“Welcome to London!” he said with a charming smile, eliciting even more cheers. “I can’t wait to meet you all tomorrow during the interviews!”
Then he launched into the first verse of “City of Light,” and the crowd went wild, which was a very good sign. In my previous experience, I’d found that journalists tended to be a particularly unexpressive lot, as they were supposed to remain objective and judge things without emotion. But this crowd was falling hook, line, and sinker for the musical bait Guillaume was casting out, and he was expertly reeling them in with his rich voice, his heartfelt lyrics, and his smoldering gazes.
After “City of Light,” Guillaume and the band launched immediately into “La Nuit,” and the decibel level of the crowd skyrocketed as they all realized they were getting the very first exposure to one of Guillaume’s new songs.
Poppy gave me a spontaneous hug as we watched the normally staid reporters go wild. “It’s working!” she whispered. I hugged back, just as enthused.
As I gazed out contentedly over the room, I suddenly spotted Gabe toward the back of the crowd, and my heart leapt immediately into my throat. He looked perfect—and very French—in a pair of jeans, a blue oxford, a charcoal-gray suit jacket, and a black scarf, with his dark hair spiked a bit and his face smoothly shaven. He spotted me at the exact same moment I noticed him, and he grinned and raised his hand in a little wave. Then he turned his attention back to the person he was chatting with.
I took a step to my left to see who he was talking to. It was an older, gray-haired man whom I didn’t remember checking in. Perhaps Poppy had met him.
“Hey.” I nudged her. “Who’s that Gabe is talking to?”
Poppy glanced out at the audience then back at me. “Ah, so it’s Gabe, is it?”
I could feel my cheeks heat up. “What do you mean?”
“He’s the journalist you fancy, is he?” Poppy was grinning at me. She didn’t wait for me to respond. “He’s a bit of a pain sometimes, but he is a good guy. And rather gorgeous to boot, I admit. Good for you!”
I looked at the floor, feeling like an idiot. “Yeah, well, whatever,” I mumbled. “So do you know that guy?”
Poppy leaned to the side to see Gabe’s conversation partner, and when she leaned back, she looked troubled. “This could be a problem,” she said under her breath. “That’s Guillaume’s dad.” She took a step forward to glance at them again. “Oh, bollocks! I told him not to talk to any media! What’s he doing talking to Gabriel Francoeur?”
“Oh, no,” I said grimly.
“You’d better go over there and interrupt,” Poppy said. I nodded, gave her a worried look, and started making my way through the crowd. Just before I reached them, Guillaume’s father patted Gabe on the arm, glanced at me, and turned to walk away.
“Hi, Emma!” Gabe said quietly, reaching out to kiss me on each cheek. He glanced toward the stage, where Guillaume was still belting his heart out to “La Nuit.” It sounded amazing, and everyone in the room seemed to be standing in silence, transfixed by his performance. Except Gabe. Who didn’t seem to care. And who’d been using the time to chat up the one person we wanted to keep him away from.
“Hi,” I whispered, trying not to bother any of the other journalists. After all, I didn’t want to detract from what was, so far, the perfect performance. “You arrived okay?”
“Yes, yes,” Gabe said, glancing again toward the stage and then back at me. He smiled. “Thank you.”
“You were late,” I said. I realized immediately that it sounded like an accusation, and I felt foolish.
But he just smiled again. “You noticed.”
I cleared my throat and ignored his words. I tried to sound casual. “So, um, was that Guillaume Riche’s father you were talking to?”
Gabe hesitated but didn’t look the slightest bit guilty. “Yes.”
“I thought Poppy told him not to talk to any reporters!” I grumbled, looking crossly at Gabe.
He looked surprised and, if I’m not mistaken, a little bit wounded. “Well,” he said after a moment. “I suppose I’m not just any reporter.”
I glared at him for a moment and lowered my voice. “You know, just because I let you kiss me doesn’t mean you can get away with anything you want now.”
Gabe looked startled. “I know that, Emma,” he said.
Before I could respond, Guillaume and the band finished “La Nuit,” and Guillaume began to speak.
“Thank you all so very much,” he said. “You are a very kind audience. Now I will play one more song for you. This one is the third song from my album. It will be the second single. It is called ‘Beautiful Girl.’ Tonight, I dedicate this song to Emma, my lovely publicist, who keeps coming to my rescue. I hope you are smiling, Emma.”
My jaw dropped, and Guillaume and the band launched into the upbeat song about a man who falls in unrequited love with a woman from afar. I could feel my cheeks heat up as several journalists turned to look at me with curiosity.
“Oh, great,” Gabe muttered. “Now your rock star is dedicating songs to you.”