“They do have amazing cappuccinos,” the other woman admitted.
“We'll see you after lunch then,” Lilah declared. And just like that, the three women disappeared into a waiting elevator.
“What was that all about?” I mumbled to myself. “It's Mr. Sinclair now? What the hell?”
I shook my head and headed downstairs alone.
***
The rest of the week had been more of what seemed like Lilah trying to avoid me. So, come Friday morning, I saved her the trouble. My private jet began its descent into Paris at 6:45 in the evening—just in time to catch the sun setting over the city. It had been a while since I'd been in France and, while I was only there for 48 hours, I intended to make the most of my trip.
After I'd made it through customs, I found my French business associate Anton Leveque waiting for me in the arrivals lounge. Anton, a devilishly handsome middle-aged Frenchman, radiated a smile my way, strode over, and embraced me, p
lanting a kiss on each of my cheeks as a greeting.
“Asher, my friend! It is good to see you! Come, come, there is a limousine waiting outside! Here, let my assistant take your bags for you.”
He barked out a few orders in French to a thin, timid-looking young man in a suit, who complied without replying and quietly took my suitcases from me. We then started talking as we headed out of the terminal toward the waiting limousine.
“It has been a long time since you were in Paris, no?”
“Nearly two years, I think. How have you been, Anton?”
“Splendid, just splendid! Well, you know about the business—we've been emailing about that. We are desperately in need of an innovative PR campaign which will, how do you Americans say? Light a fire under people's asses?”
I laughed. “I suppose we might say that, yes. Well, you’ve come to the right place, Anton. Don't you worry, the Sinclair Agency has a few ideas for marketing and branding your new perfumes. And, we're meeting with the top translation firm in Paris tomorrow to ensure that nothing is lost in translation.”
“Yes, yes, do not worry, my friend. I have no doubt that you can make things a great success for my new line. This year, you know, the competition has been so strong. We really need a competitive edge—that's why we had to go to the best.”
“And, we will not fail you, Anton. I guarantee it.”
“Well, anyway, this a concern for tomorrow. We French do not like to mix business and pleasure. And tonight, we are not doing business. Tonight, we are celebrating your return to the city of love, of passion! Tonight we will drink and be merry, my friend.”
I laughed and clapped him on the back before climbing into the limousine. “That sounds excellent, Anton. Let’s get that celebration underway! The night is young.”
“That it is, my friend. That it is!”
***
“One more glass, my friend, come on! It is the finest 40-year-old whiskey around! Surely, you cannot say no?”
I drank the last sip of whiskey in my glass, the thumping bass from the music outside rumbling my insides with its volume. At least here, in the VIP room, it wasn't as deafening as it was in the rest of the nightclub.
“I don't know, Anton. We have a lot of work to do tomorrow morning, and I'd like to visit a few museums, as well. Doing all of that with a hangover maybe would not, uh, be such a great idea, ya know?”
Anton frowned as he drank the last of his whiskey. “My friend, when were you last in Paris? It was two years, no? Come on, it would be a sin to end the night this early. You cannot go back to your hotel now. Besides, there is someone I want you to meet.” He pulled out his cellphone and saw a message waiting for him. He read it and then looked up at me with a cheeky smile. “And she has just arrived here with her friends. It would be very rude to leave now, my friend, very rude, no?”
I sighed. “All right, but seriously, just one more. That's all, one more.”
Anton raised his hand and snapped his fingers and the resident VIP room waiter hurried over to our table. He ordered two more whiskeys in French, which the waiter hurried off to get. At that moment, the door to the VIP room opened, and a bouncer let in a bevy of stunning, young, French women. One of them caught sight of Anton and sent a sparkling smile our way. He leaned over and whispered in my ear.
“This is the girl I want to introduce you to. She is a model for lingerie. She was very, very eager to meet the young American CEO I have been telling her about. Look at her friends, too, Asher! Are they not sexy? All of them are models—and they are all very, how do you say, liberated in their attitudes about men and women, if you know what I mean.”
“Aren’t all the French?” I joked.
Anton grinned and clapped a hand on my shoulder as he broke into laughter.
The woman who had smiled at Anton came over to us while her friends headed to the bar. She was drop dead gorgeous; she wouldn’t have looked out of place on any magazine cover. The revealing, white cocktail dress she wore left no doubt why she was a lingerie model. Long, silky, chestnut hair cascaded around her shoulders. She locked her stunning brown eyes on mine and smiled flirtatiously as she approached.