Seduction Page 7

  I closed my eyes. Back home. Yes. “Thanks, Hattie,” I said. “Thanks for—”

  But just then Agnes gave a curt nod of her head, and the two of them winked out.

  CHAPTER

  •

  ELEVEN

  Even though most of the dishes had already been washed and put away, there were still a lot of glasses, coffee cups, and dessert dishes on the table. By the time I got around to clearing everything away, the diners had all gone into one of the sitting rooms.

  I don’t know what I’d expected—maybe that I’d be called out to take a bow. I mean, even if they didn’t like the food, the meal had been an awful lot of work. I thought at least Peter would have said something, maybe sent word back with Fabby. Something.

  But I didn’t remember seeing Peter when I’d served the dinner. True, I’d had a lot on my mind just then, but I would have noticed him. After all, I’d really cooked the whole meal for him.

  I peered into the library. Fabby spotted me and came over to help me clear away the dishes.

  “Better not,” I said. “Your mom—”

  But she just shook her head and kept working. I guessed Sophie had already gotten to her.

  “Er . . . have you seen Peter?” I asked when we were back in the kitchen. “I don’t remember seeing him at the dinner.”

  She blushed a deep red.

  “What’s the matter?”

  Fabby took a deep breath. “I am sorry, Katy,” she said. “Peter did not attend.”

  I looked away. That hurt more than anything anyone could have said about my cooking.

  “Everyone loved the food,” she said as we brought the dessert dishes into the kitchen.

  “That’s nice.” I could hear the vinegar in my voice.

  “No one has said anything to you because my mother did not mention that you made the meal.”

  I looked up, squinting. I could hardly believe it. “But it was her idea! She said . . .”

  “I know. When I tried to tell them, she interrupted me. And when I tried again, she sent me from the table.”

  “I thought the dinner was in your honor.”

  “That was her excuse. She does not care anything for me. I only came down from my room now to talk with her. To tell her that you should have been invited to eat with us. To say—”

  “Don’t bother,” I said. “I was stupid to listen to her in the first place.”

  “But—”

  “Do me a favor, Fabby. Just pretend nothing’s wrong, okay? There isn’t anything I can do now anyway. Just . . . leave me to myself.”

  She looked tragic. “You do not want me to help with the dishwashing?”

  “No. I’m fine,” I said. “Really.”

  She nodded in understanding and touched my shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  I shrugged and put on some rubber gloves. At this point, I was too demoralized to conjure up any magic. All I wanted was to get this day over with.

  • • •

  After Fabby left, I let the noise of the running water cover up my self-pitying sobs as I washed an endless stream of stemware.

  Okay, so I was being a drama queen, but it wasn’t as if anyone was there to see me. I just felt bad. And it wasn’t that no one had complimented me, or even that Sophie hadn’t mentioned me. It was that Peter hadn’t shown up. If he had, he would have been with me now, washing up together like old times.

  But the old times were gone, I guessed. Old times, old friends, old promises . . .

  “Everything sucks!” I yelled in a welter of soapsuds.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Oh, merde, it was Belmondo. “Nothing,” I said quickly, wiping my hand over my eyes.

  He grinned. “Is this a disguise?” he asked, touching my face and coming away with a handful of bubbles.

  Great, I thought. As if having the worst life on the planet weren’t bad enough, I also happened to look like a Kentucky colonel.

  “Your meal was delicious,” he said.

  “Did Fabienne—”

  “No,” he said. “I have dined here many times. Mathilde is a terrible cook.” He laughed and shook his head. “But seriously, tonight the food was prepared with care, with passion. I thank you for sharing your passion with me.”

  I didn’t know what to say. “Uh, no problem,” was the best I could do.

  And then, before I could stop him, Mr. Beautiful World stuck his hands into the dishwater and started singing “Edge of Glory” in French. He sounded good, too.

  I laughed. “Where did you learn to do that?”

  He shrugged. “I do it every weekend,” he said. “At a club in the Latin Quarter.”

  “You’re a singer?”

  “Guitarist, mostly. The club is called Mozambique. We can go there, if you like. A friend is subbing for me tonight.”

  That took me by surprise. “Oh,” I said. “Okay. I’ll go sometime.”

  “Not sometime. Now.”

  “Right,” I said, laughing. “Just let me get my evening bag.”

  “You can change clothes,” he said.

  I stood there for a few seconds, blinking. He couldn’t be serious.

  “Go ahead. I’ll finish here.”

  “Now? Are you kidding me?”

  “No,” he said, as if he were suggesting a cup of coffee at the kitchen table. “Hurry up. We can still catch the second set.” He grinned. “Of my band, Eterna.”

  “No,” I protested. “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can.” He pinched my nose. It was the strangest gesture. I couldn’t help but laugh. He did too.

  And then I thought of Peter. I’d never gone out with anyone else. What would he say?

  Oh, you mean what would he say after he comes back from wherever he’s been during the dinner you spent all day cooking?

  “No!” I looked up. Belmondo was staring at me. “I mean . . .”

  “You mean yes,” he said.

  I looked back at him for a long moment. “I mean yes,” I said quietly, and went upstairs.

  What are you doing? I asked myself as I was looking through my nearly empty closet. I didn’t even know how old Belmondo was. Out of school, for sure. Maybe even out of college. Fabby had said he was the landlord of the building where we lived.

  Well, so what? That didn’t make any difference. It’s not like I was dating him or anything.

  Oh, no? What do you call going to a club with a guy at eleven o’clock at night? Non-dating?

  “Just hanging out,” I said out loud as I got into my only good pair of jeans. I pulled a tank top over my head. Not very stylish for Paris, but still better than an apron and rubber clogs. I’d brought a pair of strappy heels with me that I hadn’t worn since I got to France, and I put them on too. Then I brushed my hair and applied some red lipstick that a friend had forced on me before I left Whitfield.

  When I checked myself out in the mirror, I was pretty surprised. I looked good. At least, I thought so, although I was sure Belmondo (Was that his first name, or his last?) was used to being with girls who were lots cuter. Still, I didn’t usually look like this at all. The heels, the lipstick, a smear of charcoal eyeshadow, my hair hanging down almost to my waist . . .

  What would Peter say?

  Maybe that he’s sorry. Maybe that he’s missed me. Or maybe that he just didn’t think anyone else would want to go out with me.

  I saw myself blushing in the mirror. Peter obviously didn’t care what I did.

  So maybe I didn’t either.

  CHAPTER

  •

  TWELVE

  Mozambique was, without doubt, the coolest place I’d ever been. There was a long line outside, but we went right to the front of it, and the guard or whoever—he looked like Channing Tatum, with muscles popping out all over the place—just smiled at Belmondo and nodded at me, and we breezed in like celebrities.

  Belmondo was kind of like a celebrity there. I guessed it was because he was a musician in the house band. Girls kept t
rying to come over to talk to him all night, but every time they got near our table, some serious-looking guy would intercept them and shoo the girls away.

  “Did you ask those guys to do that?” I asked. “You know, the . . .”

  He looked over his shoulder, where a gorgeous blond was waving frantically at him. He turned back to me without acknowledging her. “I want to spend my time here with you,” he said. “Not with her. Not with any of them.” I felt as if my heart had dropped into my stomach.

  “But . . . why?” I really wanted to know, although I spoke so quietly that I didn’t think he’d even hear me in that noisy place.

  He shook his head with this kind of half smile. “You don’t even know, do you,” he said.

  Well, that was true. I didn’t.

  “It’s because of your cooking,” he said, smiling.

  I knew he was joking, but I still felt as if I would die from joy. “Champagne?” He pronounced it with three syllables, with a little “nyuh” at the end.

  “Um . . . I don’t think so,” I said, even though I knew how lame I sounded. Oh, God, it was my Mom Mentality again, that cautious, unattractive characteristic that had made Peter lose interest in me. Why couldn’t I drink one damn glass, I berated myself. Then I’d know. Maybe it would be fun. It probably would be fun. And Belmondo was probably a good person. There’d be nothing to worry about, and no one would ever have to know. Yes? Yes, yes, yes . . .

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  I took a deep breath. “I’m sure,” I said. “No champagne for me.” Gaa. What a toad.

  He sent away the server and then stood up. Here’s where you find your own taxi, I told myself, but he didn’t leave. Instead, he leaned down close to my ear and said, “Very well. If you will not drink, then you must dance.”

  I could feel my heart pounding in my chest as Belmondo led me onto the dance floor. The band had switched from funky blues to a beautiful ballad. I was nervous, so I tried to pretend I was just having fun, but at one point I let my head touch his shoulder and I closed my eyes. At that moment, I felt like nothing bad would ever happen to me again as long as I stayed inside the circle of his arms.

  “I don’t think you know how beautiful you are,” he said softly.

  I felt myself blushing from the top of my head down to my toes. I smiled at him, and he smiled back, and I felt my stomach drop out of my body again.

  And then something weird happened. A butterfly flew between us. Right between our faces.

  “What . . . ,” I started, but Belmondo only laughed and pointed to the section where the tables were.

  “It’s Joelle,” he said.

  Sure enough, there was my housemate, her face framed by a chic brunette bob with long bangs and a pair of dangly diamond earrings. She was holding a cigarette in a long gold holder while a male model type looked at her adoringly.

  I was trying to process what it all meant when Belmondo blew Joelle a kiss and a frog appeared on the table in front of her. With a disdainful expression, she tapped it with her cigarette holder and it disappeared.

  “You . . . ,” I whispered breathlessly. “You’re all . . .” I lowered my voice until it was barely audible. “. . . witches,” I finished.

  “Mais oui!” he said, beaming. “Although, I admit, not very good ones.” He rolled his eyes. “That butterfly was the extent of Joelle’s magic. She’s not like you.”

  “Me?”

  He laughed. “Are you going to pretend with me?”

  Our eyes met. Belmondo’s one of them, too. Like me.

  “No,” I whispered in his ear while we danced. “I am too.”

  “I know,” he said, holding me close to him. “I can almost taste it in the air around you.” He breathed in deeply. “Everything about you is magic.” His breath tickled my ear. “You are made of it, Katy. Powerful, pure . . . so beautiful.”

  Suddenly I felt as if I were watching myself. And there I was, dancing with this beautiful man who thought I was beautiful.

  Magic, he’d called me. As far as I was concerned, everything about this night was magical. While we danced, I flicked five fingers at the ceiling, and a thousand stars appeared. It was nothing special, just elementary magic that even children in Whitfield can do, but the crowd sighed in appreciation. I knew I probably shouldn’t have been showboating, even though I didn’t think any cowen would believe it had been anything but a staged effect.

  Belmondo loved it. “You make me happy to be alive,” he said. Then we stopped dancing. He pulled me closer to him, and I knew he was going to kiss me. Part of me really wanted to—well, at least 90 percent of me wanted to—but the other 10 percent won out. I backed away.

  It wasn’t that I was afraid, or even that I was a prude, although a lot of people would have thought so. It was Peter. Peter was the only guy I’d ever kissed, the only guy I’d ever loved. If I was going to get involved with someone else, I wanted to be sure I didn’t love Peter anymore.

  And I wasn’t sure. No matter what had happened between us, I knew I still loved him. Kissing anyone else would feel like betrayal.

  “Are you all right?” Belmondo held me at arm’s length and studied my face. “I’m fine,” I said. “Really . . .” But I had to stop talking, because my eyes were welling with tears.

  “Pardon,” Belmondo said softly. “How crude I am.”

  “No, it’s not . . . you . . .”

  “Shh.” He held both my hands. “We’ll sit down, okay?”

  I nodded.

  “With Joelle and her friend?” he suggested.

  Oh. Joelle had never been particularly nice to me. Well, not nice at all, really. Whenever we were in the same room together, I’d see her looking at me and talking to someone—usually Sophie—behind her hand. The two of them seemed to make a point of sneering at my clothes or wrinkling their noses when I’d come back after cooking school, as if I smelled bad. “Sure,” I said brightly. I didn’t want him to think of me as a total baby.

  “Chèri,” Joelle said, clearly talking to Belmondo. Then she went on in French, which sounded liquid and beautiful the way she spoke it, and gestured with her cigarette in its long holder. An ash flew off and landed on my tank top. Joelle ignored it, but Belmondo blasted her with his own rapid-fire French.

  He sounded really angry. Joelle blanched for a moment, but then recovered faster than I ever would have, and turned to me. “Darling, forgive me,” she said in English. “I forget you are a foreigner.”

  Just then the cocktail waitress came back and whispered something in Belmondo’s ear. He looked over at the stage, where the band was playing. The lead singer motioned broadly and spoke into the mike. I knew enough French to understand that he was inviting Belmondo to come up and play with them.

  A cheer rang out from the crowd.

  “Oh, no,” Belmondo said, resting his head in his hands.

  “Go ahead, darling,” Joelle said, touching his neck tenderly. “Everyone is calling for you.”

  Oh God, no, I thought. Don’t leave me here with Joelle. Don’t . . .

  But he did. I guess he had to, with everybody shouting and stomping and clapping. He shrugged apologetically and stood up. “I won’t be long,” he said before leaving.

  Which left me with Joelle, who managed to tear her eyes away from Belmondo long enough to glance at me as if she were observing a hair on her ice cream. I tried to smile. She introduced me to her date, Jacques, who thrust out his chin disdainfully, lit a cigarette of his own, and blew the smoke in my face. Charming.

  “So,” Joelle said, drumming her fingers on the table. “You are Belmondo’s new amant?” she asked.

  “What? Er, no,” I said.

  “But then how have you . . .” She stubbed out her cigarette. “Never mind. Je m’en fou. So,” she continued, admiring her manicure, “how is it you come to this place with . . .” She nodded toward Belmondo, who was tuning a guitar onstage.

  “Well . . . ,” I waffled. Part of me wanted to slap her and stom
p off, but I didn’t want to get all heated over what was probably Joelle’s naturally obnoxious personality. Besides, I understood that she might have felt trumped when I’d shown up her paltry butterfly magic with my canopy of stars. “Not really,” I explained. “I was washing up after dinner, and—”

  “Ah, the dinner. Yes. Very nice.” As an afterthought, she flashed me a big smile. “Sophie told me that you cooked.”

  “Then you were the only one she told,” I said.

  She waved me away. “In France, we do not ask who cooks. That is unimportant.”

  “Then why did she tell you?”

  Joelle blinked a few times, as if she were unable to compute what I was saying. Then she turned to Jacques, who had obviously been waiting for her to pay attention to him because he responded by grabbing her in a passionate embrace. She practically had to knock him out with her purse to make him stop. Meanwhile, onstage Belmondo had begun playing the guitar that one of the musicians had offered him.

  He was wailing. I was shocked at how good he was. His sound was like a cross between Dan Auerbach of the Black Keys and Jimi Hendrix—dark, bluesy, American. “Wow,” I said.

  “He is very fine, non?” Joelle asked. “All the women love him. And he loves them.” She laughed, high, tinkly, and refined.

  “Oh,” I said. I didn’t want to talk during Belmondo’s performance.

  “He and I are very close,” she said, looking smug. Then, as if a thought had accidentally wandered into her brain, she blinked twice and her face brightened. “I know!” she exclaimed.

  Jacques, who apparently spoke no English, must have misunderstood her enthusiasm, because he grabbed her again, lips thrust forward. I tried not to watch, but I think Joelle elbowed him in the neck.

  She cleared her throat and turned back to me. “I know!” she repeated with the exact same inflection as before.

  I turned to her wearily. I didn’t want to talk. I wanted to listen to Belmondo, not Joelle.

  “We shall all go out together!” She clapped her hands together in a parody of sincerity. “Tomorrow. Yes?”