Raphael's Fling: A Sexy Romantic Comedy (The Darcy Brothers) Read online

  He didn’t offer a comment, but I could almost hear his brain hum as he tried to figure out my purpose at DCA.

  “The news bulletin,” I prompted.

  He lifted his chin in comprehension. “Of course! Stupid me. I read it every day!”

  “And so you should,” I said primly. “Especially the global politics section compiled by this reindeer.”

  He fake tipped his hat off to me.

  “What is it you do for a living, Olly?” I asked.

  “I audit.”

  “Smart career choice.”

  “I guess.” He shrugged slightly. “What did you study?”

  “History.”

  “I see,” he said.

  “Do you?”

  “It’s one of those fun subjects that won’t fetch you a well-paying job.”

  I sighed. “And yet I persist on my path to economic marginalization.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m enrolled in a doctoral program.”

  “What’s your topic?”

  “Prostitutes in medieval Paris.”

  “Wow,” he said. “Can you give me some fun facts?”

  “Prostitution isn’t exactly a fun topic…”

  “Oh, come on!” He gave me a small nudge. “Don’t go all priggish on me. I’m sure you’ve dug up things that are at least a little bit entertaining.”

  “OK, let me think.”

  I racked my brain for a piece of information that would qualify as entertaining. OK, here goes. “Harlots were required by law to wear special clothing to distinguish them from honest women.”

  He propped one elbow on the parapet and turned to me completely. “Like miniskirts?”

  “Yeah, right.” I curled my lip. “It could be a cloak, a belt of a specific color, or a certain type of headdress.”

  “What else?”

  “Hmm…” I pinched my chin. “OK, here’s one more. Decisions on which neighborhoods should host the maisons closes were sometimes made at the highest level. In Paris, for instance, it was Louis IX who chose to put them in the Beaubourg neighborhood.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s a street off rue de Rivoli named after bad boys—rue des Mauvais-Garçons.”

  “Actually, the name of that street has nothing to do with harlots.”

  “How disappointing.”

  “But that of rue Petit-Musc does! The original name was rue Pute-y-Musse. A whore hides here.”

  “How fascinating.” His gaze lingered on the uncovered lower half of my face. “One more?”

  “All right,” I said. “Last one.”

  “It better be good, then.”

  “Olly.” I arched an eyebrow. “Don’t you go all cocky on me. It doesn’t work when you’re dressed as a snowman.”

  “Good point, Rudolph.” He tugged at his carrot nose so it pointed downward. “I stand humbled.”

  I tucked my bottom lip in with my teeth to hide my smile. “So, by popular request, here’s one more fun fact: foreign guests of state were taken to luxurious brothels for a special treat as late as the nineteenth century.”

  “Oh, I can so imagine their official program,” he said, hilarity tinting his voice. “Three p.m.: briefing at the Foreign Ministry; Seven p.m.: dinner at the Elysée Palace; Eleven p.m.: French-kissing in Beaubourg.”

  I chuckled, noting how deep and velvety Olaf’s voice was. Actually, it was really handsome, his voice.

  For a snowman, that is.

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” I said, “but the official program didn’t mention any kissing. Those outings were usually marked down as ‘a visit with the president of the Senate.’ ”

  He threw his head back and whooped with laughter.

  For the next five minutes or so, Olly and I watched the festive lights of Paris in companionable silence. When the Eiffel Tower launched into its hourly dancing-lights show, I found myself growing disturbingly aware of Olly’s physical presence. He still looked just as comical in his incongruous costume as I did in mine. But his sexy baritone and beautiful hands had made me notice other things about him, such as his tall frame and broad chest.

  It was very disconcerting.

  “Who knew being a climate refugee was fun,” he said, breaking the silence.

  “In my case, it’s climate and crossfire.”

  “How so?”

  “Champagne.”

  He furrowed his brow.

  “Whenever someone pops a bottle,” I said, “I expect the cork to hit me in the eye.”

  “Even when the bottle is directed at the opposite wall?”

  I nodded. “I expect the cork to ricochet off that wall and hit me in the eye.”

  “Has that happened before?”

  “No,” I admitted. “Which increases the statistical probability it would.” Guilt kicked in before I’d finished that sentence, making me regret the inappropriate analogy.

  How dare I compare myself to real refugees fleeing armed conflict?

  Then I heard Olly’s soft chuckle, and something weird happened. The shame and guilt withdrew into some faraway recess of my brain, leaving me wonderfully giddy. Soon enough, those feelings would come back with a vengeance in all their sticky glory. The Poison Duo never left me alone too long, not since the calamity. But right there on that enchanted terrace, the Duo was offering me a Christmas gift—a rare moment of genuine, unmarred fun.

  And I was taking it, no questions asked.

  “Is it just me, or is it getting warmer out here, too?” Olly asked.

  It wasn’t just him. I was definitely feeling it.

  Was it because of the costume? If that was the case, I should ditch my useless wool blend coat and wear Rudolph all winter. Or maybe we were experiencing a bout of real global warming that had nothing to do with fairies, heaters, or faux fur.

  “You’re right,” I said. “The air is abnormally warm for late December. If you were a real snowman, you’d be a puddle at my feet by now.”

  “If you were a real reindeer,” he retorted, “you would’ve said ‘at my hoofs.’ ”

  Oops.

  He cocked his head. “Actually, if you were a real reindeer, you wouldn’t have said anything at all. You would’ve lapped me up and noshed on my carrot.”

  Was there a sexual innuendo in his words, or was it just my dirty mind?

  I couldn’t see Olly’s expression, but I could feel his eyes boring into me.

  That’s when I realized how much I itched to see his face.

  “Aren’t you too hot with your headpiece on?” I asked.

  He snorted. “You’d like me to go headless, Rudy?”

  “I’m just concerned about your comfort.” I put my hands on my hips. “And it’s Rudolph to you.”

  Am I flirting? How unlike me.

  “Nah, you’re Rudy,” he said, making “Rudy” sound like a super-sexy endearment… unless it was my dirty mind again.

  And then he removed the headpiece.

  In the dark, I couldn’t make out his precise features or the color of his eyes, but I could discern his wavy hair, high cheekbones, firm jawline, and the shape of his nose. All of that suggested Olly’s face was as handsome as his voice.

  Besides, he looked vaguely familiar, even if I couldn’t place him. On the other hand, we were colleagues. I might have ridden the elevator with him several times over the past few months.

  “Your turn,” he said, taking a step toward me.

  He flashed his teeth in a sweetly innocent smile, but his voice and posture communicated something a lot less innocent. I half expected him to grow fangs and sink them into my neck.

  God help me, I craved that bite.

  “And what big mouth you have, Grandma!” I said, widening my eyes for effect.

  He blinked and then laughed.

  I loved his chuckle.

  Kudos, Mia, on saving yourself from a wolf!

  Then why the frustration?

  I tugged on my
hood, baring the upper half of my face to him.

  He stopped laughing and drew closer.

  “Your eyes are green,” he said, leaning toward me.

  His mouth was so close.

  It was big, but in a clean, masculine, super attractive kind of way. And did I mention he smelled as if sex appeal were his middle name?

  “Does the color of my eyes matter?” I asked.

  Why had my voice gone so raspy all of a sudden?

  Oh, Mia. You know very well why.

  “No,” he said, inching closer still.

  We were almost touching now.

  “Can you keep a secret?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “I’m a lesbian snowman.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “There are so many hunky Santas in there,”—he pointed to the meeting room—“and yet it’s the female reindeer I want to kiss.”

  I swallowed.

  “In fact,” he said, angling his head, “I’ve been dying to kiss her for several hours now, ever since she danced with me.”

  And then he pressed his lips to mine.

  I gasped as his heady scent invaded my nostrils. He slid his tongue between my lips. It tasted like heaven. Behind the faint smack of the beer he’d been drinking and the hint of minty toothpaste, there was the essence of Olly.

  And it was scrumptious.

  His tongue explored my mouth with confident, sweeping strokes, and I couldn’t help kissing him back. With enthusiasm. He pulled me closer while he removed my scrunchy and tangled his hand in my hair.

  Oh oui.

  Suddenly, he let go of me and drew back.

  I stood there, panting, drunk on his taste and completely disoriented.

  “You’re Mia, right?” he asked, putting his headpiece back on and adjusting his nose.

  “How do you—”

  “Someone’s calling for you. They’ve been hollering your name a good five minutes now.”

  With an effort, I focused on my surroundings. Someone—more specifically, Delphine—was, indeed, calling my name.

  “I should go to her,” I said.

  He nodded and pulled the door open.

  As I tumbled into the room, I collided with Delphine, who was about to venture onto the terrace and look for me.

  “There you are!” She grinned with relief. “Ready to go home?”

  “What about Alberto?”

  She shrugged with an exaggerated nonchalance. “Turns out he’s married.”

  “Aww. I’m so sorry.” I gave her arm a sympathetic squeeze.

  “It’s OK.” Delphine pulled out her phone and began to scroll. “How long have you been out there freezing your reindeer ass off?”

  I glanced at my watch. More than an hour. It had seemed like fifteen minutes to me.

  Delphine narrowed her eyes. “And what exactly were you doing alone with a snowman?”

  I looked around only to discover Olly was gone.

  Luckily, Delphine found what she was looking for on her phone. She tapped, brought it to her ear, and then gave the cab service operator our details.

  By the time she hung up, I’d come up with a reply. “What do you think a reindeer and a snowman do when they find themselves alone?”

  “No idea.”

  I smiled triumphantly. “Bitch about their boss, Santa, of course.”

  Delphine rolled her eyes but didn’t press further.

  Five minutes later, we climbed into our cab. As we rode home, both of us lost in our thoughts, I realized Olly hadn’t given me his real name. Maybe our chemistry had been one-sided and he hadn’t enjoyed our kiss like I had.

  Getting involved with a coworker isn’t a good idea, I remember telling myself as a consolation.

  How I wish I’d recognized him back then!

  If I had, I wouldn’t have ended up with acute lustium irresistiblum for Raphael d’Arcy four months later. My Alsatian common sense would’ve warned me that getting involved with my company’s womanizing CEO wasn’t just a bad idea.

  It was the mother of all bad ideas.

  Chapter 4

  “How did we, as a nation, come to this?”

  Màma’s green gaze sweeps the room, touching every single person in the congregation with a mixture of fondness and authority only this woman is capable of.

  She drinks from the tall glass on her pulpit and lets her question sink in and foment in our minds. Whenever my mother pauses her sermons to do this, I have the impression everyone can feel her firm hand on their shoulder.

  I, for one, always do.

  When I manage to get to Estheim early enough, or stay long enough, I do my best to attend Màma’s Sunday sermon. “You know you don’t have to,” she always says to Pàpa, Eva, and me. But we insist. Pàpa, because he’s a devout Christian who supports his pastor wife in everything she does. Eva, because she actually enjoys Màma’s sermons. And me… To be honest, I’m not sure why I come along.

  I’m not really a Protestant, like the rest of the family.

  I’m not a Catholic, either, or any other denomination, for that matter.

  I’m a Darwinist.

  Considering how close humans are to monkeys—especially on the métro during rush hour—how can anyone believe in anything other than survival of the fittest?

  “What twisted path,” Màma continues, “led us to believe we must use images of naked women to sell chocolate ice cream? And why has it become our new normal to have sexual relationships and even babies out of sacred matrimony?”

  Today’s sermon is called On Purity. It’s a recurrent theme with my mother.

  Eva and I have debated hundreds of times if Màma thinks her grown daughters—I’m twenty-six and Eva twenty-eight—are still virgins. Our conclusion is that she does. Because that’s what she expects of us. And because we have yet to muster the courage to tell her the truth.

  “For this is the will of God, that ye should abstain from fornication,” Màma reads from her Bible.

  Pàpa nods.

  Eva and I focus on our feet.

  Màma ends the sermon with Jesus’s forgiving a fallen woman, followed by a passionate appeal to all lost souls to repent and keep their bodies clean of immoral sex.

  It’s all very sweet of her to promise Jesus will forgive me, but the question is will she forgive me? Will Pàpa forgive me? Not just for fornicating with Raphael, but for the bigger, dirtier sin I committed five years ago?

  Judging by what I know of their past actions, I’d wager they won’t. Because actions, as my parents like to say, speak louder than words.

  “If you could miraculously have your virginity back, hymen and all,” I whisper in Eva’s ear as we leave the church, “would you do it?”

  “No way.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “I thought you were a believer.”

  “I am. But not in physical abstinence.”

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d assume you were getting laid.”

  Eva lets out a sigh. “I wish.”

  Wrapping an arm around her shoulders, I give her a tiny squeeze. I know about her hopeless crush on Adam.

  “And you?” she asks. “A new boyfriend, maybe?”

  I look away.

  Eva puts her hand over mine and gives me a gentle pat. She knows about my doomed affair with Raphael.

  Last time she came over to Paris to spend a weekend with me, I swore to her I’d pull myself out of it. I promised myself the same thing at least three times already since January.

  It’s April.

  I stopped promising.

  Eva nudges me with my elbow. “Did you at least try to break up?”

  I shake my head.

  “Has he changed?” she asks hopefully. “Is there a chance he has feelings for you? Would it help if you quit your job?”

  “I don’t want to talk about Raphael,” I say, still avoiding Eva’s eyes.

  He hasn’t changed.

  And I very much doubt sacrificing my job would help.

>   Eva shrugs and catches up with our parents.

  “I loved your sermon,” she says to Màma.

  She always tells her that, and most of the time, she means it. But this time, her fingers are crossed behind her back. I guess the disconnect between this sermon’s high standards and the reality of our lives was too big even for Eva’s indulgent heart.

  At home, Pàpa sets out to cook lunch while Màma takes care of administrative stuff. Pàpa is a retired policeman with a passion for cooking, which is fortunate, seeing as Màma couldn’t fry an egg to save her life.

  Neither can I, by the way. My single culinary competence is pasta, which is not so bad since I happen to love it, as I do all Italian food. To vary my dinners, I stock up on Bolognese, pesto and whatever pasta sauce I find at my local supermarket, and then I rotate them.

  Works fine for me.

  When Eva visits me in Paris, she arrives with a huge tub of homemade pesto sauce, which she then portions out into small containers and sticks them in my freezer. My sister has inherited Pàpa’s talent. Man, she can cook. The dinners she used to whip up for us as teenagers were better than the three or four Michelin-starred restaurant meals my parents offered us on special occasions.

  Eva studied at Le Cordon Bleu, one of the best culinary schools in the country, and worked as an undercook with some hotshot chef whose name I forget.

  Two years later she quit, trained as a secretary, and after a year of temping, landed a “well-paying and stable” admin assistant job at the European Space Agency.

  Màma was very proud of her.

  Pàpa was very upset.

  I was both, but mostly perplexed. Eva didn’t comment on her radical change of career except for a casual remark that cooking wasn’t her thing, after all. Màma took it at face value. With no love lost between her and the stove, she could easily relate to that justification. My theory is that Eva was pushed a little too hard by her celebrity boss or bullied by her fellow undercooks. A less sensitive person would’ve grown a thicker skin and carried on. But Eva, as usual, took the path of least resistance and convinced herself the career of a chef wasn’t for her.

  All of this goes through my mind as Eva and I stretch out in our favorite hammocks under Pàpa’s gorgeous apple trees. My life may be screwed up beyond redemption, but Eva has options.

  It’s a crime to turn her back on them.