Amanda's Guide to Love (15 page)

Oh, and getting a
friend out of a tight spot in the process.

Claude didn’t throw up, God bless
his soul. To Amanda’s immense relief, he didn’t break down and call it quits,
either. He soldiered on until midnight and even refused to ride home in a cab,
saying a walk in the fresh air would do him good.

Apparently it did, but not enough
to avert his depression.

“Two weeks if we’re lucky,” Jeanne
announced to the staff the next morning. “Four or more if the meds take time to
kick in.”

Fortunately, the best of her three
relief chefs was available for as long they needed him. They avoided the
catastrophe, and business continued as usual.

The “usual” meaning an
ever-increasing influx of tourists as summer progressed to its peak. Amanda
didn’t mind the tourists. She even appreciated the moneyed ones who routinely
left tips that Parisians would consider extravagant. But then there were also
other tourists: the ones who ordered the cheapest dishes and didn’t tip.

This afternoon, they infested the
sidewalk terrace. A group of four middle-aged women peeved Amanda more than the
others. They all had short salt-and-pepper hair (such negligence!), bulky
hiking shoes (in Paris!), and horrendous khaki-colored pants with zippers at midthigh
(an unpardonable crime against style and good taste).

One of the women—likely the chief
of the “Wildling” gang by virtue of the massive fanny pack she wore across her
belly—waved in her direction. “
Garçon
!
Garçon
!”

Amanda flinched and approached her
with a deliberate slowness.

“
Bonjour
,” she said in
French to Fanny Pack before switching to English. “First of all,
garçon
means boy, and as you can see, I’m a girl. Second,
garçon
is demeaning
to the waiter, and the French stopped using it about a hundred years ago.”

The woman’s smile slipped, and she
mumbled in heavily accented English, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to offend
you.”

Amanda’s irritation gave way to a
pang of regret.

That was
so
unprofessional.

She was supposed to be friendly to
guests—even the ones who wore ridiculous accessories and used obsolete
expressions. Damn her insensitive bluntness! Why couldn’t she keep her mouth
strategically shut, as a real lady would do in a similar situation?

As Rob’s mousy wife, Lena, no doubt
would.

Amanda schooled her features into
the kindest smile she could manage. “I’m not offended. I was just . . .
sharing information for your future reference.”

The woman’s face brightened. “Oh,
thank you.”

“My pleasure.” Amanda surveyed the
group. “Are we ready to order?”

While the women fumbled with their
menus, Amanda scanned the terrace to see if any other waiter had overheard the
exchange. She didn’t spot any waiters, but she caught sight of someone
else—someone very familiar.

Kes lounged comfortably just a
couple of tables to her left and eyed her with vivid interest. He must have
heard everything.

Merde.

Then again, it was just Kes—her
pastime companion. He never judged her. He was here today and gone tomorrow.

She acknowledged him with a
fleeting smile and returned her attention to the Wildlings, who appeared ready
to order.

Over the next hour, Amanda shuttled
between the kitchen and the terrace, stealing glances at Kes, who looked fully
absorbed in his book and a glass of red wine. She wanted to be angry with him
for ignoring her clear request not to turn up at her workplace, but she
couldn’t. He was such eye candy. How could you be mad at someone whose lashes
held more beauty than all the marble Venuses and Apollos combined, and whose
eyebrows were in a league of their own.

Apparently, she wasn’t the only one
who felt that way.

A pretty redhead spent at least
half an hour sipping her espresso at the table next to him. She didn’t read or
check her phone in the long intervals between her tiny sips. She just ogled
Kes. Much like the bimbo in the Deauville casino, this elegant woman used every
trick in the book to signal her interest. She wetted her lips, touched her
neck, stroked her ankles, and played with her earlobes.

And much like with the bimbo, Kes
didn’t seem to realize she was there. Finally, the redhead placed a few coins
on the table and walked over to Kes. She bent down and murmured something,
pointing at the cigarette in her hand. He shook his head apologetically. She
scribbled something on his napkin and placed it in front of him.

“Call me,” she said in a throaty
voice before sashaying away
.

Why did this bother Amanda so much?
Why did she freeze in the doorway, waiting to see what Kes would do with the
darn napkin?

Someone prodded her back. “Hey,
you’re blocking.”

She stepped aside, letting Jeanne
pass. Then she spun around and marched toward Kes. “What are you doing here?”

“Reading. Having a drink.” He
followed her gaze to the napkin. “Getting propositioned by good-looking women.”

“Are you going to call her?” she
heard herself ask.

“Nah.” His lips quirked. “Why? Are
you
interested in her?”

“No! I was just . . .
curious.”

He nodded. “What are your plans for
tonight?”

Amanda opened her mouth to say she
had none when Jeanne’s excited cooing made her turn to see what was going on.

A man and a woman stood by the
entrance of the bistro, and Jeanne was hugging them as if they were her long-lost
siblings. The man held a blind person’s cane. His face was vaguely familiar.

“Isn’t that Cyril?” Kes asked.
“That rock singer who disappeared for a while after his car accident and then
came back with a fantastic album?”

“Yes, of course! That’s him. And
the woman must be his wife.”

“Wow. You should’ve told me this
place attracted celebrities.” Kes knitted his brows in mock reproach. “I
would’ve brought my paparazzi camera.”

Jeanne ushered the couple inside.

“Cyril was a regular here a few
years back—before I went off to Thailand. He was trying to drown his misery in
large amounts of beer.”

Jeanne strode out the door and
headed straight to Amanda. “Can you ask everyone to move inside? We’ll close
early tonight and enjoy a semiprivate concert.”

Amanda grinned. “Cool.”

“Mat is on his way.” Jeanne could
hardly contain her excitement. “He luuurves Cyril’s music.”

“So do I,” Kes said. “May I stay?”

Jeanne looked him over, looked at
Amanda, and then looked back at Kes. “Are you Amanda’s rollerblading pal?”

“
Oui,
madame
, I am he.
I also swim, jog, and go to the movies with her.”

Jeanne smiled.

He stood up. “My name is Kes.”

“Jeanne.” She stood on tiptoe to do
the cheek-kiss greeting.

“I’m very pleased to meet you,
Jeanne,” he said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“And I haven’t heard nearly enough
about you.” Jeanne grinned. “But we’ll make up for it tonight.”

An hour later, the entrance door
was locked, lights dimmed, tables cleared, autographs scribbled on various
materials including dress shirts, and an improvised stage set up by the bar.

Cyril finished his beer and
informed the lucky guests this would be the first public performance of his newest
album.

“My mom and dad love it, and so
does my wife, Emma, our baby, and our close friends,” he said with a shy smile.
“But then again, they love everything I do, so I never know if I’ve created a
really good song or a total fluke until I play it for an unbiased audience.”

“I love everything you do, Cyril!”
a woman cried from the back of the room.

Cyril turned in the direction of
the voice. “Thank you—and compliments on your good taste. But I beg you—all of
you—to forget my previous work and listen to these songs as if they were by
some new guy you’d never heard of, OK?”

“OK!” at least a dozen guests
shouted at once.

“Great.” Cyril adjusted his guitar
and strummed a few chords. “The first song is a bit of an experiment, both
vocally and musically. It’s called ‘So Free.’ ”

The room went quiet, and Cyril’s
handsome baritone filled the bistro. Amanda could almost see the warm, glowing
light coming from the beautiful fusion of man and guitar. She glanced at Kes
and tumbled headlong into the deep blackness of his eyes.

She’d never seen him like this
before—no smile curling his lips, no boyish mischief, none of the passion that
had awed her in the beach cabin. All those layers were stripped, baring a
deeper part of his soul. She found herself wishing she could touch it and enjoy
a share of the treasures it held . . .

Kes didn’t notice her
inspection. He was listening, fully absorbed in Cyril’s song.

A gaping window.

A gauze curtain

slips outside, flaps

and hurtles

toward the star-filled

heart

of
the night.

Riding the evening breeze,

Into the outer space,

Planting a white-hot kiss

Onto
the moon’s sweet face.

And if I didn’t

know better,

I’d bet it soared

untethered—

So free it seems.

So free.

It
seems.

Throughout the song, Amanda
remained trapped in Kes’s eyes and mesmerized by what she saw in them. By the
end of the first verse, his soul had left the bistro. She knew where it had
gone—it was riding that adventurous curtain toward the moon. Then she watched
it crash to the ground at Cyril’s last words.

Everyone clapped and cheered.

Kes blinked a few times, looking
disoriented, and joined in the cheering.

Cyril bowed his head, visibly
relieved at the enthusiastic response. “I just need some water, and I’ll be
right back with the next song.”

His wife went to him with a glass
and softly whispered something into his ear while he drank.

“Beautiful, huh?” Jeanne said.

Amanda hadn’t seen her approach and
sit behind them. She hadn’t seen or heard much of anything over the last three
or four minutes.

Kes turned around and nodded.

“So tell me—er . . .
Kes, right?” Jeanne gave him a friendly smile. “How do you know Amanda?”

“We met six weeks ago in
Deauville.”

“Do you live in Paris?”

“No, he doesn’t,” Amanda replied
for him. “He’s here only for a short stay.”

“That’s a shame.” Jeanne shrugged.
“When are you leaving?”

Kes licked the tip of his thumb and
held it up. “As soon as the wind changes and the crickets start singing the
packing song.”

Jeanne gave him an amused look.

Amanda stared into his eyes. All
his protective layers were back, and he looked his usual self—gorgeous and without
a care in the world.

She exhaled with relief.

Good.

She’d take this Kes
any day over the one who had nearly stolen her heart a few minutes ago.

* * *

There was a variety of ways to fool
the pit manager, and Kes was an ace at all of them. He joked and chatted to
camouflage his concentration. He tipped the dealers lavishly and made rookie
mistakes on purpose. Every now and then, he played the slots. He made sure to
use only his peripheral vision to survey the cards on the table, and he
always—always—walked away from winning too much in one go.

On top of that, Kes was a paragon
of discretion. No one, not even the people he sympathized with, could tempt him
to brag about his skill or how much he was winning. Professionals like him knew
casinos used innocent-looking props to pick out and expose card counters.

Those strategies worked, but only
for a time. Once the casino started seriously suspecting him, they sent him a
“gentle” message. It could be just switching dealers in the middle of a deck or
calling for a forced shuffle midshoe. If he continued to play—and to win—they’d
offer him a voucher for a free meal at the restaurant and a night at the hotel
just to get him away from the table.

At that point, he’d usually show
the house that he got the point, enjoy his free meal, and leave town the next
day. He rarely let things escalate to an invitation from the security chief for
a private session. These sessions took place in a windowless basement room,
lasted for several taxing hours, and ended in him being banned from the casino.