was disappointed in his lack of interest.

  The men and women waiting outside were a mix of college-age and young professionals who stared at them as they walked past. At the front door, the bouncer’s face spread into a wide smile when he saw Stephan. They spoke for a few minutes in French before the guy took a quick look at Roselle and let them past.

  They entered the crowded club, whose tall ceiling consisted of red and white lights that hung from wrought iron in a crisscrossed design. On the opposite side of the building, a deejay wearing headphones over a backward-turned cap stood on stage hunched over turntables and surrounded by an entourage of men and women. Gyrating bodies crowded the area around the stage, dancing to an unfamiliar hip-hop song as the artist rapped in French.

  Out of nowhere, a tall, elegant woman with a familiar face approached and stood directly in their path.

  “Bonsoir, Stephan. How long are you in Paris?” she asked in a British accent, speaking loud enough to be heard above the thumping music. She placed a hand on his crotch and squeezed.

  Stephan grunted as if in pain. “Not long.” He carefully removed the woman’s hand from between his legs.

  “Too bad,” she said with a pretty pout.

  That’s when Roselle remembered she was a top British model known only by her first name, Namia. In high heels, she was as tall as Stephan with thick lips set between high cheekbones and skin as smooth and dark as garnet stone. Coupled with the vibrant blue wig she wore, she was head-turning with her graceful movements. Absolutely stunning, but downright rude.

  “Excuse me,” Roselle said, stepping closer to Stephan. What was she, invisible? “We’re here together.”

  Namia flicked her gaze up and down Roselle’s smaller form. “Oh, really?” Her gaze met Stephan’s again, seeking confirmation.

  He flung an arm around Roselle’s neck and squeezed her closer to his hard body. Her breasts tightened at the contact.

  “I’m taken,” Stephan said.

  The model studied him for a moment and then arched one eyebrow. “How long are you and your friend here?”

  “We leave the day after tomorrow.”

  “I see. Well…” She grasped the front of Stephan’s shirt and yanked him closer, forcing Roselle to stumble forward, too, because his arm remained around her neck. “In case you’ve forgotten what I’m capable of…”

  She leaned in and whispered in Stephan’s ear. Roselle didn’t hear what she said, but the reminder made him gulp.

  Namia stood back and dragged her palm slowly down his chest to smooth out the wrinkles she created. She tossed a hungry look at Roselle that made her press closer into Stephan’s side.

  “Call me. I only need an hour. And your friend can come, too.”

  With that, Namia turned on her high heels and two burly men that Roselle hadn’t noticed before—probably bodyguards—followed in her wake.

  “What the hell? Holy crap, she’s aggressive!” Roselle said.

  “You have no idea. That was her holding back because we’re in public. Thanks for being a buffer.” He kept his arm around her shoulders, looking down at her as if…as if she belonged there, tucked into his side.

  She’d responded with such fervor because seeing another woman grab his privates as if they belonged to her made her enraged and she had to speak up. “Does she always do that, just…grab you like that?”

  He shrugged. “Not always.”

  “You shouldn’t allow it. She has no right to do that.”

  “It’s not a big—”

  “It is a big deal. You’re a person, not a piece of meat,” Roselle said firmly.

  He arched a brow. “I guess you’re right,” he said slowly, studying her for a moment.

  “Your boundaries need to be respected just as much as anybody else’s.”

  One corner of his mouth twisted upward into a sexy smile. He bent his head to her ear. “Thanks for looking out for me.”

  “You’re welcome.” Roselle edged away from him. She’d become too comfortable hugged up against him. “By the way, what did she mean by saying that I can join you? She doesn’t know me.”

  “She doesn’t have to know you. She liked what she saw.”

  Her eyes widened, and he laughed.

  “What kind of people do you know? Is your other friend like that?”

  “Franck is nothing like that. He’s cool people. And there he is.”

  A man about their age with swarthy skin and a mop of curly dark hair approached. He and Stephan slapped hands. “Have you been here long?” he asked in accented English.

  “Just got here. This is Roselle.”

  “You did not tell me she was so beautiful. Hello, Roselle. I am Franck Bongo, French by way of Gabon. Enchanté.” He lifted her hand and kissed the back of it.

  “Don’t start that French lover shit,” Stephan said, shooting his friend a dark look.

  “I want her to have the full French experience,” Franck said.

  “Then greet her properly.”

  “He is jealous, this one.” Franck jabbed a finger in Stephan’s direction.

  Roselle giggled. She liked him already.

  Franck leaned in and gave her the customary double kiss, one on each cheek. “With a name like Roselle, you speak French, oui?” he asked.

  “Does bonjour and au revoir count?”

  He gave a hearty laugh. “So you’re not like our friend here, who speaks many languages?”

  “Many languages? Come on, now,” Stephan said.

  “Why be modest? You speak six languages.”

  “Three. The rest…let’s say I can get by.”

  “Pfft! No, it is not true. He speaks French, English, Portuguese, Spanish, German, and a little Dutch.”

  Roselle looked at Stephan. She had no idea.

  “My German sucks. I need to get better.” Stephan shrugged.

  “He is too modest. But anyway, you do not need to speak French because I speak English. We have fun tonight, okay?” Franck said.

  “Okay,” Roselle said. She appreciated his friendliness.

  “Allons-y, mes amis.”

  They followed him, skirting the dance floor before climbing three steps to an elevated area that was roped off. A man standing guard in a black suit lifted the rope and Franck went to sit on a chair while Roselle and Stephan sat on a red velvet couch. A wrought iron railing further separated them from the crowd they looked at below.

  Soon, drinks and f
ood were ordered, and Roselle relaxed into the evening, ready for a more casual experience during her trip. She would never have done this on her own. While she was sorry Jacob had to cancel for such grave reasons, she was happy that she had the opportunity to see another side of the city, courtesy of Stephan.

  Chapter 10

  The deejay lowered the music and spoke French into the mic. Since they’d been there, he’d alternated between French and English to the international crowd. Now her ears picked up Stephan’s name in his thick accent.

  “…Stephan Brooks here tonight. Where are you, brother?”

  A white spotlight flashed over the crowd.

  “Oh no,” Stephan muttered.

  “What’s wrong?” Roselle asked.

  The light settled on them—specifically, on Stephan. Confused, Roselle stepped back. The deejay continued talking and pointed at Stephan, and cheers of encouragement erupted from the crowd. Because he spoke in French, Roselle had no idea what was being said.

  “Venez! Come on up!” the deejay said into the microphone.

  “Go! Allez!” Franck said with a huge grin.

  The crowd continued hollering and cheering. What was going on?

  “He wants me to come up there and deejay,” Stephan said, speaking loud enough to be heard over the chanting crowd.

  Stephan lifted a hand to indicate he’d come up and the crowd roared again. Then the spotlight disappeared, and the music volume increased.

  “You deejay?” Roselle asked in shock. He was a man of many talents.

  Stephan shrugged nonchalantly. “I haven’t been on the decks in over a year, but I have turntables and other equipment at home that I still play around with. It’s just a hobby.”

  “He’s good. He’s done some very important parties, and they pay a lot to have him guest deejay,” Franck explained.

  “How much is a lot?” Roselle asked.

  “Fifty,” Stephan replied.

  “Dollars?” Roselle asked, frowning.

  “Fifty thousand dollars,” Franck corrected.

  “A night? Fifty—are you kidding me?”