Then again, if I was smart enough to realize what his ulterior motives were, why was I feeling disappointed?
“I’ve told you that I’ll book an interview for you,” I said wearily, staring out the window. We were passing the entrance to the tunnel where Princess Diana had died, and as always I felt a little twinge of sadness.
“I know,” Gabe persisted. “But we’re all leaving for London next Saturday for the press junket. Why don’t you set it up for Tuesday? We can meet for coffee. I don’t think Guillaume has any plans.”
I turned to look at him. “How would you know if Guillaume has any plans?”
Gabe had the decency to look a bit embarrassed. “Well, I wouldn’t, exactly. I just meant that no public appearances have been announced or anything. So how about it? I need only half an hour for a UPP write-up. I promise I’ll go easy on him.”
I studied his profile for a moment, noting for the first time that there was a small, nearly imperceptible bump on the bridge of his angular nose, probably from a break at some point in his life, as well as a small scar just above his right eyebrow.
“Do you promise the write-up will be positive?” I asked, trying to ignore the fact that I had also just noticed for the first time how long his dark eyelashes were. We were on the Left Bank now, a few blocks from my apartment. I had to admit, this had been much easier than walking and taking the Métro, even with Gabe’s constant questions.
Gabe smiled. “You know I can’t promise that,” he said. “But I can promise you that I’m not going into this with any bad intentions. I just want to ask Guillaume about all these crazy antics lately. I’ll also ask him about the new album, and his much-anticipated launch, and everything. You can’t ask for better publicity than this, Emma. My story goes out to hundreds of papers around the world.”
“I know,” I grumbled. I tried to weigh in my mind how much harm Gabe could do versus how much extra publicity he could bring us. In the end, I knew I had to grant him the interview, if for no other reason than that I had already given him my word. “Fine,” I said finally. “I’ll call you tomorrow with a time and place.”
Gabe turned left onto my street and came to a stop along the curb.
“Wonderful,” he said. “Thanks, Emma. Will you be there?”
“Will I be where?”
“At the interview.”
“Oh,” I said. I unbuckled my seat belt. What, did Gabe think I was as crazy as Guillaume? I wasn’t going to leave my client alone with some muckraking journalist! “Of course I’ll be there.”
“Great,” Gabe said again. “I’ll look forward to it, then.”
I sighed. What was I supposed to say? “Um, thanks for the ride.”
“No problem,” Gabe said. “You’re on my way home anyhow.”
I gritted my teeth and stepped out of the car.
“Talk to you tomorrow, Emma!” Gabe said cheerfully as I shut the door behind me. I stood and watched him as he pulled away from the curb and disappeared down Avenue Rapp without looking back.
Chapter Twelve
After a few more days of working long hours to prepare for the junket and to do more preemptive damage control by sending out releases about all of Guillaume’s great charity work, Poppy and I spent the weekend shopping, eating out, and, of course, flirting with strangers Poppy had picked out at bars, although Poppy abandoned me briefly for a Saturday night date. Despite myself, I was starting to enjoy feeling attractive to Frenchmen. It was good for my confidence, in a way I had never expected.
On Tuesday, Guillaume and I arrived by taxi at Café le Petit Pont, the same place Poppy had taken me on my first night in Paris, for the interview I’d reluctantly promised to Gabe.
“I promise we’ll keep this short,” I said to Guillaume as we sat down at a table in the outside courtyard, facing the river. “We just have to appease this Gabriel Francoeur guy, and maybe he’ll leave us alone.”
“I’ve heard he’s terrible,” Guillaume said with what appeared to be an expression of amusement on his face.
“The worst,” I muttered. I glanced around and saw that most of the people near us were staring at Guillaume, who seemed oblivious. Several tourists were surreptitiously snapping photos, and others were holding up cell phones to capture his image. No matter how many times I’d been responsible for my Boy Bandz clients in public, I’d never quite gotten used to the attention that fame brought with it.
“What’s wrong?” Guillaume asked me after a moment, leaning across the table.
“Nothing.” I shook my head. “It doesn’t bother you? All these people staring and taking your picture?”
Guillaume glanced around, as if noticing for the first time that we weren’t entirely alone in the restaurant.
“Oh,” he said. “I guess I don’t even think about it anymore.” He smiled broadly and waved a few times to excited fans. Then he turned his dazzling smile back to me.