1. Trusting Instincts
1
TRUSTING INSTINCTS
RICHARD BUCHANAN
About Seven Years Ago
Something about this deal with Club Aces didn’t feel right as I reviewed every detail in my phone. I drew up a long list of pros and cons in my head, running like a lengthy bar tab.
My newest investment opportunity—outside of Buchanan Energy—had led me to Paris, the City of Love. The Bardeaux’s had been family friends with my parents, though I hadn’t spent much time with their youngest son, Adrien, the majority owner in this exclusive club serving Europe’s young elite.
My team had thoroughly vetted his plan to expand the club into Germany, London, Rome, and Madrid. On paper, the proposal looked attractive. Unfortunately, I wasn’t fond of Adrien. Throughout our lengthy negotiations, he came off as an arrogant son of a bitch—a big talker running a business desperate for a boost. It struck me as weak, leaving my decision about the deal hanging in limbo.
So I had arrived early, ahead of the party he was throwing in my honor this evening, only to sit back, observe, and get a true feel for the place; I’d see how my gut reacted.
Patrick Buchanan had always urged me to trust my instinct, convinced it was almost always right. I couldn’t have wished for a better father and mentor, and I missed him every single day.
As I’d taken over the role of CEO for our family energy company, I applied everything he had instilled in me over the years when I’d eagerly followed him to the office, and my work ethic paid off. People no longer called me “Patrick’s boy,” but by my name instead—Richard Buchanan—finally, I had earned significant respect in select New York circles.
Yet the taste for more persisted. Not more Macallan in my lead-crystal glass as I sat at the gold and marble bar of Club Aces in the heart of Paris, scrutinizing the club’s operations—but a deeper craving.
I hungered for the rush of closing another deal, for the exhilaration of winning a negotiation—and I didn’t give a damn about those preachy win-win ideals. The exchange of money left me intoxicated. Ruling the business world had become akin to a drug, and I the most consummate workaholic.
“ Un autre? Another?” The bartender asked with a thick French accent, holding the bottle of Macallan at the ready to top off my glass. I nodded, then pivoted on my barstool to survey the crowd and soak in the club’s ambiance.
My father used to say that a quiet observer could learn a lot, and by the time the party kicked off, I expected to have decided. I’d either return home tomorrow with a sealed deal with Adrien or walk away with my losses.
Then a stunning woman approached, her eyes flicked first to me, then to the bartender behind me.
“Where is he?” she demanded as she leaned onto the stool beside mine. An American, it seemed—long legs, pouty red lips—and her eyes burned like blue flames.
“You should not be here, Viv. Allez . Go home,” the bartender lowered his voice, his thick French accent hissing his words.
“Oh, no? Why? So I can’t see that cheating man of mine with another woman?” she snapped.
“Don’t cause a scene. Pas ce soir. Not tonight. He won’t like it,” he warned.
“I don’t think I care anymore. Now give me a shot of tequila,” she commanded, taking over the stool like a woman ready to ignite the night.
“ Non. Allez, ” he replied.
“Give the woman a drink. Now,” I ordered, my tone serious.
He relented and reached for the cheap bottle.
“No. Give her the Don Julio 1942. I’m buying.” I pointed at the tall, dark bottle. With a resigned shake of his head, he complied.
“Thanks, but I was fine with the cheap stuff,” she scoffed and mumbled, “I don’t know how a small town girl like me ever thought I could fit in with all of this, anyway.”
As the bartender set the shot with lime and salt before her, she struck me as fitting in nicely. I had initially pegged her as an elegant Parisian—her strapless black dress accentuated her curves, the tops of her breasts rounded above the neckline, and blonde ringlets cascaded down her back. The tasteful diamond earrings and a bracelet embellished her look.
“Want my advice?” I offered, even though I knew I shouldn’t meddle, yet she was too captivating to ignore.
She crossed her legs, nearly brushing mine, and paused with the salt shaker in hand. “Where are you from?”
“New York. Manhattan, to be precise. And you?”
“Upstate. Imagine that. Two New Yorkers sitting at a bar in Paris. One about to cause a scene and break up with her unfaithful boyfriend. And the other?” She arched an eyebrow at me.
“Trying to decide if I should make a deal or not.”
“What does your gut tell you to do?” Her tongue darted out, licking the back of her hand as if tasting her next move. She shook the salt on the damp spot and waited expectantly.
Our eyes met. I didn’t know who the dickhead was who pissed her off, but if she were mine, I’d fight for her—she deserved someone better than the man she had.
A man like me? According to my mother, it was time for me to think about settling down; she and the board members of Buchanan Energy preferred a family man at the helm rather than a playboy, so she claimed.
After a long draw from my drink, I replied, “My gut says this deal is all wrong. I should walk away.”
“Then you should,” she agreed, raising her shot glass as if to toast the idea.
I leaned closer. “It also whispers that I ought to take you away from here, show you a good time, remind you that you deserve better than some asshole who cheats and leaves you drinking tequila alone.”
Her lips curved. “Is that your advice?”
I gave her a sly smile. “Yes. So what do you say? Make my night. Let’s walk away together.”
“I don’t even know your name.”
“Richard.”
Her eyes pierced me, mixed with raw anguish masked by anger, so vulnerable—until they darted to something behind me. Her jaw dropped, shoulders slumped, and her cheeks flushed.
I turned and saw Adrien entering the club, arm in arm with a woman, practically joined at the hip.
Was he the cheating man she despised?
Something my father always said hit me. Who you do business with says more about you than it does them. In that second, I made my decision about the deal.
“That asshole!” she shouted.
“Viv, don’t do this. Pas ce soir, ” the bartender warned once more.
Defiantly, she licked the salt, downed the tequila, grimaced at the flavor, then sucked the lime wedge. I drained the rest of my Macallan as well.
She stood, placing a hand on my shoulder—a jolt of electricity passing between us. I half-expected her to say something like, “Let’s get out of here, my handsome savior.”
Instead, she chose her original intention. “Thanks for the advice. But my instinct tells me to ruin his night.”
Like a woman scorned, she strode away. I watched her go, squinting through the club’s hazy light. She marched right up to Adrien, and though I couldn’t catch her words, they clearly were venom-filled based on his response. He released the other woman and seized Viv by the elbow, dragging her into the throng of partygoers.
Admiring her boldness yet worried for her safety, I trailed after them. The crowd thickened as I pushed further, making me wonder if it was a fire hazard—another sign to scrap the deal.
I staggered forward as if intoxicated, and my mind suddenly grew a little foggy. A couple of glasses of Macallan wouldn’t normally have me in this state. Had the bartender slipped something into my drink? I wouldn’t put it past Adrien to be colluding with him, only to stupefy me into signing this deal.
I rounded a corner and caught sight of Adrien and Viv in a secluded spot, locked in a heated argument. My mind a fog, I rubbed my palms into my eyes in disbelief, hoping the scene I came upon wasn’t real. Adrien had her pinned against the wall, one hand clutching her throat while the other hovered menacingly in the air, ready to strike.
“You’ll let her go if you value your life,” I growled, intercepting his hand before it could hit her.
His face twisted in anger as he snapped, “Mind your own business.”
“This is my business. I won’t stand by and watch this. Consider our deal over,” I retorted, and shoved him hard enough to make him release her.
“Fuck you, Adrien. We’re done. Over. Do you understand?” Viv cried out, holding her throat, her departure punctuated by Adrien slewing a string of French curses.
I left him behind and rushed after her, my legs heavy. About a block away, I finally reached her as she stopped for breath and wiped away tears.
“Are you okay? He had no right to treat you like that,” I said, inhaling the cool night air deeply in a bid to clear my muddled head.
She faced me, voice trembling. “I—I can’t believe it. He was really going to hit me?”
“You deserve so much better,” I murmured softly, wrapping an arm around her shoulder in comfort as she broke down crying.
A pounding in my head jolted me awake from a bizarre dream. Or was it real?
The fragments of memories were so vivid. I recalled spending the night with a beautiful woman—strolling along the Seine, marveling at the Eiffel Tower… even making love in my bed. When I reached over, the recently occupied space and duvet still held some warmth.
It took every bit of strength to open my eyes, and a wave of relief washed over me. I was in my suite at the Four Seasons Hotel George V. I scanned the room for any sign of her. The cream and blue hues of old-world French elegance contrasted with one note of black—the sight of a woman in a black dress, tiptoeing toward the door in stilettos clicking softly.
“Hey… uh, wait,” I croaked, my voice rasping as I struggled to sit up, every muscle protesting.
She hesitated, hand on the doorknob, then turned back to me with a shy walk-of-shame type of smile. “Thank you, Richard, for saving me last night. I’ll never forget you.”
And with that, she was gone. I tumbled out of bed, trying to follow her. What was happening to me?
The Macallan, the bartender, Adrien—it all came crashing back. I crawled along the floor, fumbling for my pants and my phone, determined to call my family doctor to arrange for my blood to be tested. Someone had to have drugged me last night.
I instantly regretted coming to Paris for this deal. It was a humbling experience, perhaps exactly what my swollen ego needed. Yet the mysterious woman—what was her name again?
What did it matter? I massaged my forehead to piece together every detail of last night and make sense of it, but only one image remained imprinted: her piercing blue eyes, which I would never forget.