Page 43 of Enemies to French Kisses
“Not for real.”
“For total real.”
“How long do you have to stay there? This is very weird, Laura. The guy can’t actually believe that you’re married. Did you ask him about the so-called wedding? Did you press him for details? Oh my word. Does he think youconsummated?”
“Shhh!” I hiss down the phone and Delia momentarily gives me a dirty look. “Don’t talk so loud. And am I really in a position to grill the guy given that he’s just gone through a traumatic head injury because of me?” Saying the words is like taking an anvil in the gut. I still can’t believe that it happened, and that this condition is because of me.
“It wasn’t your fault. It was the Vespa, which Annelise brought back, by the way. On top of it all, he was dressed irresponsibly.”
I intend to protest—I’m the one who hit the gas even if Valerie and his scarf played a role in the situation—but I’m cut off by the sound of church bells in the apartment.
“What isthat?” Natalie shouts down the phone. “Has he got Big Ben in his living room?”
Someone knocks on the door loud and persistent.
“I think it was the doorbell. Gotta go.” I peek in at Marc who has stirred but not woken up. I say a prayer for good sound proofing, and shut the bedroom door. “Coming,” I shout-whisper to the door. When I open it a woman is poised with one hand on her hip and the other in the air as if she were checking for rain.
“Qui es-tu?” she asks as if spitting the words.
“Hi, I’m Laura.”
“An American, hmm? That didn’t answer my question.” Although she’s shorter and smaller than me in every dimension, she’s got a fighter spirit. It rolls off her like cheap perfume, though she is anything but cheap. I recognize her wedges from the window of the Claire Rouen flagship store. They cost not far off of a month of my salary.
“You’re the cleaner?” She waltzes past me. “I hope you do not steal anything.”
“First of all, ‘thou shalt not steal,’ thank you very much. And second of all, I am not the cleaner.”
“Again, you do not answer my question.” She spins around to interrogate me. “Who are you?”
That became a much more complicated question since yesterday. I have to look natural, not show that anything is off-kilter. I don’t know who this woman is, but she had no trouble reaching the final door of the gauntlet, so she knows this place. Maybe she knows Marc.
Oh Lord, maybe she knows Marcintimately.
I need a new tactic.
“Maybe you should tell me whoyouare, since I’m the one already here.” Bumpy execution, but she catches my drift.
“Is Marc here?” She looks over my shoulder.
“He’s sleeping. He took a big tumble yesterday and landed in the hospital. Figuratively landed, that is. It was the ambulance that took him to the hospital.” Smooth. “He’s sleeping it off now so it would be better if you came back another time—” Here’s my chance for a little extra. “—assuming Marc knows you.”
She scoffs in the way only snooty people can. “I’ll see Marc if I so wish.”
“I’m right here.”
Marc stands in the bedroom door, his flannel pajama pants hanging off his hips, his arm leaning casually against the doorframe.
“Mon dieu, Marc.” She rushes to him and kisses each of his cheeks, and I feel a rush of protective Doberman rising inside me. This man is breakable, doesn’t she know that?
Though while he’s leaning there like a model, he does not look one little bit fragile. Instead, he looks powerful and gorgeous with his muscular body, tanned skin, and disheveled hair. His smirk is equal parts gruff and unconcerned, like a teenager who knows he’s done something wrong but can’t help feeling a little bit proud of himself.
He stands there in his pajamas and bare feet as if they were designer threads, commanding the entire room without saying a word.
The woman glares at me and then mumbles to Marc, whose stance doesn’t budge despite her animated gestures in front of him.
He shakes his head at her and then nods in my direction.
She snaps her head to look at me and glares with a fire that would singe my eyebrows, then turns back to Marc.
