The Paris Connection. Cerella Sechrist
he? Likely not. He’d probably decided to go on without her.
She turned. The train? No, he was from New York. He’d be more apt to choose a taxi over a train, wouldn’t he? Exiting the waiting area, she headed back in the direction she’d come. She only hoped he hadn’t left already. What in the world would she say to Julien if the new boss showed up at the office without her?
* * *
COLE WAS NO stranger to cities, and he certainly had no problem dealing with cab drivers. But the bombardment of English and French that assailed him when he approached the taxi stands only served to stretch his already frayed patience and overwhelm him further. He began asking the cost of fares and felt a rise of desperation. The amount of euros to the La Défense business district was appalling. His presentation was in ten minutes; the cab ride would take around thirty. He didn’t have time to argue with cabbies about their inflated rates.
Though not normally given to nervousness, he felt his palms growing slick with unease. How was he going to navigate through this and still manage to offer up a confident presentation to the board and staff? For just a short moment, he felt as though he were a child once more, being shuffled from one foster home to the next, with all the ensuing emotions of uncertainty and doubt filling him up.
Resolutely, he shrugged off this reaction. He hadn’t been that helpless boy for a very long time. And he was not about to let a little cultural uncertainty trip him up.
He was just getting ready to hand his bags over to one of the more pesky drivers when he thought he heard his name. Pausing, he turned, wondering if his anxiety had driven him mad.
“Cole Dorset!”
He finally saw her, dodging the taxi drivers jockeying for her attention and pushing through a cluster of tourists as she headed in his direction. His first thought was beautiful as he took in her long, wavy, dark hair and perfectly clear skin with cheekbones just lightly tinted pink from exertion. As she drew closer, he could appreciate her trim figure clothed in a pewter-colored business suit that flattered the dove-gray of her eyes immensely. When she finally reached him, she let out a breath and offered a brilliant smile.
“Emma Brooks.” She held out a hand. “Managing director of Aquitaine Enterprises and your liaison in assisting with your transition to Paris. Welcome to France.”
All thoughts of her beauty fled in the wake of this introduction. This was the woman who had kept him waiting for the past forty-five minutes. She was the reason he would have to explain his tardiness to the board of directors, starting him off at a disadvantage in a company where he knew no one, had no allies.
He glanced at the hand she extended and pointedly refrained from taking it.
“You’re late.”
* * *
EMMA HURRIED AFTER the new CEO as he began walking away from the taxi stands.
“The traffic was atrocious, even by Paris standards,” she said, defending herself against his abrupt observation.
He ignored this statement as he looked left then right. “Which way to the car?”
She pointed and then struggled to keep pace beside him when he began walking in the direction she’d indicated. “I’m not used to driving in the city. The métro is much more efficient.”
He barely glanced over his shoulder when he spoke. “Is that how your company has been run up to this point? Standing people up and offering flimsy excuses? No wonder your boss agreed to this merger.”
These words were like a slap in the face. She halted briefly and then propelled herself forward and ahead of him so that he was forced to follow her in the direction of the car park.
“It was unavoidable,” she said, loud enough for him to hear without her turning around. “You don’t understand what driving in Paris can be like.”
She stopped short of pointing out that, had she driven any more recklessly to get here, she might not have lived to pick him up at all. His attitude was intolerable.
“It can’t be any worse than New York City,” he countered, “and I’ve always managed that just fine.”
She halted at these words; because of his clipped pace, he was unable to stop in time and stumbled into her. She found her feet and took a step away from him. “This is not New York,” she announced. “The sooner you realize that, the better.”
“Believe me,” he ground out, “I am all too aware of the distinction.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that I would never expect this sort of thing to happen at Reid Recruiting, back in America.”
“Oh, for the love of— So, I was a little late. The first thing you need to learn about the French is that they’re not as tied to schedules as Americans are.”
“A little late?” He consulted his watch. “I waited for forty-five minutes while you took your time getting here.”
“I told you, there was a lot of traffic.” Rather than continue arguing, she turned and started in the direction of the car park once more.
She didn’t wait to see if Cole Dorset followed. He called after her, but she didn’t stop, not until he finally used the company’s title.
“Aquitaine!”
She halted and turned, waiting for an apology regarding his rudeness.
“Here.”
He passed her the smaller of his two bags and kept walking.
* * *
DURING THE CAR ride to the Aquitaine offices, Cole grudgingly noted that perhaps his liaison’s excuse was valid. Parisian drivers took to the road like race car stars. They wove in and out with little regard for the vehicles around them, sliding so close that, a time or two, Cole found himself cringing in anticipation of a collision. He never said a word about this to Emma, who drove in steely silence, focused on the streets before them. The traffic was abominable, and at times, they proceeded at little more than a crawl.
As the time for his presentation to the board came and went, he pulled out his cell phone to call the office and let them know he was on his way. Emma said nothing, and he didn’t bother to speak to her.
He kept his gaze out the window, trying not to focus on the cars around them but rather taking in the sights of his new home. He noted the Arc de Triomphe, a monument more impressive in person than any of the pictures he had seen could convey. Not that he would admit that aloud, of course. He had no desire to be in this city and was determined it would not stir his curiosity in any way. It was his own small rebellion. But Emma must have noticed his absorption in the structure because she suddenly spoke.
“The Arc de Triomphe’s eternal flame is rekindled every night, to honor the soldiers who died in both world wars. There’s a museum inside, and the price of admission includes access to the top. The views aren’t quite as spectacular as the Eiffel Tower, but they’re still pretty amazing.”
In the distance, he caught a brief glimpse of the Eiffel Tower, that well-known symbol for romantics everywhere. He scoffed aloud. After Ophelia’s rejection and finding himself here in her place, the iconic monument didn’t exactly inspire feelings of happiness.
Emma must have noted his grunt of annoyance because he sensed her turn toward him.
“Look, I really am sorry I was late.”
He didn’t respond.
“I’ll explain to everyone that it was my fault.”
He felt a bit of his frustration ease but not by much. “Don’t bother,” he replied. “The receptionist at the office said it’s no problem, and Julien has already told them there’s been a delay.”
She seemed to be considering saying something more, but a particularly rabid driver on the left caused