I could feel the heat rising to my face. I had no doubt I was beet red.
“No, I don’t!” I don’t know why I felt so compelled to deny it. But I couldn’t have Guillaume thinking that. I was determined to be 100 percent professional. And my idea of professionalism did not include drooling over a cute reporter who seemed determined to be my client’s primary adversary.
“Yes, you do.” The words were singsonged merrily at me this time.
“No, I don’t!” I felt annoyed now. Had he lured me into his room for the express purpose of making me feel foolish? “And just what would make you think that, anyhow?” I asked defensively, realizing a bit late that my indignation perhaps wasn’t transmitted as clearly as it could have been, given that I was slurring my words pretty severely.
Guillaume rolled his eyes. “Wow, I don’t know. The way you look at him. The way you’re always looking around for him when you can’t find him. The way you’re blushing now that I am asking you.”
“I’m not blushing,” I said quickly.
“Right. It must be that the temperature in the room has climbed. Perhaps you’re overheating?”
“Don’t make fun of me,” I snapped. “I’m serious. It’s not like I’m even looking for a boyfriend or anything anyhow.”
“Oh?” Guillaume asked with some interest.
I had the dim sense I was talking myself into a hole. But I just kept on digging. “Yes,” I said triumphantly. “I’m dating. According to Poppy, I need to go out with as many Frenchmen as possible, but no more than one date each.”
Guillaume grinned. “And you sleep with them, yes?”
I shook my head vehemently. “No, of course not!”
Guillaume looked confused for the first time. “So what is the point?”
I thought about this for a moment. “The pursuit of the perfect French kiss, I think,” I said, realizing that I was slurring even more than before. I’d better stop drinking the champagne and go back to the shrubbery plan. “Can I ask you something?”
“But of course.” Guillaume smiled.
“What’s with you, anyhow?” I realized that the words sounded completely tactless, but between my frustration and the champagne, I hardly cared anymore. “I mean, do you have a drinking problem? I’ve never actually even seen you drink until today. Or are you crazy? Or is it like Gabe says and you just want the attention?”
Guillaume looked surprised. Then a slow grin spread across his face. “Gabe said that, did he?”
I shrugged. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No, no, it’s fine,” Guillaume said. He shook his head. “It’s just typical of him.” He took a deep breath. “Okay. So you asked whether I was crazy. No, I do not think I am.”
“So it’s alcohol then?” I asked.
Guillaume shook his head. “No. Can I tell you a secret?”
I nodded. “Yesh.” I had intended to say yes, but the champagne was really kicking in.
“I actually don’t drink at all,” he said.
“But you’re drinking champagne now!” I exclaimed.
“No,” Guillaume said. “I’ve been pouring it in the shrubbery.”
My jaw dropped. “That was my plan!”
Guillaume arched an eyebrow. “Was it? Hmm. I seem to have executed the plan better than you, then.”
Okay. I had to admit that he was right.
“But why did you ask me to come in and have a drink if you weren’t planning on drinking yourself?” I asked.
Guillaume shrugged. “I was lonely. And you and I never get to talk.”
I stared. “I’m your publicist. We’re not supposed to be sitting around bonding, Guillaume.”
“I know,” he said. “Still, this has been fun, right? I mean, that thing you were telling me about French kisses? That’s pretty interesting.”
“It is?” I couldn’t figure out why Guillaume would be so intrigued.
“Indeed,” he said. He scooted a bit closer and smiled. “So what is it you’ve discovered?”
“About French kissing?” I asked. “Well, for one, I think someone needs to tell all the women back in the United States: No one kisses like a Frenchman!”
Guillaume laughed. “Really?”
“Mais oui,” I said with an exaggerated French accent, thinking how much easier it was to speak French while drinking. Hmm, perhaps I would have to begin stashing a bottle of champagne in my desk at work. “You Frenchmen have really perfected the art of the kiss, you know.”
Guillaume studied my face for a moment. He looked sort of fuzzy around the edges, but I supposed that was because of the alcohol, not because he was actually disintegrating. “That’s very interesting,” he said softly. Then, before I realized what was happening, he leaned over and pressed his lips to mine, softly at first and then, when I didn’t protest, with mounting intensity.
Wow, he’s a good kisser, I thought vaguely. And being pressed against that amazing body is incredible. My mouth, which apparently had a mind of its own, kissed him back. But wait, I thought suddenly, trying not to sink into the sensation of the kiss. He’s my client! What am I doing?