By the time we had emerged from the gilding, with flashbulbs exploding frantically all around us, I was ready. Well, as ready as I was going to be, anyhow.
The media interest in Guillaume was far more intense than I had expected. It was like nothing I’d experienced back home with Boy Bandz, even when the 407 boys were at the height of their popularity. Poppy had always told me that European journalists were relentless, especially when it came to celebrity coverage, but I hadn’t expected anything to this degree. There were dozens of clamoring reporters and scores of photographers shouting Guillaume’s name.
I am in control, I told myself. Realizing that in this situation, at least, I could take charge of something made me feel a little more like myself again.
Filled with this false confidence, I strode out of the elevator, with Poppy following me, herding a sheepish Guillaume between us.
“Mesdames et messieurs,” Poppy said quickly as we approached a makeshift podium off to the side of the lobby. She raised her hands until the crowd of journalists had fallen into an expectant hush. A few flashes went off, and Guillaume grinned for the cameras as if oblivious to the fact that anyone here could wish him ill. “Puis-je avoir v?tre attention, s’il vous pla?t? May I have your attention please?”
The crowd shushed further and waited expectantly. Poppy stared at them for a moment, like a deer caught in headlights—or at least flashbulb lights. Then she cleared her throat and glanced at me. Guillaume elbowed me gently in the ribs; when I looked at him, he grinned charmingly and batted his thick eyelashes at me. I rolled my eyes and tried not to blush.
“May I present my new colleague, Emma Sullivan,” Poppy said. She glanced nervously at me again and then looked back out at the quieted press corps. “Emma will be making a short announcement in English. I will be translating to French. Thank you. Merci beaucoup.”
She nodded, raised her eyebrows at me, and took a step back. I cleared my throat, took a step forward, and forced a smile at the twenty or so journalists who were clustered in front of me, looking hungry, tired, and eager.
“Good evening,” I said formally, stepping forward.
“Bonsoir,” Poppy translated behind me. I drew a deep breath and continued.
“It has come to our attention that there have been some rumors this evening about Guillaume Riche’s behavior,” I began. Behind me, Poppy translated, and as she finished speaking, several hands shot up in the air. I held up a hand, indicating that I wasn’t finished.
“Sometimes, people tell stories for personal gain or call the press for reasons of their own making,” I continued. I debated for a moment whether I should feel badly about calling the busboy’s honesty into question, but after all he had been the source of this madness. And wasn’t a hotel guest’s private business supposed to remain private? “I cannot guess at the motives of the individual who called you,” I said, pausing so that Poppy could translate after each sentence. “Or perhaps it was just an innocent mistake. But I assure you, there was nothing unseemly going on in Guillaume Riche’s hotel suite this evening.”
Poppy translated in a voice that was growing more confident by the moment, and again, half a dozen hands shot up, reporters clamoring. I glanced at them and, without meaning to, locked eyes with a dark-haired thirtysomething guy with glasses in the front row who was staring at me with a creased forehead.
He was cute. Very cute. He had classic French good looks: green eyes, thick lashes, darkly tanned skin, and a square jaw darkened by stubble. Unfortunately, he was also wearing an expression of deep skepticism, which made him exponentially less attractive at the moment. I could almost hear the words I don’t believe you emanating from him. I cleared my throat and glanced away before I accidentally looked guilty.
“This evening, my colleague, Poppy Millar, and I met Guillaume Riche in his hotel suite to go over plans for the highly anticipated launch of his album in Britain and the United States in three weeks,” I continued, with Poppy hurriedly turning my words into French. I glanced again at the journalist with the glasses, who hadn’t looked away, and my resolve faltered a bit. Why was his gaze making me so nervous? “We’ve been at it for hours,” I said, “and I think you’ll be very pleased with the result at our big launch party in London three weeks from now.”
Poppy translated while I paused to give myself a mental pat on the back for sneaking in a promotion for the upcoming launch—twice. So far, so good.
“The three of us have simply been brainstorming for the past several hours, and I assure you, there hasn’t been anyone else in the room,” I concluded. The lie came out easily, but I didn’t see any other way around the issue. This seemed to be the only way Guillaume could escape from this situation.
More hands shot up, and I took a deep breath and pointed to a sleek, dark-haired woman who looked about fifty.