Chapter Eight #2
The bartender had just delivered the drink when a long-haired, slender brunette with an enormous spill of cleavage had glided up to the bar.
“Handsome men should never drink alone,” she had purred, sliding into the seat beside him.
He hadn’t known what to say—he hadn’t even been certain she was talking to him, though there was no one else around—and after a moment, she had laughed.
“This is the part where you buy me a drink,” she’d whispered, her warm breath tickling his ear.
He had quickly summoned the bartender, aware that she was probably just using him for free alcohol, but he was willing to play the game for a few minutes of attention.
She ordered a vodka soda with a twist of lemon, and when it arrived, she clinked her glass against his and leaned forward to murmur in his ear again.
“And this is the part where you tell me you want to sleep with me.”
Gilles spilled his whiskey on himself. As he hastily mopped up the mess, his brain spinning as he tried to formulate a reply—in retrospect, wouldn’t it have been easier simply to repeat her words back to her?—she laughed again, apparently delighted to have turned him inside out.
“I’m Amandine,” she said.
“Gilles,” he finally managed to say.
“Oh, I know who you are,” she said, and perhaps that should have been his first warning sign that she might actually have an agenda.
“Do you?”
She took a long sip of her drink and then leaned in to whisper in his ear. “You’re the vice president of the Renouard-Arsenault Cosmetics Group, aren’t you?”
“Well… I mean… yes,” he’d sputtered. Actually, he was the vice president of North American sales for Renouard-Arsenault, which was quite a bit different, but who was he to split hairs? “How did you know?”
“I interned there a few years ago. I always thought you were very handsome.”
“You… don’t work there anymore?” One couldn’t be too careful. Even he knew you couldn’t go screwing interns.
“No,” she’d said.
“I have a wife,” he’d said next.
“And?” she’d asked, leaning in. “She’s not here, is she?”
“No.”
“But I am.” This time, when she leaned in to whisper to him, she nibbled his earlobe, and suddenly, his whole body was on fire. “Do you want to get out of here?”
“Why?” he couldn’t help himself from asking, and then, embarrassed, he’d clarified, “I mean, why me?”
“Because I like powerful men.” The words were an aphrodisiac; Gilles didn’t feel particularly powerful, but he supposed that’s how he appeared to a twentysomething former intern.
Frankly, he was happy to glimpse himself through the woman’s eyes for a moment and not feel that he was coming up short, the way he always felt with Melanie these days.
“Oh.” It was all he’d been able to manage.
“Pay for the drinks,” she said. “And then meet me out front.” She was gone before he could say no, but then again, he was never going to turn down an offer like that, was he?
Their affair had begun that evening—a quick romp in a hotel he’d hastily paid for in cash. He’d been covering Amandine’s rent and buying her jewelry ever since, which was a headache in and of itself, because it meant he’d had to get a secret credit card.
But now the jig was up, and though Gilles would miss the sex, he had to admit he was also a bit relieved.
Sneaking around was hard work, and to be honest, he’d felt guilty about betraying his marriage this way.
He’d read a poll once that said more than half of married French people felt that affairs were morally acceptable; in contrast, less than 20 percent of Americans felt the same.
Was it his fault that his wife was from a culture that was so uptight about such things?
If he’d married a French woman, she’d be pretending not to notice, and Gilles would be having sex with a nubile twentysomething for as long as his credit card could support it.
But it was all a moot point now. Melanie had found out—and she’d had a predictably American response.
Gilles had never meant to hurt her, and last night, while her grandfather had snored in the guest bedroom, he had promised, through tears, that he would break it off.
He was sorry, he really was, and it was time to set it right.
He left soon after waking up on the couch the next morning, stopping along the way for a quick coffee at the café on the corner. He buzzed Amandine’s apartment just past eight in the morning.
“Hello?” her voice came through the tinny speaker box of her building, sounding groggy.
“It’s me,” he said, and when she didn’t respond right away, he had the sudden thought that perhaps she had another man in there with her. “Gilles,” he clarified, feeling ridiculous. He had never shown up unannounced before.
“Come on up,” she said after a pause, and then the door buzzed and he was in.
She answered her apartment door a moment later wearing a gauzy, feather-trimmed pink robe that left little to the imagination. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
As he’d sipped his coffee that morning, he had planned a whole speech letting her down easy, but what came out of his mouth as she gazed at him now, her nipples pert, was, “Amandine, I love my wife.”
She laughed. “So you’ve said.”
“I mean, I can’t do this anymore. She’s made very clear that she won’t tolerate—”
“Oh, shut up and come inside,” she’d said, and because the sash on the robe had come untied at some point, and she was basically standing there naked, he felt he didn’t have much of a choice as she led him to the bedroom.
Afterward, she smoked a cigarette, and he tried to restore the sense of resolve he’d felt upon waking that morning. “This was the last time, Amandine,” he said now, more confidently than he felt.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said lightly, turning to smile at him.
“No, I’m not—this isn’t ridiculous.” He was really fumbling now. “It’s just, I truly do love Melanie.”
“Yes, well.”
“And she knows about you.”
“I assumed.”
“So this has to end.”
She looked puzzled. “Why?”
He stared at her. Maybe it felt like they were speaking different languages because they were from two different generations. He was an old man, and she was in her twenties, young, beautiful, casual, all the things he thought he wanted, but what was he to her?
“Do you love me?” he asked, hating how pathetic the question sounded, and realizing a beat later that it was an echo of the question Melanie had asked him last night.
Of course I love you, he’d said instantly, meaning it.
But here he was, lying naked beside his mistress the very next morning. He really was an asshole, wasn’t he?
“How can you ask me that?” Amandine asked, sounding wounded. “Of course I do.”
“You love me?” he persisted. “Or you love my money?”
She put a slender finger beneath his chin and waited until he looked at her. “You, Gilles,” she said firmly. “And I thought you felt the same.”
Well, now he felt like an even bigger ass. “Of course I do. It’s just that I made promises to Melanie. She’s my wife, and—”
“Well, then, there’s nothing more for me to say.
” Before he could protest, she was up and out of bed, covering her smooth, beautiful body in a gray cotton robe that was much less sexy than the one she’d answered the door in.
She stared down at him, and he was instantly conscious of how his naked, deflated body must look.
“You should go, Gilles,” she said, flipping her hair and striding out of the room.
“I know,” he said, puzzled, as he hastily pulled his pants and sweater back on and ran a hand through his hair.
Why did it feel as if the tables had been turned?
Wasn’t he the one breaking things off with her?
“I’m sorry,” he said feebly as he walked into the parlor a moment later.
Amandine already had the door open, waiting for him to leave.
“Say something,” he pleaded when she remained silent.
Still, she said nothing until he walked past her out of the apartment.
Then, and only then, did she lean in and whisper, “You’ll be back.
I know you will.” And then, before he could respond, the door slammed behind him, and he was left in the hall.
But no matter. He would go home now and tell Melanie what he’d done.
Well, not the sex part. But the breakup part, anyhow.
And he would promise her that he’d win her back, whatever it took.
Amandine was wrong. He wouldn’t be back.
Sure, he’d have to contact her eventually to let her know he could no longer pay the rent on her apartment.
And perhaps a blow like that would land more softly if delivered in person.
But he was a new man, rededicated to his wife, and he was determined to be a better husband going forward.
“You’re sold out, you know.”