His To Shatter (11 page)

Getting ready to head out that night, I was
so proud of how far I’d come that summer. It wasn’t just my success
at work that was exciting, it was the fact that I was comfortable
with myself in social situations in a brand new way. I looked at
myself in the mirror as I arranged my hair into a tasteful up-do. I
had found a beautiful emerald green cocktail dress at a vintage
shop in the city, and looked for the world like a 1960’s movie star
in it. I turned this way and that before the full length mirror in
my studio, pleased with the results of my primping. I allowed
myself to feel beautiful, and it felt damn good.

We set out into the lamp-lit city and soon
arrived at la Passerelle. Dara was rocking head-to-toe black, and
Ashlee had chosen a white lacy shift for the evening. I could feel
eyes on us as we were ushered into the club, but the crowd of
beautiful people soon subsumed us. For a moment, I was overwhelmed
by the sheer size of the place, but I reminded myself that I had
every right to be there, that I deserved to be there. My heart quit
hammering, and a smile spread across my face. This really was the
life.

Ashlee led the way toward the bar, cutting
through the thick crowds like it was nothing. Dara and I trailed
along behind her, the electronic dance music working its way into
our blood. I could hardly keep from dancing as I perched on a high
barstool and asked the bartender for a martini. It was a bold
choice, and I was more accustomed to wine, but it felt like a great
way to celebrate my newfound outgoingness. The bartender was back
in a flash with a round of martinis for us, which he was pleased to
announce were on the house. We smiled and took our glasses, raising
our drinks for a toast.

“To Paris!” I said over the music.

“To Paris!” Ashlee and Dara agreed happily.
We clinked our glasses and relished the first sips of our martinis.
The gin was incredibly smooth, and so delicious on my tongue. I
promised myself that I would take it easy and enjoy the night that
was spread out before us in all its glittering potential.

Over the rim of my glass, a flash of perfect
porcelain white caught my eye. I peered across the huge circular
bar, and my eyes came to rest on a stunning woman in profile. Her
perfect cheek bones were made all the more clear by an elaborate
up-do, and her lithe body looked as though it had been painted into
her black dress. She looked for the world like Audrey Hepburn’s
twin, but why was it that she looked so familiar to me? Suddenly,
her sharp eyes swung toward my side of the club and I understood,
with a sinking feeling in my gut.

It was that caustic woman from the train all
those months ago. The one who had chided my miraculous rescuer.
That afternoon came screeching back to the forefront of my mind,
unwarranted. I tried very hard not to think about the events of
that day if I could help it. The image of that drunken man exposing
himself to me flooded my head all of sudden, and I winced at the
memory. I don’t know what I would have done if that mysterious and
devilishly handsome man hadn’t stood up for me. As I sat, paralyzed
with fear, he had come out of nowhere and placed himself between me
and the drunk. And when that degenerate had produced a box cutter
and threatened to hurt me, my savior had flung him against the
metal subway pole and knocked him out cold. He even had the decency
to put me in a cab afterwards so that I didn’t miss my
interview.

And all the while some horrible woman that he
was traveling with had berated him for interfering. Right in front
of my face, this woman—Monica, that was her name—had basically said
that I should have been left to fend for myself. A fellow woman
suggested that it would have been better for me to wind up with a
lap full of diseased semen or a knife wound than for her companion
to ruffle his suit. Girard, that’s what he was called, had referred
to Monica as his assistant, but the possessive look in her eyes
suggested that their relationship was a bit more than that.

I couldn’t believe this vision from the past
was sitting directly across the bar from me. I remembered noticing
the slight accent of Monica and Girard’s speech, but in my haste
and disarray I hadn’t put the pieces together. And the language
they had slipped into while they argued on the subway platform, it
was French that they had been speaking! My heart began to race as I
realized that, more likely than not, I was in the same city as
Girard, the hero who had come to my rescue. I had hardly let myself
dwell on him in the months since our encounter. He was so
heart-stoppingly beautiful, so brave, so good, that it almost hurt
to let my mind linger on him for more than a moment. Girard was by
far the most attractive man I had ever seen, up close or otherwise,
and his act of valor only made him more appealing. All at once, the
full force of my desire to see him again hit me like a wrecking
ball.

A wild thought crossed my mind as I gaped
like an idiot toward Monica. If she was here at la Passerelle, I
had to talk to her. She could lead me to Girard! He must be in the
city if she was—it didn’t seem like she often failed to follow him
wherever he went. She might be reluctant to give me information,
but I wouldn’t give her a choice. If there was anything my time at
Corelli had taught me, it was to be assertive and persuasive.

I didn’t care if this woman was made of
stone, I had to crack her. She was my link back to Girard, and
there was no way that I could pass up this opportunity. I had to
thank him for saving me that day. If it hadn’t been for him, I
would have missed or completely blown my interview. I never would
have come to Paris, or had the best summer of my entire life. I had
to find him and tell him how grateful I was to him. And if I was
honest, I just wanted the chance to be near him again, to stand so
close to perfection once more.

“Maddie?” Ashlee said, sounding concerned.
“Maddie, are you OK?”

“What?” I said, turning toward her.

“You look possessed or something,” Dara said.
“What’s up?”

But I could hardly hear them. Across the bar,
Monica took two lowball glasses from the bartender and turned back
toward the pulsing crowd. My muscles seemed to have developed a
mind of their own, because suddenly I was on my feet in pursuit. I
slugged back the remainder of my martini and headed off after
her.

“Hey!” Ashlee said, hurrying after me. “What
the hell is going on? Where are you going?”

“Don’t worry,” I said, trying to shake her
off. “I just saw somebody I recognize.”

“OK,” she said uncertainly. “We’ll be right
here.”

I waved her off and hurried after Monica. I
spun and dodged around writhing bodies and careering cocktail
waitresses, scanning the crowd for a glimpse of the ice woman
herself. My martini had been just potent enough to give me the
courage I needed to track her down. I craned my neck, searching for
her in the sea of people. The club was absolutely massive, and I
knew that finding Monica would be like finding a needle in a
haystack, but I had to keep trying. I tore through every nook and
cranny of the place, and quickly realized that there was an entire
balcony that I’d failed to investigate. A low groan escaped my lips
as I made my way up, down, and all around the joint. As the moments
ticked on, my hope of locating Monica among all these strangers
began to fade. I slowed my steps and turned back toward the bar to
collect my friends and regroup.

“Did you find who you were looking for?” Dara
asked, as I retreated back to my barstool.

“No,” I said, disappointed. “I’m afraid I
didn’t.”

“Who was it, anyway?” Ashlee asked. “Who do
you know in Paris.”

I looked back and forth between them, and
realized that I’d never told them about Girard after he’d saved me.
We’d been so caught up in my successful interview that we had
breezed right past the entire occurrence. And when our celebration
of that interview landed me in bed with a stranger, I had been too
ashamed to talk about any man, hero or otherwise. But for some
reason, I was still reluctant to fill them in on what had happened
with Girard. It was like I was afraid that saying anything about
him out loud would make the memory less mine, somehow.

“Just someone I met in New York,” I said
simply.

“Oh,” Ashlee said. “Weird.”

“I don’t know about you two,” Dara said, “But
if I don’t get out on that dance floor soon, I might just lose my
mind.”

Ashlee and I smiled as Dara wiggled away from
us. We followed her lead, and the three of us made our way out into
the press of dancing bodies. The music was a good distraction, and
I could nearly lose myself in the pumping beat, and the amazing
mass of people around me. But my mind was still reeling with
thoughts of Girard. I’d gotten my hopes up, seeing Monica, and now
the fire of my admiration for him was only growing hotter. I let my
mind linger on that razor sharp jaw line of his, those deep soulful
eyes, his perfectly cut and balanced body. It was enough to make my
mouth water.

A few different men approached me as I shook
my stuff on the dance floor, and I accepted their advances. But all
the while, as I pressed up against them, I tried to imagine that it
was Girard there with me. If I closed my eyes, I could almost
picture it. Ashlee, Dara and I bumped and grinded our way through
at least a half dozen songs before we knew it. As a tiny lull
occurred in the music, Ashlee signaled that she was ready for a
another drink and began to push back out of the crowd. Dara and I
followed, weaving through the ever-growing mass of dancers. The bar
on the ground floor was packed three people deep, so we bypassed
it. There was a second, smaller bar located on the balcony of the
club, so we made our way up to it instead.

The steps leading up to the balcony were lit
with golden neon light, and I felt for the world like a visiting
princess as I stepped onto them. As we climbed, I let my eyes
wander across the club below, hoping against hope that I might
finally spot Monica. But it was useless. The club spread out before
me, in all its pulsing glory, but there was not a soul that I
recognized within it. I tried to shake off my disappointment, and
decided that another martini might do the trick. The three of us
walked purposefully over the second story bar, past a dozen
intimate nooks that were built into the wall and shrouded with gold
curtains. Ashlee bought us all another round of drinks and we
accepted them happily. We turned toward an empty table against the
balcony’s far side, but as we passed one of the private stalls, a
hand shot out and caught Dara by the arm.

“Hey!” she shouted, pulling away from the
disembodied hand. “What’s the idea, asshole?”

The words died on her lips as a head emerged
after the hand. A dark-eyed, handsome man peered up at her from the
booth, smiling toothily. He was wearing an incredibly well-tailored
suit, and gazing at Dara with something a little stronger than
admiration in his eyes.

“My apologies,” he said in heavily accented
English. “My associates and I were hoping that you ladies might
want to join us for a drink.”

As he spoke, the golden curtain was drawn
back, revealing two more similarly attractive men within. All three
appeared to be in their late twenties, and from the looks of the
expensive bottles on their table and the fine cuts of their suits,
they definitely appeared to have money. Dara, Ashlee and I traded
looks, gauging the others’ interest. When no one spoke up in
opposition, we decided as one to join our new friends behind the
curtain. We were abiding by the buddy system, after all. We stepped
into the booth, happy that the curtain remained open. The men each
had glasses of smoky brown scotch that they were drinking straight.
I grinned, amused by their choice of such a blatantly manly drink.
They were just young enough that it seemed more cute than
rugged.

“You are American, yes?” asked the man
closest to me. He had light brown hair that was swept to the side
and an easy smile.

“Yes,” I answered, sipping my martini, “You
are not.”

“No,” he laughed. “I’m what you might call a
local. I’ve lived in Paris all my life. Are you enjoying your
vacation here?”

“I’m not really on vacation,” I answered, “I
actually had an int—”

“Yes, yes, of course,” he cut me off. I
swallowed down my minor indignation. He probably just couldn’t hear
me over the music or something. “Where are you staying?”

I gave him some vague answer, not feeling
particularly in the mood to offer up my home address. I peeked
across the table to see how Dara and Ashlee were faring with their
new friends. From what I could see, they all seemed to be hitting
it off. I smiled gamely at my companion and tried to be
friendly.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Antoine,” he responded.

“And what do you do in Paris?” I went on,
taking another sip.

“Besides woo beautiful Americans?” he
laughed, “I work for a very successful tech company. The best in
France.”

“Is that so?” I said.

“It is. I’m just here with my colleagues
celebrating a major acquisition. We’re having quite the
quarter!”

“Well, congratulations,” I offered.

“I wish I could take even a sliver of the
credit,” Antoine said, “It was really all the boss. He’s a genius
when it comes to business. Built our company up from nothing.”

“Wow,” I said. “That’s definitely
impressive.”

“Definitely,” he agreed, “But what can
I
do to impress you?”

“Um...” I muttered. After a summer of
learning how to talk to men without making a fool of myself, I felt
my old insecurities begin to take hold again.

“There must be something,” Antoine said, “I
know one thing that will impress you, but it requires a bed.” He
leaned forward, his arm draped around my shoulders. I could smell
the scotch on his breath, and felt a sudden surge of panic rush
through me. I shoved him firmly away and watched as his face fell
into a heap of disbelief. Just as he was opening his mouth to
protest, a firm voice spoke up from the booth’s entrance.