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Mix 'n' Match
(3) Dirty Tricks
Stunned into awe by this unexpected vision of manhood, I jump to my feet without even so much as a thought.
"Bonjour, mes amis," he greets in what sounds to be impeccable French to my inexperienced ears. "Sorry 'bout bein' late. Have t' have my cigarette break, y'know."
In a matter of seconds, I've all but forgotten the fact that I'd wanted to wring this guy's neck. Instead, I find myself staring at him. No, make that ogling. Boy oh boy, this guy is hot. All 6 foot 2 inches of lean, toned muscle, framed in a smart beige suit and white shirt, all cut to show off his gorgeous body to perfection. He doesn't take a bit of notice of me as he strides into the room, his jacket slung casually over one shoulder. As he crosses the room he gives me a view of his aquiline profile, the chiseled nose and strong jaw, a few thick, auburn locks straying over and onto his forehead. I notice he's wearing shades, and even though it's kind of odd for the middle of winter, one look at this guy and you'd swear shades in winter was the new fashion.
"B-Bonjour." I find the words spilling involuntarily out of my mouth, despite better judgement. "Je suis Rogue."
Shit!
He stops in the middle of the room, turns, and stares at me. Up until that moment, I don't think I knew the meaning of the phrase 'when sparks fly'. In that one shared glance it's like a few thousand fireworks go off all at once. Oh wow!
"Rogue, hmm?" he drawls in that oh-so-seductively accented voice. He looks half-amused, half-intrigued. Shit, shit, shit!
"Uh...No, Ah mean, uh, je m'appelle Anna Raven," I blurt out. Oh God, why can't the earth just swallow me up right about now?
He raises an eyebrow and slips the shades off slowly. For a moment I'm stunned to find myself staring into his eyes – red on black eyes, eyes the color of deepest crimson. His gaze runs over me without the slightest hint of shame or subtlety, yet with such intensity that I feel a blush begin to creep up my cheeks. I've never felt so undressed with a single gaze in all my life.
"Remy LeBeau," he finally introduces himself in return. Then he does something no guy has ever done to me before. He scoops my hand up and kisses it. "Enchanté," he adds, with a small, suggestive smile.
"Remy," Monet begins warningly from behind him, "Please."
He bestows me with another dazzling smile before dropping my hand and turning to take his seat at the table. As he does so he gives Monet an outrageous wink.
"Ah, ma chere Monet, I hope you're still on for our date tonight, non?" he asks unabashedly. Monet doesn't dare say a word, a blush of her own crossing the cheeks of her rather prim and haughty face. That should've been enough to warn me about Remy LeBeau's reputation, but I was still too busy recovering from his dazzling smile to take any notice.
"Remy..." Jean-Paul shoots at him, but even he looks a little hot under the collar at his colleague's flamboyant entrance.
Without further ado, Remy takes his seat at the table with an air of casual elegance. I sink back into my chair wishing I'd decided to wear the sexy red suit Emma had cajoled me into buying the other week. For some reason, all I can think of right now is a cold shower and a stiff drink.
-oOo-
On the other side of town, in the executive director's office at Frost Industries HQ, Emma was still silently fuming over her meeting with Warren the night before. Scattered across her desk were several copies of the papers he'd refused to sign. How dare he, she wondered? How dare he treat her like dirt? No man messed with Emma Grace Frost and lived to tell the tale! And what was that comment he'd made about her breasts! She'd teach that pompous and arrogant twit to insult her to her face! She'd show Warren Kenneth Worthington III just how threatening she could be!
Emma gritted her teeth and pushed the contracts out of her sight. As if the situation with Warren wasn't bad enough, her gardener had just quit and left her with a nine-acre garden that was badly in need of attention. She'd mocked his resignation, saying she didn't need a gardener in the middle of winter anyway, only to discover that her ponds had filled up with dead leaves and consequently, a couple of dead $5,000 koi. And now she had to waste yet more time and money advertising for another wretched man to fill his post.
She was just about to call her secretary and order her to put an advertisement in the newspaper when her cell phone went off. Picking it up, she saw that the caller was none other than Betsy. Emma let out something between a growl and bark. Hadn't she told both Rogue and Betts not to call her on her business line? She was really going to have to talk to them about that some time.
"What?" she practically snapped once she'd accepted the call. She wasn't particularly in the mood to hear how CFC's damaged the ozone layer.
"Well, excuse me," Betsy's cultured accent replied indignantly. "I didn't know that's how friends greeted each other these days."
"This is my business line," Emma retorted rudely. "I thought I told you to call me on my private line! I could have an important client trying to phone me right at this very moment!"
"Bloody hell, Emma, what on earth's got into you?" Betsy replied, clearly offended. "If you must know, I was going to ask whether you and your significant other wanted to come and join me and Neal tonight at this new eco-club they've just opened across town. But if that's the attitude you're going to take, then..."
Emma gritted her teeth, trying to calm her temper. Betsy had been acting strangely lately, but there was no reason to take things out on her.
"Sorry, Betts," she finally returned, her tone more level, "but it looks like I'm going to have to stay over late tonight. Besides, my 'significant other' got dumped by yours truly last night. And I think three would be too much of a crowd, don't you?"
"Oh, Emma, luv..." It was Betsy's turn to sound sheepish. "I didn't know... Why didn't you tell me!"
"Oh, it wasn't anything serious," Emma replied, getting out her nail filer. "The only thing the guy was worth keeping around for was his soufflés and his shiatsu massages, and even they were below my usual acceptable standards."
"Well, you don't sound upset, so I'll take your word for it. But Emma, darling, you're simply going to have to phone me and tell me all the juicy details tomorrow."
"Sure thing, honey. You just have fun tonight and try not to drink too much organic punch."
She cut the line before Betsy could work out whether her parting jibe had been serious or not. What she hadn't told her purple-haired, ex-model friend was that the thought of spending the night alone scared the hell out of her.
Sighing violently, Emma punched the button on her intercom and called impatiently for her secretary.
"Jubilee! Jubilee! Where are you! I want you to place an advert for a gardener in the newspapers right away!"
-xXx-
Shit.
I'm only eight minutes into my interview and I've already screwed it up beyond human reason. As if it wasn't bad enough that I'm desperately trying to speak terribly-pronounced French to a panel of three interviewers, I'm also making a fool out of myself in front of an extremely hot guy. Can my day get any worse?
I knew following through on this List of Priorities thing was a bad idea.
"So," Remy LeBeau asks me in French from his end of the table. "Tell us a little about yourself. What do you do in your leisure time? Any hobbies?"
Okay, this isn't so bad. Since this was Lesson One of my 'Teach Yourself French' book, I actually rehearsed this topic pretty well. I manage to run off a few automated sentences about being able to dance (does boogie-ing down the club on a Friday night count?), singing (at karaoke on Thursday nights, and not half badly either), and playing guitar (which I haven't touched since... well, the Incident four years ago or thereabouts). Then I add some stuff about being into fashion, which I hope will recommend me to the perfume industry. My recital is by no means perfect, but it isn't bad either. In fact, I'm quite proud of myself.
"You like to dance, huh?" Remy gives me an intense look from those dark red eyes, and I manage to nod weakly, but can't find the French to reply. So he smiles – this slow, seductive curl of the lips – and suddenly all the English has flooded out of my brain as well. Great.
"And what do you think you can bring to the company?" Jean-Paul inquires.
Uh oh. The dreaded question every interviewer asks, and I can't even form a sentence in my own native language, let alone French. I spend the next five minutes struggling through an answer like a paraplegic attempting to climb Everest. I feel absolutely pathetic and decide here and now that my first interview has been a complete and utter disaster. Monet St. Croix is desperately trying to stifle her laughter; Jean-Paul Beaubier has a look of extreme concentration on his face as he attempts to keep up with every word I'm saying; Remy LeBeau, on the other hand, is gazing placidly over the table at what seems to be my chest.
Oh Lord have mercy and strike me down with a bolt of lightning right now PLEASE!
In the end I just give up, and I must look like I'm about to cry because Remy suddenly decides to take pity on me.
"It's okay, Ms. Raven," he assures me after a moment, flashing another winning smile my way. "I don't t'ink you need to impress us with your...most excellent French anymore."
Monet gives a little snigger under her breath when she sees me gape at his unmistakable Cajun accent. I'm already considering jumping across the table and gouging out those pretty eyes of hers.
"Actually," Remy continues in a more serious tone, "the Laurier and Lauriel company hasn't had much of a connection wit' France since the end of the Second World War. Most of our operations take place here, in de US. English is and always has been our choice of language here."
Two things immediately become apparent to me. One, I've made a complete and utter fool of myself; and two, this arrogant bastard of a Remy LeBeau knew from the very beginning that I hadn't a clue how to speak French.
"What?" I cry, half standing up, my temper flaring as I realize a cruel trick has been played on me. Jean-Paul glances over, confused.
"You mean to say you didn't know this about our company?" he asks incredulously.
Well, what can I say? That I just happened to send a doctored resume to a company I didn't know the first thing about, in the vain hope that I might just have an outside chance of getting a job? Dammit, the truth is hard enough admitting to myself, let alone to these high-flying execs. Face it Rogue, you've blown it. You blew it the moment you stepped into this room. You're such a yutz that you even let that cocky prick across the table play you for all you were worth! No way out of this one, uh-uh. Time to save what face you can, gal, and get outta here sharpish!
I stand up quickly, mustering what dignity I have left.
"Well, Ah really don't think there's any more to discuss here," I begin indignantly, "so Ah guess we should just stop wastin' one another's time and end this interview. Ah suppose Ah deserved to be treated with disrespect since Ah wasn't willin' t' take the job seriously. Ah'm sorry for takin' up your time." I level a cold, hard glare in Remy's direction. "And for takin' up your precious cigarette break. Maybe y'all oughta think 'bout arrivin' t' your interviews on time, Monsieur LeBeau, yah just might get some respect from the other people you interrogate."
I spin on my heel to leave the room, congratulating myself on my second most-satisfying exit speech in three days. But just as I'm about to reach the door and finally escape this embarrassing predicament, Remy stops me.
"Wait a minute."
I turn expectantly, thinking he's going to reprimand me for my outspokenness. Does the guy have to make this anymore of a torture than it is already? But there isn't the slightest ounce of anger on that handsome face of his. If anything, he looks rather amused – which is enough to send my blood pressure soaring with rage. Oh? So he thinks this is funny? Just wait till I get my hands on that despicable, good-for-nothing, gorgeous, fit, athletic, positively edible...
"Having personally looked through your resume," he continues casually, snapping me out of my reverie, "I happen t' think you're actually a very strong candidate."
What? I hadn't expected him to say that.
"Yes," Jean-Paul nods beside him, "I, too, think so. The skills you have listed in your resume seem perfectly suited to our marketing and advertisement department. At the moment we could do with a person of your talent in the company. You say you worked previously in finance, non? In Joe Co.?"
Well, this is a surprise.
"Uh... Yes. For two years," I nod.
"And you quit because?" Monet asks me. I get the sense she doesn't like me, especially since Remy made such a display of kissing my hand – the slimeball. But her question doesn't faze me. Now that I don't have to worry about French anymore my brain's come back.
"Ah wanted a change. Somethin' new, exciting...refreshing." (I hope Jean isn't going to mind me borrowing her phrases here.) "Ah guess Ah kinda figured that working in the marketing section of a renowned global company could provide me with a new kind of...stimulation."
I involuntarily shoot Remy a glance. What the hell is all that about? Sometimes my body really doesn't behave the way my mind tells it to.
"Well, you'll certainly find that things can be stimulating here at L&L," Jean-Paul grins expansively. "Our company motto is 'expand creativity, promote inspiration'. Everyone's always bursting with new ideas. There's never a dull moment!"
Oh I bet there isn't, I think, as I glare over at that infuriatingly handsome Cajun.
"Well, Ms. Raven," Remy begins, taking charge again. "Dere are still a few t'ings my colleagues an I have to discuss regarding your position here, but we all seem to agree you'd be a ...perfect candidate." He gives me one of those looks again, but I've wised up to his swamp rat charms and the only thing I feel is disgust. Won't he ever stop so blatantly checking me out? Not even Joe was that crass. "Well, I guess de interview's over," he continues, standing up. "You can expect t' hear from us regarding your acceptance some time on Monday. T'anks for comin', Ms. Raven."
"Thank you," I mumble half-heartedly in return. I shake Jean-Paul's hand with genuine feeling, and just about manage to do the same for Monet. But as far as I'm concerned, Remy can go and stick his hand up that cute ass of his. So I ignore him completely before turning and flouncing out the room.
Well, Roguey, you may not have slam-dunked that one, but somehow you definitely managed to get the ball in the net.
Then I remember just how badly I'd made a fool of myself stumbling through all that needless French.
I practically run all the way back to my car out of sheer embarrassment.
-oOo-
Elisabeth Braddock was not happy.
Here she was, huddled inside the tiny SmartCar she'd bought after she'd dumped her humongous, gasoline-guzzling SUV, completely lost. She coasted the block at about ten miles per hour, looking desperately for a club that simply wasn't there. The car behind her was honking rabidly and Neal wasn't picking up his cell phone.
"For the love of God where is this place!" she cursed under her breath.
Neal had patiently written down all the directions to 'Le Jardin', the so-called eco-club that had just opened not a week ago. Yet she still couldn't find the damned place. If only Emma had agreed to come along – Emma had the honing instincts of an eagle, while Betsy's sense of direction was nothing short of abysmal.
"I just know it was down this road!" she muttered angrily to herself. The car behind her hooted her one more time and then sped past, clipping her wing mirror.
"Oh screw you, you great, sodding bastard!" she raged at the fast-disappearing driver. This really wasn't doing her blood pressure any good. Once she got home she'd have to do another round of tantric yoga just to calm her nerves. Damn! There was nothing for it. She was going to have to get out and ask for directions.
Betsy turned off onto an unknown side road and parked the SmartCar on the curb. She tried calling Neal again, but he still wasn't picking up.
"Where on earth is he?" she mused to herself. She knew he'd spent the day at an activist rally, but he was supposed to have left half an hour ago to meet up with her. Maybe his phone was dead. Maybe he was working late. Or maybe...
She shook her head violently and got out the car. A few yards down the street, light and techno were pouring out of what seemed to be a small nightclub. Several people were standing around outside, laughing and chatting, some smoking and some with drinks in their hands. It was a lifestyle Betsy had been used to in the days before she'd quit the supermodel life. She hadn't been out much since then – that's why she'd been excited when Neal had told her about 'Le Jardin'. But still, she felt a pang in her heart when she saw all the beautiful young people out there enjoying themselves, and she didn't know why. After all, they were all so oblivious, weren't they? They didn't care about the world like Betsy did – they were all as selfish and blind as she'd once been, before she'd met Neal. So why should she so suddenly miss her old life? She had something new to believe in now. She had principles. And more importantly, she had a guy who respected them.
Nevertheless she passed a nostalgic sigh as she walked up to the club entrance. She was surprised at how popular it seemed to be, being tucked away as it was in some small and murky back street. She looked up with curiosity at the neon sign over door. 'The Hideaway', it read, in crackling red and orange letters.
"Can I help yer, lady?" a gruff voice asked beside her. Turning, Betsy saw that it was one of the bouncers addressing her. He was immaculately dressed in a plain black suit and red bow tie, yet this neat ensemble couldn't take away the gruffness of his appearance. Still, underneath that rough-and-ready, wolf-like exterior, she caught a sense of the compassion and integrity of the man within. He was shorter than her, which was not much out of the ordinary for Betsy, since she was a model – but he was a lot shorter than any other man she'd met, perhaps only about 5'3".
"I hope so," she replied. "I'm looking for a place called 'Le Jardin'. It's a new club that opened just last week. Perhaps you've heard of it?"
The bouncer appeared to think hard for a moment, then shook his head slowly.
"Sorry, lady. Ain't heard of it. 'Fraid I ain't much acquainted with all those fancy new places that're springin' up round here nowadays. Man like me... the only places I know are the live houses and the dingy little bars no one else goes to."
"Oh well, never mind," Betsy sighed, glancing at her watch. "I suppose there's someone else round here who's bound to have heard of it."
"Perhaps I could be of some assistance?" a low and charming masculine voice offered behind her. Whirling round in surprise, Betsy found herself face to face with what she had to admit was probably one of the most gorgeous men walking. He was actually taller than her, and sported a pair of casual pants and a crimson silk shirt that matched the color of her clingy red sheath dress to perfection. Scraggly auburn hair framed a face that was half obscured by a pair of shades, although she swore she could see a glint of red behind the dark lenses.
"I take it dis beautiful femme is lookin' for a certain place not far from here," he began again, the charm practically dripping from his voice. "Maybe Remy LeBeau can help her out."
Betsy pulled a face, repulsed at the way this guy was so shamelessly hitting on her. It was obvious to her that he was the kind of guy who'd never been refused before – his overbearing confidence made that a dead cert. But in the model business she'd met plenty of men like him, and she knew exactly how to handle them.
"Maybe he can," she replied dryly. "I'm looking for the 'Le Jardin' club."
Remy, it seemed, was not so easily put off.
"Dat a British accent, p'tit?" he asked smoothly, ignoring her comment. "Remy jus' loves British accents. Seems we have somet'in' in common, cherie. Maybe we could work on our accents t'gether; or maybe we could teach each other t' talk in tongues."
Betsy snorted. Was this guy for real?
"Frankly," she began coldly. "I think your attempt at a French accent – intriguing though it is – is the worst I've heard to date. Now if you don't mind, I have a date of my own to keep."
She stalked off back to her car without so much as another glance in his direction.
"Hey!" Remy called after her receding figure. "You wan' find 'Le Jardin', you gotta turn left off dis road! Den turn right at de lights, you can't miss it! Was real nice talkin' t' y', chere!"
But Betsy was already inside the car and revving up.
Remy shrugged, turned, and passed the bouncer his trademark dazzling smile. Unfortunately, it didn't work on the short and stocky man, who snarled back at Remy like he was a very bad smell.
Behind them, Betsy did a U-turn and turned off to the right.
-xXx-
Monet St. Croix had already been waiting fifteen minutes in 'The Hideaway' before Remy finally turned up.
"You're late again, LeBeau," she chided him as he sidled up to join her at the bar.
"You know me an' bein' fashionably late, chere," he grinned, signaling the bartender to serve him the usual.
"I know you and your obsession with all that hair of yours, you mean," she corrected him slyly, yanking his tie and pulling his face down for a searing kiss.
"I guess you do know me better den most," he murmured once they'd broken away, allowing his hand to wander down familiarly over her shapely butt.
She laughed. "I bet you say that to all the girls."
"But wit' you, Monet, it's de truth," he bantered back.
"And does that scare you?" she probed. It was a standing joke at L&L that Remy knew all the girls in the company in all the ways that mattered, but that he couldn't tell you a single thing about them. As it was, Remy could only shrug evasively in reply to her question. Although he prided himself on being fearless, there was one thing he truly was afraid of, and that was intimacy. But the reason behind that was something he wasn't about to let on to anyone.
Monet merely grinned and sipped prettily at her snowball.
"It just so happens," she began, "that since I'm the one who knows you better than most, I also know that the only reason you suggested this date was because you wanted to discuss business. Isn't that so?"
Remy grinned humorously at her. "Looks like de day I hide anyt'ing from you, chere, is de day I'm cold an' in my grave."
"Naturally," she replied coolly. "So – what's on your mind?"
"Anna Raven," he answered simply.
She looked surprised at that.
"The girl we interviewed? What about her? You weren't really serious about taking her on, were you?"
"Why shouldn't I be?" he paused as he lit up a cigarette. "Jean-Paul seemed to like her, and he's de bossman, non? I talked t' him after de fact, an' he said she'd do right fine in marketing."
"But Remy, the girl made a complete and utter fool of herself, not to mention she obviously lied on her resume about being bilingual. Why shouldn't everything else she wrote down be a lie as well?"
Remy shrugged and downed half his bourbon in one go. It wasn't like he hadn't lied and faked his way to the top either. Seeing his nonchalance, Monet passed him a narrowed glance.
"You like her, don't you," she leveled at him.
"Sure. I like all de girls who work under me, Monet – as well as de guys," he replied innocently. "Dat's what we do in dis business – we take care of each other, non?"
She wasn't buying it.
"Did you hear the way she snubbed you?" she reminded him.
"Sure, I heard de way she snubbed me." He smiled self-deprecatingly. "De girl's got brass, Mon. She ain't afraid t' speak her mind. An' I could sure use a girl like dat on my team."
"And elsewhere, I should imagine," Monet quipped sourly, finishing off the rest of her drink. Dropping a generous tip into the bowl, she picked up her purse and slid off her seat. "Look, if you and Jean-Paul have made up your minds, then go ahead – hire her. I couldn't care less – she's not going to be on my staff anyway. But if you're thinking of screwing with her LeBeau, trust me, you're gonna get burned. She's not like the other girls. You touch her ass, she'll bite you right back on yours, I guarantee you."
She leaned in and planted a lingering kiss on his cheek.
"Don't worry, loverboy. I'll catch a cab home tonight. See you tomorrow."
And with that she turned and sashayed out.
-oOo-
To be continued...