Holy . . . hell.
Huge silver-gilded mirrors hang on the walls, and there are white lounges . . . white? How the heck do they keep white lounges clean? I look around nervously. “Hello?” I call.
I can hear talking out on the terrace, so I put my handbag down and walk to the door. White overlong drapes hang on the french doors.
“Nous devons obtenir une réponse à ce sujet puis-je advancer a ce sujet cette semaine,” I hear. I peer out.
Tristan is on the phone out on the balcony . . . speaking French. What the heck? Well, I guess French is among the five languages he supposedly speaks. He glances up and catches sight of me and gives me a breathtaking smile. He holds one finger up to signify he will be just a minute.
I get a flashback of the first day I met him, looking perfect in his expensive suit and pacing with his hand in his trouser pocket as he speaks on the phone.
Déjà vu.
I drop my head as I remember that I don’t like who he is and what he does for a living.
God, Claire . . . what are you doing? Couldn’t you have found somebody else to get back in the game with?
“Je dois conclure,” he says to whomever he’s speaking to. He smiles as he watches me and gives me a sexy wink. “One moment,” he mouths.
I roll my eyes as I act impatient, but I’m not really. I could listen to him speak French all day. “Come on,” I mouth back.
“Malade, je vais vous envoyer un message dans la matinée. Je vais avoir besoin du rapport d’ici lundi s’il vous plait,” he says in his deep sexy voice.
“Hurry,” I mouth to tease him.
He bites his bottom lip to stop his smile and holds up his hand to signify that he’s going to smack me.
“Promises, promises,” I mouth back.
He walks past me into the apartment. “Oui, s’il vous plait,” he says.
He reappears with an ice bucket and a bottle of champagne with two champagne flutes. He holds the phone to his ear with his shoulder as he pops the cork and fills the two glasses.
He leans in and kisses me softly and then hands me a glass of champagne.
“Thank you,” I mouth.
He kisses me again, as if unable to stop, and I can hear the other person, a woman, speaking a million miles a minute to him in French.
“Who is it?” I frown.
“My PA,” he mouths. He moves his head from side to side, as if she is taking too long to say what she’s saying. “Oui, oui, nous en parlerons lundi. Je dois y aller. Au revoir,” he replies.
He listens as she keeps speaking, and he rolls his eyes impatiently.
I smile as I sip my champagne. The cool, crisp taste dances on my tongue. Oh yeah. I eye the glass of bubbles—this is the good stuff.
“Okay, je dois y aller. Passer un bon week-end, au revoir,” he says. He hangs up and then turns his phone off and turns toward me.
“About time.” I smirk.
He takes me into his arms. “Anderson.” He smiles down at me as he pumps my hips into his. “Fancy seeing you here.”
I smile goofily up at him. He towers above me. He must be six foot three at least. His dark hair is messed to perfection, and his lips are a perfect shade of come fuck me.
“Well, I felt sorry for you.” I shrug. “This is a pity date.” I look around at the grand apartment. “Not sure if I can spend the whole weekend in this dump, though.”
He chuckles. “I do love your smart-ass mouth.” He pumps me with his hips once more. “I may have to fuck it later.”