“Look, I’ll call you as soon as I’m done,” Poppy said. “I’m so sorry to make you handle this on your own.”
I asked the cabbie to swing by the Celio store on the Rue de Rivoli on the way. He waited while I dashed inside to buy Guillaume a shirt, cargo pants, and flip-flops. I guessed on his size, assuming that even if the clothes weren’t exactly right, he’d appreciate wearing something other than his underwear when he was escorted outside.
Ten minutes later, the cab drew to a halt in front of the Eiffel Tower.
“You will love it!” the driver said, turning around to me with a smile. Obviously he’d mistaken me for a carefree tourist. “It eez ze best tourist sight in Paris. You must go up to ze top.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, counting out his fare with trembling hands. I could feel sweat beading at my brow.
“Oh, no, do not be nervous!” he exclaimed. “I see you are transpiring.” I guessed he meant perspiring. “But do not worry,” he went on encouragingly. “There are guardrails. It eez completely safe.”
“Merci beaucoup,” I mumbled, pressing a handful of bills into his hand. “Keep the change.”
“Just take ze deep breaths and you will be fine, mademoiselle!” the cabdriver shouted behind me as I slammed the door and began my dash across the courtyard to the entrance. “It eez nothing to panic about!”
Unfortunately, before I reached the tower, I had to pass a horde of journalists clustered near the base of its west pillar. Gabriel was the only one who spotted me as I tried to sneak by.
“Emma!” he shouted out. The other reporters, snapped to attention by his voice, spun to face me, too. Suddenly I was in the center of a storm of questions that were being hurled toward me far faster than I could respond to them.
“Is it true that Guillaume Riche is in custody inside the Eiffel Tower?”
“Was he drunk?”
“Has he been taken to jail?”
“Will this delay his album launch?”
“Does KMG have an official statement?”
“No,” I muttered, trying to make my way past them.
“What about the allegation that he was trapped in the tower overnight?” Gabriel’s oddly American-sounding voice rose above the others. “Are you denying it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” There was hardly room to move as I elbowed through the crowd. I quickly explained who I was to one of the guards, who thankfully spoke enough English to understand. He radioed someone, and in a moment he reluctantly ushered me through and pointed me toward the south pillar.
“What about the allegation that he’s naked?” Gabriel yelled after me as I began to stride away, trying to stop myself from panicking.
“Not true.” I stopped and glared at Gabriel. Who did he think he was anyhow?
“Then what are you doing here if there’s nothing going on?” Gabriel asked smugly. His deep green eyes sparkled triumphantly behind his thin-rimmed glasses. He grinned at me, and I was disappointed to realize that his dimples were just as charming, even when he was annoying the heck out of me. Which was unfortunate, because I really wanted to dislike Gabriel Francoeur.
“Er . . . we’re doing a promotional thing for his new album, Riche, which will have its launch party two weeks from Saturday,” I said, thinking quickly. I glanced at Gabriel and then at the other journalists. “I’m sorry you all appear to have been misinformed again. But I hope you’re looking forward to the album release as much as I am.”
With that, I began striding toward the entrance.
“If there’s nothing wrong,” I could hear Gabriel shouting behind me, “then bring Guillaume out to talk to us when you’re done inside!”
I ignored him and tried to swallow the lump in my throat. I clutched the Celio bag tighter. How could I bring him out past the media horde if he was in custody? I was in serious trouble here. I had no idea how I would talk the security guards out of having Guillaume arrested.
After a quick consultation with a security manager outside the tower, I was escorted sixty yards up to the first level by elevator. I hardly had time to marvel at the fact that, for the first time in years, I was once again inside one of my favorite buildings in the world. I barely noticed the intricate, crisscrossing geometric ironwork of the tower as we were whisked quickly up toward what I suspected would be a much crazier scene than the H?tel Jeremie last week.
My escort led me down a series of hallways on the first floor and into a small office behind the Eiffel Tower’s post office, where I was introduced to two of the security guards who had Guillaume in custody.
“Where is he?” I asked wearily. Smirking, one of the guards gestured toward a closed door in the back.
“Bonne chance, mademoiselle,” he said. Good luck, miss.