Page 12 of Enemies to French Kisses
“Lean into the American,dear brother. If this is as good an opportunity as you say, you’d be better off following him.”
“Her.”
I hang up on Alain’s laughter, which continues to echo in my scantily furnished apartment even after I’ve stuffed my phone between the sofa cushions.
“Pompous, arrogantgros malin!”
Delia stirs from her spot in the corner, stretches, and retakes her position. She’s used to these outbursts when it comes to Alain. She doesn’t flinch at it anymore.
Alain can laugh all he wants. Laura could mop the floor with him. Just one steely glance the way she does it, and he’d cower in the corner.
Not me.
When she gives me a look that could kill, it’s all I can do not to grab her hand and beg her to marry me. And when she’s flying off the handle because one of the subcontractors didn’t uphold their side of the deal? There’s nothing more striking than seeing that American beauty break down those arrogant crooks.
The image of her sneaks back into my memory. Standing in front of the skyline, the softness of her profile against the setting sun, the outline of Sacre Coeur rising behind her. The blanket in my clutches is no replacement for the imaginary sensation of her beside me. If only I could find the right words to say, the right balance between confident pillar at work and romantic paramour every other time of the day.
One thing is certain— I will spend the next two weeks at her side.
She and I, we’ll be unstoppable. Tomorrow I have to size her up, watch her every move, and finally get to know what makes this woman tick.
The Dutch won’t know what hit them.
CHAPTER5
Laura
Never before hasMarc Lemaire had so little to say. I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him, the way he sat there, too quiet. He watched me like a hawk, as if waiting for me to make a mistake.
But I refused to play his game.
Maybe he was strategizing ways to elbow me out of the project so he can take over leadership, or else getting me thrown off the portfolio altogether. He’d like that, wouldn’t he? Make a fool of the American, and create more space for him, that wily conniver. But I am not going down without a fight, no sir. Tomorrow, I’m wearing my Vera Wang power pantsuit. Let him try to pull the rug out from under me in ultra-weave super armor. Even Marc Lemaire can’t help but fall victim to its long strides and shoulder-back-erect-spine-point-a-fingeredness.
But then there was that moment just before lunch. We had just finished the first round of review and everything was moving smoothly—too smoothly for me to trust. As we gathered our stuff and headed down to the canteen, he fell into stride with me. A line of sweat emerged along his brow, a shimmer like he was about to make a great speech, rubbing his hands together as if he were MacGyver. Brian and I watched that show most days after school, before Mom got home from the metal factory.
“Yes?” I’d said to him, anticipating some witty remark.
He’d looked over my shoulder as if I wasn’t there and said, “Never mind.Peu importe.”
Whatever “wasn’t important” cast a cloud over him for the rest of lunch. I kept an eye on him, but by the time we were back in the conference room, he was back to all business—though still silent.
This man cannot be trusted. I’ve known men like him my whole life. Starting with my Mom’s boyfriends when we were growing up. Mitch wasn’t the worst, but he sure had the high horse stuck up his butt. Funny to think about it now, considering just how much work I’ve done to get where I am. He’s the one who insisted I’d be lucky if the campground let me pick up the doggy do. Only his words weren’t so polite. Who talks like that to a kid? But Mom never saw that side, of course. Brian was scared of him, but Mitch only had it in for me. He didn’t lay a hand on either of us, lucky for him, but insults like his cut deep when there isn’t a father’s kind words to cancel his out.
But since Brian and I never knew our dad, we had to make due with Mom’s quasi-deadbeats makeshift fathers.
I’ll never know if Brianneededme to protect him, because watching out for my little brother—who now towers over me—was the only thing I knew to do. Oh, Brian. He’d love Valerie the Vespa. He teases me that it’s the girly version of his Harley, but if he were here, he’d take it for a ride all over the city and come home a life-long Vespa fan. I know him. And I miss him.
As my key bumps through the ancient lock of our apartment, I already know something is up on the other side. It is way too quiet.
I push the door open to find the girls sitting in a circle. “I knew it.”
“Do not say a thing,” Chrissy stands up. “This was all my idea.”
“It’s a good one.” Natalie gestures to the sofa. “Have a seat.”
I glance involuntarily at Annelise, as we have an unspoken rule that sitting on each other’s beds requires authorization. That’s the compromise for living in an apartment the size of a shoebox.
Annelise nods. “It’ll be better if you sit down.”
