“Oui.”
“Which ones?” I asked. “Which drugs?”
Edgar glanced nervously at Poppy again. “La cocaine,” he said finally.
“We’re going in,” I said suddenly. Edgar looked at me in surprise.
“We are?” Poppy asked. I sighed and looked at my watch. It was now two thirty in the morning.
“Yes,” I said, trying to sound confident. Edgar and Richard glanced at each other then at Poppy, who shrugged as if to say, I guess we’ll just have to follow the whims of the crazy American. That’s right. They would.
I raised my hand to the door and knocked. Nothing happened. I waited a moment, cleared my throat, and raised my hand to the door again.
“There’s no answer,” Poppy pointed out helpfully a moment later, after I’d stood staring at the doorway for what felt like a small eternity, willing some sort of reaction from inside.
“Yes, I see that,” I said and knocked again. Still no reply, although I could have sworn that the decibel level on the blasting music went up a notch or two.
“Bon, je vais frapper à la porte,” Edgar said. “Let me try knocking, Emma.” He pronounced my name Ayma, but as far as I was concerned he could call me Bob as long as he figured out how to get Poppy and me into Guillaume’s suite.
Edgar pounded on the door so hard that I feared it might actually come crashing off the hinges. Still no answer. So he pounded again, even harder and more violently this time. A moment ticked by, and then inside, the music suddenly screeched to a halt.
“Qu’est-ce qui se passe?” came a slurred male voice from inside.
Edgar shouted something in rapid French through the door. To me, he whispered, “I told him to open ze door, because there are two more ladies who want to join his party.”
“Good plan,” I said.
A moment later the door opened, and framed in the entry stood the most beautiful man I’d ever seen.
“Meet Guillaume Riche,” Poppy muttered.
I know it’s not polite to stare, but I figured that the dark-haired Adonis in front of me was probably used to it. Six feet tall or so; with his thick, dark, shaggy hair, emerald-green eyes, and perfectly chiseled face, Guillaume was literally breathtaking. As in, I had to take several deep breaths in order to pretend that I was annoyed at him, not attracted to him. He was a thousand times hotter in person than in any photo I’d ever seen. It didn’t help me that he was wearing only low-slung jeans, unbuttoned at the top, and that his shirtless physique was absolutely perfect.
“Ah, Poppy!” he exclaimed, his eyes lighting up as he focused on her. “You have come to join my party!” He turned his gaze to me and studied me intently before grinning again. “And you have brought a friend, I see!” he added.
I continued to stare dumbly at him, marveling at the fact that his English was much cleaner and less accented than I would have suspected. Had he been able to pronounce his r’s correctly, and had he not drawn out the ends of the words Poppy, party, and see so dramatically, I would almost have been able to believe that he was American instead of French. I hadn’t expected such English proficiency.
“Emma, meet Guillaume Riche,” Poppy said hastily, nodding at him, then at me. “Guillaume, this is Emma.”
“Ah, Emma, you are beautiful!” Guillaume replied with a wink that made me blush. He reached forward and planted a kiss on each of my cheeks, French-style. “Just my type!” He took my hand in his and kissed it.
“I didn’t bring her to add to your harem, Guillaume,” Poppy interrupted. He looked questioningly at her and then back at me. “She’s your new publicist.”
Guillaume looked back at me, still clutching my hand. I forced a smile. He studied me for a moment more, then grinned sheepishly.
“Right!” he exclaimed. “I knew that. I meant she was just my type of publicist. Really, Poppy. You always suspect the worst.”
“Right,” Poppy muttered. “I’m sure that’s entirely unfounded.”
“So, uh, what exactly is going on here, Guillaume?” I asked, putting my hands on my hips and trying to sound tough. But Guillaume just looked amused.
“I’m having some drinks with a few friends, Emma,” he announced brightly, wobbling just a bit as he said the words. “It’s totalleeeee innocent.”
“I’m sure,” Poppy said, glaring at him and then poking her head into the hotel room. I followed her gaze inside, where four girls, who looked like they could be in high school, were flitting around in various stages of undress. One was sniffing and wiping at her nose, which seemed to support Edgar’s assertion about the cocaine. My heart sank. Guillaume followed our eyes and shrugged.
“We were just playing a little bit of strip poker,” he added. He arched an eyebrow. “I’m winning. Good for me!”
“Yes, excellent for you,” Poppy said, glancing past him to glare at a wispy blonde wearing just white panties and a matching cami, who glided through the room toward the bath.