The Curvy Waitress and the Billionaire French Count (He Wanted Me Pregnant!) by Victoria Wessex Page B
Authors: Victoria Wessex
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places. And I’m certainly no translator. I couldn’t hope to sit in a meeting and translate on the fly—I was a waitress, for goodness sake! I couldn’t say yes, no matter how fantastically hot he was.
“Yes,” I heard myself say. “Yes, of course.”
What?! What did I just do?
“I have to work, though,” I blurted. There—that’s a way out.
Erard reached for my fingers again, took them in his big, strong hand and led me through the diner to the counter. He gave my hand a little squeeze on the way and my heart suddenly swelled and lifted. I felt almost lightheaded.
We met my boss, Clark Hooper, coming the other way. He likes to think he looks like Clark Gable. He doesn’t.
“I’m so sorry for what happened,” he told Erard in English. “Is your friend okay?”
Erard turned to me. “Please tell him that I need to borrow you for the afternoon,” he said in French. “I’ll pay him five hundred dollars for your time.”
My eyes bulged but I translated. Clark’s eyes bulged too, and he babbled his agreement. I think he would have happily sold me into slavery for $500. Erard thrust five crisp hundred dollar bills at him and led me from the diner, barely giving me time to grab my handbag. “Don’t I need to get changed?” I asked. I hadn’t been to anything you’d call a business meeting, but I was pretty sure translators didn’t wear retro 50s waitress uniforms.
“We have no time,” Erard told me in French. “I have told Henri he can take the car to the hospital, so we’ll have to walk. Luckily, it’s only a block away. We were just stopping at your restaurant for coffee before we went in.” He stopped, just at the doorway of the diner. “Also, your outfit is”—his eyes traveled down my body, leaving a burning trail behind them. Under the cheap cotton of the uniform, I felt my nipples tighten, a squirming, molten heat ignite between my thighs. His eyes tracked back to my face and there was a dark, gleaming heat in his eyes. “Fine.”
I swallowed. Fine really didn’t cover the look he’d just given me.
Don’t be stupid, I told myself. He’s not interested in you! He probably had a thousand twig-like blonde French mademoiselles hurling themselves at him. I knew that. So why was my heart pounding?
We stepped out of the cool, air-conditioned diner and onto the oven-hot street.
***
Being noticed in New York takes some doing. Everyone here is so jaded that a giant, fire-breathing lizard would barely get a glance as long as it didn’t cut into the line at the coffee stand. But a curvy, blushing, slightly out of breath waitress in full 1950s get-up, towed along behind a gorgeous Frenchman? That’ll do it every time. And I knew every person we passed was thinking the same thing: What’s he doing with her? Why isn’t he with some svelte little thing, with an ass he could cup in one hand?
What the hell am I doing?! I’d somehow signed myself up to be a translator at some business meeting. Okay, in theory anything was better than working at the diner for an afternoon, but…was it, really? At least at the diner I knew where I stood. In an office I was going to be out of place even in a suit, let alone dressed as a waitress.
“So…this meeting. It’s not anything big or important, is it?” I asked. My rusty language skills were slowly starting to flow; it was beginning to seem natural to speak in French. Which was a good thing, because it seemed as if he didn’t speak a word of English.
He did another of those Gallic shrugs, his broad shoulders rising as if it didn’t really matter either way. “No, I don’t think so. I’m only meeting them to buy something.” I felt blissful relief soak through me. I must have missed something in the translation. It wasn’t a business thing at all. He just wanted me to translate in a shop. That was fine. I could do shopping. “What are we buying?” I asked brightly.
“A company.”
Oh. My stomach tightened in terror.
We
“Yes,” I heard myself say. “Yes, of course.”
What?! What did I just do?
“I have to work, though,” I blurted. There—that’s a way out.
Erard reached for my fingers again, took them in his big, strong hand and led me through the diner to the counter. He gave my hand a little squeeze on the way and my heart suddenly swelled and lifted. I felt almost lightheaded.
We met my boss, Clark Hooper, coming the other way. He likes to think he looks like Clark Gable. He doesn’t.
“I’m so sorry for what happened,” he told Erard in English. “Is your friend okay?”
Erard turned to me. “Please tell him that I need to borrow you for the afternoon,” he said in French. “I’ll pay him five hundred dollars for your time.”
My eyes bulged but I translated. Clark’s eyes bulged too, and he babbled his agreement. I think he would have happily sold me into slavery for $500. Erard thrust five crisp hundred dollar bills at him and led me from the diner, barely giving me time to grab my handbag. “Don’t I need to get changed?” I asked. I hadn’t been to anything you’d call a business meeting, but I was pretty sure translators didn’t wear retro 50s waitress uniforms.
“We have no time,” Erard told me in French. “I have told Henri he can take the car to the hospital, so we’ll have to walk. Luckily, it’s only a block away. We were just stopping at your restaurant for coffee before we went in.” He stopped, just at the doorway of the diner. “Also, your outfit is”—his eyes traveled down my body, leaving a burning trail behind them. Under the cheap cotton of the uniform, I felt my nipples tighten, a squirming, molten heat ignite between my thighs. His eyes tracked back to my face and there was a dark, gleaming heat in his eyes. “Fine.”
I swallowed. Fine really didn’t cover the look he’d just given me.
Don’t be stupid, I told myself. He’s not interested in you! He probably had a thousand twig-like blonde French mademoiselles hurling themselves at him. I knew that. So why was my heart pounding?
We stepped out of the cool, air-conditioned diner and onto the oven-hot street.
***
Being noticed in New York takes some doing. Everyone here is so jaded that a giant, fire-breathing lizard would barely get a glance as long as it didn’t cut into the line at the coffee stand. But a curvy, blushing, slightly out of breath waitress in full 1950s get-up, towed along behind a gorgeous Frenchman? That’ll do it every time. And I knew every person we passed was thinking the same thing: What’s he doing with her? Why isn’t he with some svelte little thing, with an ass he could cup in one hand?
What the hell am I doing?! I’d somehow signed myself up to be a translator at some business meeting. Okay, in theory anything was better than working at the diner for an afternoon, but…was it, really? At least at the diner I knew where I stood. In an office I was going to be out of place even in a suit, let alone dressed as a waitress.
“So…this meeting. It’s not anything big or important, is it?” I asked. My rusty language skills were slowly starting to flow; it was beginning to seem natural to speak in French. Which was a good thing, because it seemed as if he didn’t speak a word of English.
He did another of those Gallic shrugs, his broad shoulders rising as if it didn’t really matter either way. “No, I don’t think so. I’m only meeting them to buy something.” I felt blissful relief soak through me. I must have missed something in the translation. It wasn’t a business thing at all. He just wanted me to translate in a shop. That was fine. I could do shopping. “What are we buying?” I asked brightly.
“A company.”
Oh. My stomach tightened in terror.
We
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