Free Honeymoon in Paris by Juliette Sobanet Page B

t’aime
.” The breathy whisper came low and soft in my ear. An arm draped over my chest, pulling me in tightly. I tried to open my eyes, but the beating of drums against my temples forced my eyelids back to their natural state of closed.
    “
Nicolas… Nicolas… Nicolas
.” It was that airy female voice again, whispering in her perfect French accent. Why was she calling me Nicolas? And why was she squeezing me so close I could hardly breathe?
    I gritted my teeth as a wave of nausea swept through my core, and this time I forced my eyes open. Lexi lay sprawled across me, her eyelashes fluttering as she continued to whisper that name—
Nicolas, Nicolas
—over and over. I rolled out from under her tight grasp and peered down at my feet to find a set of silky black sheets bunched at my feet.
    Black sheets?
    I didn’t have black sheets. And neither did Luc.
    I peered around the sleek bedroom, my mouth unhinging when the most perfect view of
la Tour Eiffel
caught my eye through a stunning floor-to-ceiling window.
    “
Nicolas, Nicolas, Nicolas,
” Lexi hummed.
    Oh, God, it was all coming back to me.
    Nicolas
Boucher
. The Boucher brothers.
    Those gorgeous, sexy Boucher brothers.
    The paparazzi… the limo.
    And the
champagne.
    But what had happened after that first glass of bubbly bliss in the limo? I distinctly remembered saying to the girls right after we’d climbed in that we were only having one glass, and then we had to return back to my hotel room so my husband of five days wouldn’t want to divorce me when all of this was through—
and
so we could get a little bit of shut-eye before my train back to Lyon in the morning.
    My train!
    “Lexi!” I hissed, shooting up from the bed, the threat of my gag reflex immediately making me wish I hadn’t moved so quickly.
    “
Oui, Nicolas, oui, je t’aime
.” With her eyes still closed, Lexi reached for me once more.
    This time I grabbed her hand and squeezed it as hard as I could. “Lexi, get up!” I screeched. “I’m not Nicolas. We have to go,
now.
”
    But Lexi didn’t show any signs of life, except for her incessant murmuring of
I love you’s
in French to the famous actor and my new friend, Nicolas Boucher, whose apartment I could only assume we were currently sleeping in.
    At least the two of us still had all of our clothes on. But where was Fiona?
    I gave up on Lexi and tossed the black sheets off the bed, kicking her butt in the process.
    “Mmmm,” she mumbled, curling into a tight ball and refusing to budge.
    Feeling a mixture of cocktails and stale champagne tentatively sloshing around in my stomach, I scrambled to my feet and dashed out of the sleek bedroom. But just as I skidded around the corner in my bare feet, a catchy cell phone tone emanated from a room across the hall. A muffled male voice took the call, and when I crept up to the closed door, I recognized the voice as Marcel’s.
    Short, harsh responses shot from his lips.
    “
Oui, je comprends… Non… Oui… Je sais… D’accord, je m’en occupe.
”
    Okay, I’ll take care of it?
    What was this guy up to?
    As soon as I realized Marcel’s heated phone conversation had ended, I scurried away from the door. The slippery hardwood floors made that task a bit tougher than I’d anticipated, and my not-quite-sober butt plunged straight to the floor.
    Merde.
    A shirtless Marcel appeared in the doorway right at that moment, the disapproving look on his dark, handsome features tearing up any last shred of dignity I may have had left in me.
    I needed to find Fiona, wake these girls up, and get the hell out of here.
    Marcel lent me a hand without saying a word, the look in his brown eyes tinted with anger. “I need to speak with you, Charlotte. Please follow me.”
    Oh, God. Did he know that I’d been eavesdropping?
    Marcel led me through a large living room decorated with two square black couches, a smooth black-and-white rug, and four rather scary modern art paintings splashed in red and black