Chapter Seventeen
If Amandine was a betting woman, she would have wagered that Gilles would be back in less than twenty-four hours. As it was, it took nearly forty-eight, which was alarming because it meant that he was perhaps not as enamored with her as she would have liked.
She was doing this all wrong, and she knew it.
The goal had been to have her apartment and living expenses paid for, and to be lavished with a bit of attention.
It had been a game she had played continuously—without getting emotionally involved—for the past few years, switching middle-aged men every few months, dismissing them before they could dismiss her so that she always had the upper hand.
But to her dismay, she had developed feelings for Gilles, which was enormously inconvenient.
She honestly couldn’t even explain it; he was old and had a rather squishy body.
Plus, when she was able to seduce someone so easily, she didn’t normally think highly of that person’s intellect.
However, she had also discovered that Gilles was kind and genuinely cared about her; the other men she’d liaised with had all understood that a transaction was taking place, and they’d seemed okay with the terms. Gilles, however, looked at her like she mattered—and not just when she was naked.
That had thrown her for a loop, and it was why she’d made a mistake.
She’d let her emotions get the best of her and she’d texted him while drinking a bottle of champagne by herself one evening—not discreetly, as they’d agreed to communicate, but in a way that would make it clear to his wife that he had a mistress, if he’d been foolish enough to leave his phone lying around.
And that, apparently, was just what had happened.
Amandine realized now that there’d been a piece of her hoping to blow up his marriage.
Perhaps then she could see whether what she felt for him was real or just an infatuation.
Maybe it was time she stopped these games and tried to have something real with an older man who could support her long-term.
But what she hadn’t counted on was Gilles telling her, almost immediately, that he planned to slink back to his wife with his tail between his legs.
It was almost unbelievable—as was the fact that it had hurt her.
Enough with the feelings. Love had never gotten her anywhere—and she was outraged with herself that she’d let her guard down. It was time to return to the playbook.
“What do you want?” she asked coldly when she opened the apartment door.
He appeared thrown off by her tone, but really, it was a page from Mistressing 101.
Make yourself seem just out of reach to the married man, for the thrill was in the chase.
Forcing a man to pursue you triggered some caveman instinct that seemed to shut off all logic.
“You’re angry with me,” Gilles said, and Amandine crossed her arms over her chest, secretly delighted. He was responding exactly as he was supposed to. Good, she was back on familiar footing.
“Of course I’m angry with you,” she said as righteously as she could. “You made love to me and then left me to go back to your wife!”
He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “I’m so sorry, Amandine. I didn’t mean to—”
“Didn’t mean to what?” she interrupted savagely. “Didn’t mean to use me? Didn’t mean to make me feel worthless? Didn’t mean to treat me like a whore?”
He flinched with each sentence she lobbed his way. “Forgive me. Please. I’m trying to be a better man.”
She rolled her eyes dramatically and turned her back on him, swishing her hips seductively as she walked into the apartment. She knew he would follow, and a second later, when she heard the door close and his footsteps behind her, she smiled to herself. Her relief, however, was short-lived.
“I bought her flowers,” he said miserably as he followed Amandine into the kitchen.
She froze, too stunned to respond for a second. “You bought who flowers?” she asked icily, turning to glare at him and jutting her bottom lip out in an exaggerated, sexy pout just in case he’d forgotten what she could do with that mouth.
“Melanie,” he said, appearing not to notice her sulking lips or the hip she’d skillfully jutted in his direction. In fact, he wasn’t even looking at her. What was wrong with him? “I bought her twenty dozen roses—one dozen for every year of our marriage—and she hasn’t even called.”
Amandine felt like her eyeballs were about to pop out of her head. “You bought your wife hundreds of flowers, and you’re telling me about it?”
“Roses, yes,” Gilles said, entirely missing the point.
“You’ve never bought me roses.” It was the wrong thing to say. She knew it the moment the words were out of her mouth. Show any sort of neediness, and you’ve lost your edge.
Gilles looked confused. “Amandine, I cheated on my wife. With you. The roses were an apology. What have I ever needed to apologize to you for?”
Relieved to be back in more familiar territory, she fixed him with her best withering look. “What do you need to apologize for? For trying to leave me for your wife, that’s what!”
His look of confusion deepened. “But you knew I was married.”
She took a deep breath and switched from confrontational to wounded. She was taking acting classes through the Cours Candela, and she had learned to seamlessly switch gears like that just this week. She was quite good at it. “I thought,” she said, “that you were going to leave your wife for me.”
Gilles’s mouth fell open. Of course he had promised her no such thing. But the guilt the words induced could not be underestimated. “Amandine, I… I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I didn’t mean to mislead you.”
She wiped her eyes dramatically. “To think,” she said, her lower lip quivering, “I put my life on hold for you.”
“Amandine.” Gilles looked stricken. “I never meant to hurt you. But I love Melanie. This was a mistake, all of it.”
“Then why are you here now?” she asked. She jutted out her lower lip again, hoping that it reminded him of the last blow job she’d given him. This time, at least, he seemed to notice, his gaze snagging on her mouth for a long time. Some of the color drained from his face.
“B-because…” He trailed off. “Honestly, I don’t know. She threw me out. I can’t go home. And I thought…” He stopped abruptly, and to her astonishment, he began walking toward the door. “I’m sorry, Amandine. You’re right. I shouldn’t have come. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
What on earth was happening? She was losing him.
“Gilles,” she said seductively, already unbuttoning her blouse.
She threw her shoulders back, her generous—and expensive—breasts straining against the lace of her bra.
When Gilles turned, his eyes were on her nipples, not on her face, which was just what she wanted.
She crossed to him and grabbed him by the tie.
“Now that you’re here,” she murmured, “you won’t leave me lonely, will you? ”
“But… my wife,” he said, his right hand already roaming to her left breast as if it had a mind of its own. He fondled her gently, and a shiver ran through her. What was it about this man that turned her on so much?
“Your wife is not here, is she?” she purred, reaching for the zipper of his pants. Unsurprisingly, he was entirely ready for her. He groaned as she touched him. “But I am.”
“I can’t,” he said, his voice strained as she unbuckled his belt. “I shouldn’t.”
“Just admit that you want me, Gilles.”
“I—” They were interrupted by the buzzing of his cell phone in his pocket. He fumbled for it, and Amandine felt a terrible, sinking feeling of dread.
“Don’t answer it,” she said, but he was already zipping his trousers, already fastening his belt, already backing away from her.
“It’s Melanie,” he said, his eyes shimmering. “I have to take this.”
“You really love her,” she said in awe, feeling a ripple of guilt, albeit a tiny one. Gilles had made his own choices. She was not responsible for them. The surprise, though, was that the guilt was followed by a swell of grief. He was really leaving. He was leaving her.
“I do,” Gilles said. “And I’m afraid I won’t be able to pay your rent anymore, Amandine. I’m sorry. That’s what I came to say.”
Before she could reply, he was already walking out into the hall, the phone to his ear, stammering something to his wife. He closed the door behind him and Amandine put her hands to her face, startled to feel it damp with tears, as she stared after him in disbelief.
Melanie held the phone to her ear, already doubting herself.
“Hello?” Gilles sounded breathless when he answered, and Melanie frowned. She wanted to ask him where he was, what he was doing, but she was the one who’d told him to get out, wasn’t she? Maybe it wasn’t her business where he was, as long as he wasn’t with his mistress.
“I just wanted to say thank you,” she said, sounding more formal than she’d intended to. “For the flowers. That was generous of you.”
“I’m so glad you liked them.” She could hear the distant ding of an elevator, the swooshing of doors.
“There were… a lot,” she said, then immediately winced.
Did she always sound this critical? This judgmental?
He’d done a nice thing for her, and here she was telling him that he’d done too much of a nice thing.
She closed her eyes and forced herself to add, “Not that I’m complaining. It was nice of you.”
“Oh, good.” He sounded relieved. “I’d worried that they would overwhelm you.”
“No.” She was doing a spectacularly bad job of having a mundane conversation with her husband. She heard another ding and imagined Gilles exiting an elevator somewhere. Again, she resisted the urge to ask him where he was.
“How are things with your grandfather and his long-lost girlfriend?” Gilles asked.
Melanie felt herself soften a bit. “You won’t believe this, but he got some tickets to the Jackson Quick concert on Friday and is planning to take her.”
“To a rock concert?” Gilles sounded perplexed. “At their age?”