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

  “Remind me again how a promising chef ends up as admin assistant?” I ask.

  She fake-yawns. “Please, not again!”

  “Humor me. I just want to understand.”

  “Your fixation with what I do for a living is unhealthy. Do you realize that?”

  “You’re skirting my question,” I say.

  “What’s wrong with being an admin assistant?”

  “Nothing.” I hesitate and then shake my head. “Everything.”

  “Speak for yourself.”

  “My current job is just a temporary means to an end, while you seem bent on ignoring your true vocation.”

  She shrugs. “I’m perfectly happy where I am.”

  “That’s because you’re crazy about Adam.”

  She glares at me.

  I glare back. “You’ve been pining for him for how long? A year?”

  Eva says nothing.

  “He’s never asked you out.”

  Silence.

  “Has he ever done anything to suggest he likes you?”

  She shakes her head.

  “He’s had a girlfriend during this time, right?”

  She nods.

  “You haven’t.”

  “I’m not into women.”

  “Very funny.” I give her a sympathetic look. “Let me rephrase my question: Have you had a boyfriend or even a one-night stand ever since you laid eyes on Adam?”

  She sighs and shakes her head.

  “On top of it all, he’s your boss,” I say. “Don’t repeat my mistakes, Evie.”

  She pushes her glasses up to the bridge of her nose. “Adam is my hierarchical superior, but he’s not my direct boss.”

  “To-may-to, to-mah-to.”

  “And he isn’t a womanizer like yours.”

  I feel a sharp pang somewhere in the upper left quadrant of my chest. Must be the truth hurting.

  “Let’s change the topic,” Eva says, giving me an apologetic look.

  “Good idea.”

  I stare at the delicate blooms over my head, then shut my eyes, and spend the next half hour pretending to nap before Pàpa summons us inside.

  Chapter 5

  “Since we rarely get to see both of you at the same time,” Pàpa says, handing Eva and me plates with huge slices of onion pie, “I thought I’d make something traditional.”

  “Yay!” Eva digs into her slice. “Love flammkuche.”

  “I know.” Pàpa watches her chew her first bite. “Verdict?”

  Eva swallows and raises her wine glass. “Three yummy stars.”

  Pàpa grins, mighty pleased.

  “The Riesling could’ve been better, though,” my sister declares with her nose in her glass.

  “Really?” Pàpa takes a sip from his own glass and nods. “Next time you’ll pick it, OK?”

  Eva bows theatrically. “It’ll be an honor, sir.”

  Those two have always had a special bond, cemented by their positivity and love of good food. Màma and I have a less cheerful disposition. Which doesn’t automatically mean we enjoy the same bond Eva and Pàpa do.

  Come to think of it, I don’t really enjoy a “bond” with anyone.

  Once, when we were in our teens, Eva made a remark that stayed with me.

  “Why are you so aloof all the time?” she asked.

  I disagreed with that characterization, of course, but I did wonder—why, indeed? And it was only a couple of years ago that I figured out, after many an hour of soul-searching, what keeps me from confiding in Màma and Pàpa the way Eva does.

  It isn’t a lack of affection.

  God knows, I love them. Together with Eva, they’re my favorite people in the world, and my most ardent wish is that they be as healthy and happy as humanly possible.

  What holds me back is fear. I’m scared that if I let them closer, they’ll see me for who I really am and they won’t like it.

  I tune out of Eva and Pàpa’s lively chat while an old memory returns as vivid as ever.

  I’m thirteen.

  I wake up in the middle of the night to my parents’ unusually loud voices coming from the kitchen. They’re engaged in an animated conversation with a third person, a woman I can’t identify. My curiosity piqued, I tiptoe down the hallway, sit down at the top of the staircase, and listen.

  “So, if you could lend me the five grand,” the strange woman says, “I’ll be able to repay my debt in full.”

  “And you’re sure your pimp will let you go?” Pàpa asks.

  I clap my hand to my mouth in shock. I’ve seen enough forbidden movies to know exactly what a pimp is.

  “Oh, he will,” the woman says. “I’m not some helpless Eastern girl who doesn’t know her rights and is scared shitless. I’m a French national, and I’ve covered my back.”

  “Smart girl,” Màma says.

  “His only leverage is the money I owe him,” the woman says.

  There is a moment of silence, and then the woman speaks again. “I asked my family, and I asked my banker, but those were dead ends. Believe me, I wouldn’t have come to you if I had other options.”

  “You’ve come to the right place,” Màma says.

  “I heard your sermon last Sunday when you talked about fresh starts.” The woman pauses before adding, “It inspired me.”

  “Give us a couple of days to reflect and look into our finances, OK?” Pàpa says.

  I have no doubt what the outcome of their thinking will be. They’ll help her. On top of being professional helpers—a pastor and a policeman—my parents send monthly checks to the Red Cross, Doctors Without Borders, and Amnesty International. They also sponsor four little girls on different continents by paying their school fees. When they receive handwritten letters from those girls, they take the time to read them and to write long, thoughtful replies.

  In short, helping people is what my parents do, both for a living and for fun.

  “Thank you from the bottom of my heart,” the woman says, emotion palpable in her voice.

  I hear chairs move and scramble away from the staircase.

  “We’ll call you before the weekend,” Màma says, opening the door. “And remember, you’re not alone, Suzelle.”

  Suzelle.

  For the next two days all I can think of is Suzelle the Repentant Sinner. How I wish I’d caught a glimpse of her! I’m filled with a mix of fascination and awe for the fallen woman determined to walk away from her unholy life. In the hopes to see her if she returns—when she returns—I keep myself awake reading with a flashlight under my blanket.

  And then, on Friday night, I hear my parents discuss the subject in the kitchen—only without Suzelle this time.

  “I’ll report it to the Commissaire,” Pàpa says, his voice devoid of its usual warmth. “It’s my duty.”

  “We promised we’d call her,” Màma says.

  “We’re not bound by that promise, Petra. We owe her nothing.”

  There’s a long pause, then Màma says, “You’re right.”

  They turn off the light in the kitchen after that, so I pad to my bed and crawl under the covers, taking care not to wake Eva up.

  Needless to say, I didn’t sleep that night.

  Rather than quietly helping Suzelle, my parents were going to set the police on her pimp. They’d opted to do what was right rather than what was kind. Even if it put Suzelle at risk.

  Maybe their charity had its limits, after all.

  And it didn’t extend to fallen women.

  Chapter 6

  Everyone barring Eva does stupid things in college.

  Some of us are stupider than others—real doddele, as we say in Alsace. A select few make sure the stupid thing they do in college is of the time bomb variety set to go off years later.

  I’m among the latter group.

  On the desk in front of me is a letter that arrived by snail mail this morning in a simple envelope stamped Sydney, Australia. How different it is from the naughty missives Raphael sometimes sends me from
his business trips. The letter I’m staring at doesn’t open with a hello or end with a good-bye. No name, date, or signature anywhere. Not much text, either. Just three short words written in large block letters.

  I HAVE PROOF.

  My hands shake as I crumple up the note into a tight ball and shove it in my pocket. This is the second compactly ominous message I’ve received from Australia in six months. The first one had even fewer words. It said, I KNOW.

  “You OK?” Delphine asks, peeking from behind her computer. “You’re super pale this morning.”

  “I noticed it, too.” My second office mate, Barbara, chimes in without shifting her eyes from her screen.

  I shrug. “No makeup. Coupled with too little coffee.”

  “And too little sleep?” Delphine gives me a meaningful wink.

  “That, too.”

  “When will you tell us who your mystery lover is?”

  “Never.”

  Delphine narrows her eyes. “I bet he works at DCA.”

  “No, he doesn’t.”

  “Then why the secrecy?” Suddenly, Delphine’s expression softens. “Is he married? Is that why you sometimes sneak out at five and return around seven?”

  “He isn’t married,” I say.

  Delphine doesn’t look convinced. Neither does Barbara. And I can totally see why. An affair with a married man is exactly what my fling—or whatever it is I’m having with Raphael—must look like.

  The infamous cinq à sept.

  It stands to reason that the man I’m seeing is married. That’s what I’d figured, too, when I showed up for our second rendezvous out on the terrace.

  On a crispy morning in early January, I had found a handwritten note on my keyboard.

  9 p.m., eighth-floor terrace (the very same, access through the meeting room). If you don’t turn up, I won’t bother you again and I won’t hold it against you. If you do, you might want to put in your office calendar: “A visit with the President of DCA.”

  Olly

  My first reaction was giddy joy.

  The funny-guy-turned-great-kisser who’d been on my mind throughout the Christmas break had reached out. Woot woot! In just a few hours I was going to see him. And kiss him.

  Indignation came as an afterthought. But once there, it took root and doubled in size with every passing minute.

  The cheek of him!

  By hinting at the ribald “visits with the president of the Senate” I had told him about, Olly was making his intentions crystal clear. Which was sort of rude. And too freaking self-assured.

  It was also inconsiderate and ungallant.

  He was basically inviting me for some hanky-panky out in the cold, right under our colleagues’ noses, and on our second date.

  Or, should I say, our second meeting because neither occasion qualified as a date.

  The bastard!

  Why couldn’t he invite me for a drink first, like normal men would do, even when their ulterior motive is to get laid? I don’t expect a full-blown courtship, but there’s a certain way of doing things. There’s a set order, which prescribes that a couple have drinks and dinner together before scaling up to more intimate encounters. That dinner or three isn’t a pointless formality—it’s an opportunity to get to know each other and to establish trust.

  I sighed in frustration, which was when it hit me: Olly must be married, just like Delphine’s Alberto.

  So I decided I wasn’t going.

  That was about four in the afternoon.

  At seven-thirty, I was still in my office, finishing up perfectly non-urgent work and filing completely unimportant emails.

  By eight-thirty, I stopped pretending I was’t going to the terrace and swapped that lie out for a more plausible but still ego-friendly justification. I was going, but only to give the cocky bastard a piece of my mind.

  The moment I entered the meeting room, I spotted Olly on the other side of the sliding glass doors leaning over the parapet. Unlike the night of the Christmas party, the terrace was well lit now.

  He slid one of the doors open and peeked in. “Lock the door behind you. We’ll want privacy.”

  Seriously?

  I did lock the meeting room door, though.

  Under the bright neon light, Olaf the Snowman, whom I suspected to be good-looking, turned out to be a real hunk. And a dandy. He wore a well-cut dark wool coat and a scarf that was the quintessence of masculine elegance. Wind played with his floppy dark hair. As for his dimpled chin and mischievous smile… let’s just say I’ve never seen a sexier man in my whole life.

  Chris Pine included.

  As I crossed the room to the terrace, excitement and anxiety launched into a boxing match in my head, making me dizzy.

  “Wow, you’re even prettier than I remember,” Olly said when I stood next to him. “Those eyes…”

  He surveyed me appreciatively.

  Anxiety won the match. “How about you give me your real name before I leave in…”—I looked at my watch—“exactly one minute.”

  He cocked his head to the side. “Why would I do that if you’re leaving anyway?”

  “To satisfy my curiosity.”

  “What’s wrong with Olly?”

  I glanced at my watch. “Fifty seconds.”

  “Raphael d’Arcy du Grand-Thouars de Saint-Maurice,” he said. “I thought you knew.”

  Oh, please. “Is that a joke?”

  “No.”

  He whipped out his phone, tapped, and then held it out for me. On the screen was the “Who’s Who” page of DCA’s website. I enlarged the photograph at the top of the list. The one that was captioned Founding CEO and Owner.

  It was Olly, all right.

  I mean, Raphael d’Arcy. Le Big Boss. The worst Casanova in town.

  Fuck.

  I glared at him. “Why didn’t you say anything when we first met? I feel like an idiot now.”

  “In my defense, I was going to, but then you suddenly had to leave.”

  Should I believe him?

  “Besides,” he added, “My note did mention you were going to visit with the president of DCA.”

  “I thought you were just being funny.”

  “That, too.” His smile widened. “But I was also being truthful. Which means your accusation is unfounded, and you don’t have a good reason for leaving.”

  Considering who this man was and what I knew about him, I had at least ten good reasons for leaving.

  But not just yet.

  “I’ll give you ten more minutes,” I said. “Provided you don’t attempt physical contact.”

  He gave me a sad puppy look. “But I’m dying to kiss you.”

  “That’s so not happening.”

  “Why not?”

  “First, because I have no interest in joining your army of conquests. Second, I don’t think it’s appropriate to make out in the workplace.”

  “You’re right,” he agreed unexpectedly. “It isn’t.”

  I searched his face for signs of sarcasm, but his expression was earnest.

  I smirked. “Are you saying you’ve never visited with a subordinate?”

  “I didn’t say that.” His face grew even more serious. “Despite what you must have heard about me, I’ve never… harassed anyone. The very notion is abhorrent to me.”

  I hadn’t heard anything specific about him—apart from his playboy fame—so I was a little puzzled at his reaction.

  “Rudy,” he said. “I want you to know I’m breaking one of my big rules just by talking to you here. But there’s something about you that’s too intriguing to resist.”

  I kept silent.

  “What I said in my note still holds.” Raphael adjusted his watch strap. “If you walk away right now, I’ll never bother you again, and there’ll be no reprisal whatsoever. You can be absolutely sure of it.”

  Why, oh why didn’t I get out as fast as I could?

  I have no rational explanation for that. Zero. Zilch. None whatsoever.

  The
irrational one is that my legs refused to take me away from the man I fancied so much.

  More than I’d ever fancied anyone.

  Chapter 7

  Raphael’s smile returned. “Next time, I’ll take you to a more suitable location.”

  “Define suitable,” I said before adding, “and, please, don’t take it as a yes.”

  He gave me a small shrug. “My place, for instance.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Call me old-fashioned,” I said, “but I believe people should meet socially before they… ahem… visit the Senate. It’s called dating.”

  “Would it count if I took you to dinner and then to my place?”

  I shook my head.

  “Three dinners?”

  “No.”

  “Five dinners and a concert at L’Olympia?”

  “Stop bargaining—it’s useless.”

  “Do you realize what you’re saying no to?” He cocked his head. “I’ve never taken anyone to five dinners plus a concert before taking them to bed.”

  “I’m flattered, but no, thanks.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “I can see what you’re doing here. You’re playing hard to get.”

  “Honestly—no.”

  “Am I so distasteful to you?”

  That sad doggy expression again. He didn’t believe for a second he could be distasteful to anyone.

  I held his gaze.

  “Come on, Rudy,” he said. “I want to hear you say it. Tell me you don’t like me and you didn’t enjoy our kiss.”

  “Olly,” I said. “I like you, and I enjoyed our kiss. Very much. I’d totally date you.”

  He grinned.

  “Raphael,” I said. “There’s no way I’m having casual sex with you, not tonight, not ever.”

  He looked a little taken aback by my determination. “I wasn’t planning on us having sex tonight, anyway.”

  “No? What was your plan then?”

  “Just talking. Getting to know you better.” He gave me a small shrug. “Maybe a bit of cuddling and kissing those yummy lips of yours.”

  He zeroed in on my mouth.

  I stared at his, remembering our first kiss. Without asking permission, my tongue darted out and licked my lips.