International Guy_Paris Page 2

  “Why not? I’ve been thinking about getting that Porsche 911 convertible. This client will get me that much closer to my silver baby.” Royce kisses his fist.

  I roll my eyes, and Bo groans. “You and your cars, man. Fist up, if you’re in.”

  Royce lifts his hand, and the three of us bump fists.

  “To Paris,” I say.

  “To Paris,” they repeat.

  Paris is lovely in the spring. That’s not just a saying. It’s God’s honest truth. Cherry blossoms are blooming, the Seine River is teeming with boats scudding along, and women everywhere are wearing dresses and skirts. My favorite. God, I love a pair of bare legs. It’s like a smorgasbord of creamy skin just waiting to be kissed and caressed as far as the eye can see.

  “The Eiffel Tower, man. It’s right fuckin’ there!” Bo points out the window of the company limo that picked us up at our hotel.

  Sophie Rolland has not skimped on the amenities or service. Her company is putting us up in a five-star hotel, where each of us has been given a full live-in-style suite, complete with refrigerators prepacked with food and kitchens stocked with household items for our extended stay. With service like this, it’ll be tough to get Bo to leave. We’re all bachelors by nature, but Bo is on a whole different level. I at least enjoy going home, spending time in my own apartment, chilling with my pops, and grabbing a pickup game of baseball with other business contacts I have. Bo could happily travel the globe with no home to speak of. He has an apartment in my same complex, but he’s rarely in it.

  “It’s a lot smaller than I thought it would be.” Royce stares out the opposite window.

  I glance out the darkened windows through the middle portion of the limo. “Looks pretty big to me. Sturdy. Solid. Basically, what I imagined it would be like. The French are great at making artistic structures. Like our Statue of Liberty and Christ the Redeemer in Brazil.”

  Bo frowns. “They made the Christ in Rio?”

  “Yeah. Learned about it in my international communications class. Wait . . . you took that class with me, dude.”

  Bo smiles wickedly. “I may have spent more of that class paying attention to Melissa Thompson, and how long it would take me to get in her panties, than the details behind modern statues.”

  Royce lifts his hand to his mouth and chuckles.

  “Too bad you wasted all that time. I banged Melissa within the first two weeks of class. Had her as one of my top five repeats all sophomore year.”

  Bo’s gaze slashes to mine. “Shit! That’s why she never let me in there? Girl was one of the only women to ever seem disinterested. Hurt my confidence.” He pouts, and it makes sense why women fall all over themselves for him. I even feel compelled to make him smile right now. He continues, “Thanks for that. You could have mentioned you were hitting it.”

  I shake my head. “It was far too much fun watching you put the moves on her all semester and fail. Consider it my gift of humility to you, brother.”

  Bo makes a sound between a groan and a scoff. “Humility. Pshhht.”

  The car makes an abrupt stop in front of a large building. We exit the car and are met by a thin speck of a woman with a short brown bob hairstyle and a genuine smile.

  “Mr. Ellis?” she asks the three of us.

  I raise my hand and step toward her. “Bonjour.”

  Her pale cheeks pinken as she leans in and air-kisses both of my cheeks. “I’m Stephanie Moennard, Ms. Rolland’s assistant, and I will be handling all your needs during your stay.”

  I wrap an arm around her shoulders and dip my head. “All of our needs?” I wink, and the cheeks go from pink to a fiery red. I squeeze her shoulder and then turn her toward the guys. “This is Bogart Montgomery and Royce Sterling.”

  “A pleasure. Yes, well, come this way. Ms. Rolland is very eager to make your acquaintance.”

  She leads us up a set of stairs to a glass elevator. We ride it to the eighth floor, where we’re taken through a handful of hallways. She knocks on a door that looks like it could have been over five hundred years old, the gnarled wood creaking with the effort she uses to push it open.

  The three of us follow her into a surprisingly large office space. A mousy brunette ends her call, stands, and comes around her desk. She’s wearing a plain black sheath dress that could have easily been purchased at a bargain-basement, off-the-rack sale, and it shows in the boxy ill fit. As she approaches, her heel catches in the Persian rug below, and her arms swing wildly as she loses her balance.

  With catlike reflexes, I grab her arm and pull her against my chest before she can fall. I wrap one arm around her small waist to keep her upright.

  She gasps, a puff of air leaving her delicate pout. A pair of chocolate-brown eyes stare guilelessly at me through insanely thick, long black lashes. Her chin is rounded and perfectly complements her long, thin nose. Sophie Rolland is wearing not a speck of makeup, and still, her skin glows a light bronze. Her long brown hair is parted down the center in a very unattractive, lifeless style. Even so, any man who looks closely can see she’s an absolute diamond in the rough.

  I grin, curl my hand against her nape, into her thick hair, and use my thumb to lift her face toward mine. She glances away shyly. An unbelievable, delectable aroma weaves around her as I hold her. Leaning toward her neck, I rub my nose along the skin there, inhaling deeply, capturing the heart of her scent. I hum against her flesh, letting my appreciation of her smell seep deep into her consciousness.

  Women need to know that no matter what they wear, how they apply their makeup or do their hair, there is something special about them with the power to capture a man’s attention. Consider me locked up, because her scent is driving me insane. My mouth waters as I deny myself a taste of her sweet-smelling skin and pull away. She sighs and opens her eyes, blinking almost sleepily.

  Royce coughs from behind me, and Bo clears his throat, but I don’t turn around or let her go. She’s important; this moment is important. It sets the tone for the rest of our time together, and I have a feeling that with very little time, this woman and I are going to become far more than business acquaintances. I’d bet my bank account on it. In the meantime, there is work to be done.

  I grip Sophie close, letting her feel my body plastered against hers from chest to knee before sealing the deal. “Ma chérie, you might quite possibly be the most precious little thing I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with. I can’t wait to show you what a work of art you are.”

  2

  Sophie steps back and wrings her hands out as though they’re wet. I smirk. Perhaps other areas of her are wet right now, but definitely not her hands.

  “Um, thank you. Mr. Ellis, I presume?” She air-kisses one cheek and then the other. “And these men are?”

  Bo swaggers forward. Instead of taking her hand, or air-kissing her as the French do in greeting, he lifts a hand to pluck at his bearded chin and circles around Ms. Rolland, assessing her. Bo scrutinizes her body and clothing through the eyes of a gifted photographer, a true artist, inside and outside of his private photography studio.

  “Long, elegant stems. Shit for shoes.” His face contorts into an expression of disgust. “Dress is at least two sizes too big. I’d say you’re a four to six, not an eight to ten. Am I right?” he asks nonchalantly, still circling. I can almost see the wheels in his head turning with the need to create beauty and capture it through the lens of his camera.

  Sophie frowns. “I’m not sure what you’re referring to.” Probably because he referred to American sizes, and she’d wear European sizes.

  Bo ignores her and focuses solely on her body. “Hair is lush, but could use some serious layers, maybe even a few golden highlights to give it some luster. Makeup is a must. Do you normally go without makeup?” He stops in front of her, cups her cheek, and evaluates her face, moving it from side to side. Her body trembles at his touch. Not surprising. Bo has that effect on women.

  He continues. “Great skin. Beautiful bone structure too. I know
women who would kill for this baby-soft face. Could use a brow wax. You wax everywhere else?”

  Her eyes widen, and she stumbles back a few paces until her ass hits the desk and she’s out of his reach. “Oomph.” She puts a hand to her chest, over her heart. “Mon Dieu!”

  I make my way over to her side and press my ass to the desk next to hers. “Don’t fret. Remember, part of what you’re paying for is full service. Bo here is a master at giving women business and sex appeal through clothing, hair, makeup, whatever is needed. What he’s capable of is pure art, and more importantly, you will feel as beautiful as a priceless painting.”

  “You think I need a makeover?” She runs her delicate fingers along the column of her neck. Such a sexy, understated move, but she doesn’t even realize it. It’s my job to bring this side out in her more often.

  “Well that depends. Do you want to look the part of a successful, in-charge CEO, or just do the job? Part of being successful in business is leading by example. Show your employees and contacts that you are a serious force to be reckoned with. My team and I are going to make that a reality. Starting with your physical appearance. What you wear and how you look when you show up to work shows your colleagues that you consider them important enough to make an effort. Once we’ve given you those tools, we’re going to teach you how to live it . . . become what you want to be.”

  She nods. “What do I need to do? I’m not sure how this works. When I hired you, I knew I needed help. I felt lost, uncertain of the task ahead. I’m not even sure what I need at this point.” Her tone is insecure, and it breaks my heart. Every woman deserves to feel strong and settled in her role.

  I lift her hand, raise it to my lips, and place a soft kiss on the back. A rosy hue suffuses her cheeks. So pretty.

  “First, you let Bo here work on your outer appeal. Then Royce will work with you on firming up your presence in the boardroom, assisting with any business blunders, and meeting with your executive team to determine where the internal operations of the business stand. Last thing you need while you’re taking over is in-house mutiny. Your staff, and most importantly your board members, are going to want answers on how you plan to run the business. Everyone needs to feel your confidence in not only maintaining status quo, but also being a change agent.”

  “I got you, girl.” Royce tucks his hands in his pockets and lifts his chin.

  Sophie inhales fully and swallows before clearing her throat. “I’m worried I won’t be enough. My father built this company and ran it singlehandedly for thirty years. I was supposed to come in after college, take a lower-level executive position, and learn the business organically. Now”—she shakes her head—“I’m not sure I’m ready.”

  “Do you want to run this company?” It’s the quarter-of-a-million-dollar question, seeing as that’s how much she’s paying International Guy to make it happen.

  Her eyes flash to mine. I can see sadness layered with a hint of hope in them. “It’s always been my dream.”

  “Then we’re going to make that dream come true. One step at a time.”

  Sophie’s belly growls, and I laugh before hooking an arm around her waist, urging her to stand.

  “First, lunch. Then we’ll have Royce meet with your chief financial officer and your chief operating officer while we shop with Bo for your new wardrobe.”

  She licks her pretty pink lips, which makes my dick perk up at attention. The simple act of her tongue making an appearance and I’m already getting hard for her. There is definitely more to this woman than she presents to the world. I won’t stop until I bring every ounce of her out of this boring and bland shell.

  “And what will you be doing through all of this?” Her decadent sugar-and-spice scent wraps around my senses as she nudges closer.

  I offer her my most devilish smile, pick up her hand, and thread our fingers together. “I’ll be holding your hand, ma chérie . . . the entire way.”

  After lunch, we head straight to Avenue Montaigne, where my research pinpoints a veritable feast of high-end fashion designers such as Gucci, Christian Dior, and my personal favorite . . . Jimmy Choo.

  I hold open the glass door for Sophie and Bo.

  “We’re starting with shoes?” Sophie’s French accent makes everything she says sound like pure sex. I could listen to her speak for hours on end.

  I loop my arm around her shoulders and scan the shelves until I find exactly what I’m looking for: a fucking-hot pair of red three-inch stilettos. The shoe has a classic pointy toe and graphic lines, including a section where a strap of leather gracefully wraps around the ankle and ties into a feminine bow at the top of the foot.

  “One thing I know about women is the first step toward change always starts with a sexy-as-sin pair of heels.”

  She looks at the shoe thoughtfully. “It’s very pretty, but it’s not exactly practical at the office.”

  I grin. “No, it isn’t, which is exactly what we want.” I invade her space, pressing my chest against hers and whispering in her ear. “Just imagine how it will feel to have every man want you and every woman want to be you. That’s what International Guy is going to do for you.”

  She shivers as I let my chin just graze her jawline before backing away.

  “Um, I’ll try it on.” She blinks innocently and bites down on her bottom lip.

  Yeah, she’s starting to feel the heat building between us. It’s only a matter of time. I pegged it the second I heard her voice. I knew I wanted to hear that sultry lilt whispering filthy French nothings into my ear. Soon I’ll have her eating out of my hand and digging the spikes of these fuck-me shoes into the tender skin of my ass. Except. She’s a client. It’s not like we have a rule about not mixing business with pleasure; we just haven’t had this much money or this big a client on the line. It wouldn’t be wise to go there with her.

  I adjust my growing length, adding a little pressure to the poor guy. He hasn’t had any action in a few weeks, much to my dismay. Work has given me very little playtime lately, and you can’t play the field when you’re not at the ballpark.

  “What’s your size, ma chérie?” I clear my throat and shake out my suit jacket, buttoning the front to hide any evidence of my burgeoning arousal.

  “Thirty-eight, which in US sizing is a seven.”

  “Lucky number seven.” I wink and lift the €630 shoe up toward the saleswoman. “Thirty-eight, merci.”

  Sophie takes the shoe in her hand and turns it around as if she’s never seen anything like it. “The shoe is named Vanessa. Lovely name for a lovely shoe,” she remarks.

  “Makes sense, because when you wear her, you’re going to feel like a different woman.”

  She blushes and takes a seat while the clerk brings out her size.

  “We’ll take these five pairs in a thirty-eight as well, precious.” Bo hands the attendant a handful of different heels. The woman preens under his attention.

  I shake my head and focus on sweet Sophie. Kneeling down, I assist with the shoes. Once she’s got them both on, I offer my hand and lead her over to the mirror, taking a position at her back.

  With my chin at her shoulder, I growl into her ear, “Your legs look long as fuck.”

  Sophie shifts her foot in front of the mirror, evaluating each side. While I watch, she stands straighter, lengthening her neck. The meek, shy woman I met earlier disappears right before my eyes, and a strong, sexy-as-hell one takes her place.

  I put my hands at her tiny waist, my lips just grazing her ear.

  “Very few things in life can make a woman feel sexy like a brand-new pair of smokin’ hot stilettos.” As I watch Sophie bloom in front of my eyes, I’ve never been more certain of this fact. Women and shoes. Adam and Eve. Yin and yang. It’s all the same.

  “I love them.” She smiles wide. That smile could knock men right out of their boots if it’s pointed in their direction. “What’s next?” She spins around, beaming.

  “A new wardrobe, babe.” Bo waggles his eyebrows as th
e attendant lays out the other shoes for Sophie to try on.

  She ends up purchasing all but one pair. Her driver places the bags in the trunk as I hold the limo door open for Sophie and Bo.

  “Where to, Mr. Ellis?” the driver, François, queries.

  “Christian Dior, my good man.”

  I slide into the car next to Sophie, who’s wearing the new red heels. Her legs are crossed, but the shoes make them look a mile long. Damn distracting, all that smooth skin on display. I press my lips together and watch the scenery go by as Bo chats up our new client.

  Client.

  Client.

  She’s my client, not the next woman to warm my bed. Though I would be lying if I didn’t admit to thinking about all the ways those legs could be manipulated in the sack.

  Around my waist.

  Spread wide open.

  Up in the air.

  A zillion different ways I’d like to bang Sophie Rolland enter my mind. I need to get laid. Preferably by a Frenchwoman with a penchant for dirty talk.

  The car stops, and I bolt out as though the damn thing is on fire.

  Bo follows, then holds his hand out to Sophie, helping her out of the car.

  Our client.

  I’m going to keep reminding myself of this fact until it’s beaten into my head. With previous clients, I didn’t have the desire to sink balls deep until they scream out my name with their scintillating French accent. Something about sweet Sophie, though, is working my libido, and I desperately need to get a handle on it.

  Bo leads our girl into the store. You wouldn’t know it from the simple jeans, fitted T-shirt, and ever-present leather jacket, but clothing is Bo’s domain. He likes to joke that it’s from taking endless clothing off women that made him so good at knowing what to put on them. Whatever it is, he’s got the skills to take a dandelion and make her a rose by finding the right threads.

  “We’ll start with dresses, skirts, and pants for the workplace.” He leads Sophie to a chair and has her take a seat before chatting with the sales associate.