Perfect Strangers

3

He’s even morehandsome than I remember.

It’s probably the combined effect of candlelight and the hazy glow of sex hormones being produced en masse by the cluster of simpering females surrounding him, but the man is positively stunning.

Standing beside a grand piano in a corner of the elegant salon, James is all in black. Black dress shirt open at the collar, black slacks, black leather shoes that I can tell from where I’m standing cost more than the gross domestic product of Guam.

Conversing with his admirers, he appears neither happy nor at ease. In fact, he looks like a cornered wolf.

Interesting.

Then he glances up, catches me watching him, and falls still.

I’d look away, but I’m frozen. Pinned in place. Turned to stone by that same jolt of electricity that crackled through me at the café when he looked into my eyes.

No, not stone.

Molten lava.

Heat rises in a wave from my chest to my neck, then engulfs my face. I stand there, ears burning, heart pounding, until the connection becomes unbearable, and I tear my gaze away.

The relief is instant.

I vow to myself I’ll never look his way again.

“Ah, there you are! Welcome, my dear, welcome!”

A beaming Edmond appears beside me and proceeds to kiss my hand. Then he bends his head close and speaks in a conspiratorial whisper. “You look très magnifique in that gown. Half the men in this room are probably in love with you already.”

The gown in question is the only dress I brought with me, a body-skimming number in sapphire blue chiffon that manages the miracle of complementing both my complexion and my figure. I brought it on impulse, thinking maybe I’d wear it to the opera or such, but as the rest of my clothing consists of jeans, T-shirts, and comfortable shoes, I figured this was as good an occasion as any.

“Thank you. I thought I’d be overdressed, but I can see I was wrong.”

The salon is filled with people who obviously attend the fashion week couture shows. I’ve never seen such glamour in my life. You’d think we were about to receive the Queen of England. Even Edmond is dressed to the nines in an exquisite navy suit with a robin’s-egg blue silk tie and matching pocket square. His patent leather loafers are so shiny they’re blinding me.

“That’s the guest of honor over there by the piano, but he’s surrounded at the moment so let me introduce you around. Come.”

Edmond takes my elbow and leads me forward into the crowd. I feel like a cow being led to slaughter.

As luck would have it, the first person I’m introduced to is the nubile blonde with the firm tits and lungs like Pavarotti’s. Even clothed and upright, she’s instantly recognizable as the screamer across the way from Estelle’s.

“Mademoiselle Gigi, please meet mademoiselle Olivia.” Edmond adds proudly, “Olivia is a writer.”

I murmur an alarmed hello as Gigi throws her arms wide and lunges at me, lips pursed. She grabs me by the shoulders and gives me a hearty kiss on both cheeks, then holds me at arms’ length, grinning like a lunatic.

Her breasts are even more impressive up close.

“Bonsoir, Olivia!” she shouts. “I am so pleased to meet you!”

It’s drugs. It’s got to be.

She turns her head and hollers over her shoulder, “Gaspard! Venez ici!”

A man in conversation with a few others halfway across the room turns and looks our way. He’s tall and slim, dressed in a lovely dark suit, and walks with a slight hitch in his gait that I can only assume is due to his chapped, dehydrated, and overworked penis.

It’s Gigi’s partner. The cause of all her caterwauling.

The grunter.

Smiling in a friendly way, Gaspard stops in front of me and extends his hand. He says something incomprehensible because it’s in French.

I take his outstretched hand and try not to feel like I’m in one of those terrible sitcoms, the ones with the canned laugh tracks starring the kind of bumbling idiot who would be in jail in real life.

“Bonsoir, Gaspard. Nice to meet you.” I know how you sound when you come.

Either Gaspard doesn’t speak English or he’s the type of Frenchman who does but wouldn’t admit it on pain of death, because he answers back in French, still smiling his pleasant smile while openly ogling my cleavage.

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak French.”

In response, Edmond, Gigi, and Gaspard launch into an animated conversation in—you guessed it—French.

Gaspard still has not released my hand.

“Lovely to meet you both,” I tell Gigi, extracting my hand from Gaspard’s clammy grip and edging away, “and now I’m going to get a drink.”

I turn and make a beeline for the bar set up on the opposite side of the room, hoping Edmond isn’t scurrying along behind me because I might be forced to kick out at him like a frightened horse.

Not even five minutes in and I’m already panicking.

“Bourbon,” I tell the bartender when I arrive, breathless from my short sprint.

I really should start exercising, but unfortunately I only enjoy physical activities that can be done lying down.