Page 57 of Enemies to French Kisses
A glass of champagne will do me just fine right about now.
“Marc Lemaire!” We turn to see an older man with a handlebar moustache heading this way through the crowd.“Quelle belle surprise de te voir!”
“Warning,” Marc whispers out the side of his mouth, “this man can make or break the entire French banking system with one movement of his pointy moustache.”
I gasp. “What?”
“Jean-Baptiste!” Marc opens his arms and takes the larger-than-life gentleman’s shoulders in his hands, offering the typical kisses. I can’t help thinking that moustache must be awful tickly. “It has been too long,” Marc says in English, “so let me introduce you to Laura. This is Jean-Baptiste Davi.”
“How do you do?” I extend my hand to Monsieur Davi, realizing I have never ever said ‘how do you do’ to anyone.
“Zees Americans!” He grabs my shoulders and gives me a kiss on each cheek, sloppier than I would have liked, just as a camera goes off nearby. “Welcome to the country of the kiss!”
Marc mouths, ‘Sorry!’ from behind Monsieur Davi, who launches into a speech about the importance of French-American relations in a post-truth world. I don’t disagree, which is just as well, since he doesn’t let me get a word in edgewise.
“But I’m sure you have seen, Miss Laura, the endless possibilities that render international borders a relic of the twentieth century!”
“I sure do,” I reply, watching Marc over his shoulder. He’s laughing and shaking hands with a variety of folks. His eyes shine in the chandelier light, and more people join his group. If they’re anything like me, they’re finding him magnetic. He gestures with his arms as he recounts some tale with ease and confidence, his tailored suit and polished shoes adding to his charm. His smile is infectious, and I can see the guests are drawn to him like moths to a flame.
As Monsieur Davi continues his speech, Marc leans in to whisper something to a woman beside him. She giggles and nudges him playfully. I, however, am stuck with the master banker and a hot dose of jealousy rising up the back of my neck.
“If only the United States could see the folly of their language.” Monsieur Davi babbles on. “To take words like ‘traveling’ and simply lose a letter, or the way the ‘u’ is dropped and let’s not begin on the debauchery of the letter ‘z’ in the place of the very respectable ‘s.’”
I tilt my head and listen because I don’t see any point in arguing with a man whose total worth exceeds the number of digits on a calculator. The woman leans forward toward Marc now, every bit of her busty profile coming into sharp relief. Though Marc looks over her head at the various guests in the room, his eyes landing on me. He winks.
“By the way,” Monsieur Davi punctuates with a stomp of his foot, “whoever had the idea that a barn-raising party was a good idea? Has no one considered the danger of such an irresponsible act being undertaken by women and children? Incredibly reckless!”
Hold the phone. My attention turns away from Marc and back to this self-important Frenchman. You can take the girl out of Texas, but you’ll never get the Texas out of the girl. “Monsieur Davi, I appreciate that you are speaking in hypotheticals. But you need to know that you, sir, are talking to a one-hundred percent Texan girl who will not forgo her identity for the sake of chitchat at a party. Barn-raisings are a show of community, a chance to connect and leave modern life behind, to truly live in the moment—something you might have difficulty doing, given your focus on economic prospection.”
Hmmm, was that a bit too far? From the next crowd over, Marc perks up, his attention suddenly on my conversation with the man who can break the literal bank.
Monsieur Davi’s eyes narrow. I think I might once again find myself in the middle of an international incident.
But as quickly as the cloud came over him, Monsieur Davi’s cheeks pull into a wide smile like Santa Claus and he let out a great big belly laugh.
“Nowthisis the conversation I long for! How dreadful it is to make small talk. I love a woman who can stand her ground!”
“That is what Laura is best known for.” Marc reappears and hooks an arm around my waist. “But I promised her that the bar serves Moët and I have yet to deliver.”
“Man is nothing if not fulfilling his word.” Monsieur Davi bows. “Enchanted, Madame Laura.”
I bow my head in return, because the cameras are watching. “Until next time, J.B.”
Marc looks at me, horrified.
“J.B.!” Monsieur Davi laughs and turns away. “I should have married an American.”
Marc takes a very long inhale before finally speaking. “I don’t know if you read him like a book, or if you were bluffing. But whatever it was, you managed to charm Jean-Baptiste.”
“And you were charming awhole crowdover there.” Even I can hear the jealousy dripping from my lips.
“I heard that.” Marc grins, tilting his head at me.
“Heard what?” Ugh, caught.
“You’re jealous.” He grins like a boy who got the right answer at school. “I know that tone.”
“Jealous? No way.” Total way. I couldn’t come up with a better argument than that? “I just noticed that you were enjoying the attention.” I’m not being fair. He actually looked like he owned the room, and was perfectly at ease with it. And it was so freaking attractive.
