“I have heard only good things about it, but I have never been there. I do know that tourists haven’t discovered it yet—it just opened.”
“Okay, that’s a good thing. I won’t run into anyone I know from back home.”
Odette gave him a look of mock offense. “Why? Are you ashamed to be seen with me?”
“Hell, no,” he said, flashing a startled smile. “You must be the hottest woman in Paris. If you don’t mind my saying so.”
“Not at all.” She gave him a smile that melted him.
“Anyway, I’d much rather look at you than a bunch of fanny-packers.”
“Ah. I see. Merci, m’sieu.”
He looked around at the filled-to-capacity hall as if he had no idea where he was and gave one last absent-minded glance at the catwalk. The music was louder and the models were dancing now, working the crowd.
The model hound in the row he’d left reached up and tried to grab an ankle. Bryan noticed the beefiest bouncer heading that way.
“Cochon,” Odette said indignantly. “There is one at every show.”
“He is a pig. Do you want me to—”
She shook her head. “The situation is under control.”
The tycoon was being lifted off his feet and hauled away faster than he could call a lawyer.
“All right. Well…shall we go?” He’d gotten lucky, she’d said yes, and he wanted to leave before anything else distracted her.
“Yes.”
Bryan looked around, somewhat disoriented by the place and the ever-louder music. They must be getting around to the grand finale.
“Lead the way,” he said to her.
She shook her head. “That’s not how I like to do things.” She stepped forward and slid her arm around his. “You are the man, no?”
“Uh…yeah. I like the way you say that.”
It took several minutes to get near the exit. He seemed even taller that close. His body so near hers, his thighs brushing hers, made her think of what she wanted: sex. Uncomplicated by emotion. But as passionate as two people who didn’t really know each other could make it.
Not just yet. She needed to find out more about him, look him up online, confirm Lucie’s offhand remarks. Odette whispered a few words to one of the bouncers on her way out so Marc would not worry.
Looking into the mirror of the bathroom in Le Diner, Odette asked herself a few interesting questions as she reapplied her eye pencil.
The first was What do you think you are doing? And the second, which was trickier, was When are you going to tell him who you are? He didn’t seem to realize that she was Odette Gaillard of Oh! Oh! Odette Lingerie, hadn’t asked her name. Just talked to her, half in schoolboy French that made her giggle, half in English, in between bites of his BLT. Even better, he’d listened when she talked.
But she’d been a little evasive, taking advantage of his not-so-fluent French to avoid questions. She’d ordered a BLT too. He was right. The sandwich was very good and very much the sort of thing one could crave.
So was he. Bryan Bachman was exactly what she wanted right now, and she needed a fling.
On a mad impulse, she’d deliberately skipped the grand finale of her own show. Missed her bow. Done without the loud acclaim of the crowd in attendance and the kissyface insincerity of the well-wishers afterward.
Odette had realized in the moment when Bryan had asked her out that she needed a holiday from the hoopla.
After five shows, she knew only too well that buyers would buy. Sex always sold.
Her designs were flirty and fun, of no real consequence. Her collection escaped the criticism reserved for true haute couture: the deconstructionists of fashion who turned garments inside out, and the architects of fabric whose pleats and poufs made women’s bodies invisible.
Marc had probably seized the opportunity to take her bow for her, and accept the bouquets of roses like the beauty pageant winner he longed to be in his retro fantasies of glamour.
Bless Marc’s gender-bending heart. Her assistant would be the first to understand a mad impulse to have a bizarre but tasty sandwich with a stranger. And whatever happened next.
Odette straightened her pelican pin, touched up her lipstick, and went out the swinging door, back to Bryan.
He’d finished the sandwich and was tackling a plate of frites. He looked up when she slid into the opposite side of the booth.
“This place is great. They didn’t miss a trick.” He gestured with a frite toward the quilted steel walls and the mirrored tile above it that reflected the cakes and pies in a glass-doored cabinet behind the counter.
Odette took another frite from his plate and nibbled at the end of it. “I am glad you like it.”
He studied her. “I like the way you eat that.”
“What do you mean?” She set it down on her plate.
“Like it was forbidden fruit. But you eat it anyway.”
“It is.” She took a sip of coke. “I am in the fashion business.”
“Right. I haven’t even asked you what it is you do exactly. Or your name.”
“Odette.” She waved the napkin she picked up from the table again as if that were enough of an answer to the rest of it.
“Just Odette?”
“Odette Gaillard.” She watched his face. Her name didn’t seem to register with him one way or another.
“Pretty name,” he said. “But then everything sounds pretty in French.”
She hesitated, not sure whether to explain more and not wanting to at all. A fling was a fling. Explaining who she was would feel something like handing him a balance sheet or pulling up an e-file of press clippings on her company. For a little while longer, she wanted to be no more than herself.
“So what was it that you do again?” he asked.
“Ah, I am a stylist.” That wasn’t so very far from the truth.
“That means that you…style things?” He gave her a hopeful look.
“Yes.”
“Help me out here. I’m just a guy. What does that mean?”
Odette picked up another frite and ate it in two bites. Fried food gave her courage. “If I were to style an outfit for an American athlete, I would go to the flea markets and vintage clothing stores to buy exactly what you have on. A tank top from a famous beach and a wetsuit jacket—”
“Actually,
