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Like it? I felt my shoulders drop, my jaw loosen, my knees melt.
“What does it do to a person to wake up seeing the Eiffel Tower every morning?” I asked. “Do you grow to appreciate it, or does that just get old?”
Still smiling, he approached me and handed me my drink, then took in the scene from where I was standing. The house seemed to be built on a curve, the courtyard acting as the crisp green foreground to the famous monument in the distance.
“Truth be told, it never gets old,” he said, corralling me towards one of the two leather club chairs in front of the desk.
He was a man who moved with ease, a man thoroughly comfortable in his own skin. We talked about Paris, where he was born and lived as a boy before his American mother brought him to New Orleans for his formative years.
“They wanted to scrub any vestiges of socialism from my blood before I took over the family business.”
“They seem to have succeeded.” This was my in. “You know I came here for an interview about you, your family business, its history in the city, your plans for the future of New Orleans, in particular that land down by the French Market. As one of the city’s biggest developers, are you—?”
“Yes, we’ll get to that part, I promise, Solange,” he said, waving his hand as though to clear my words from the room. “But first I have a question for you.”
Here we go.
“Shoot,” I said, trying to sound calm.
“How does S.E.C.R.E.T. seem to lure such exceptional women into its fold?”
I hated that—when men, particularly powerful men, changed the subject to something frivolous and flattering when a woman asked a tough question. It was such casual sexism it almost went unnoticed, and if you complained, you were labeled humorless and, god forbid, unsexy.
“Well, seeing that you’re a former recruit, I’m assuming you understand something of S.E.C.R.E.T.’s mandate.”
“Former and hopefully current recruit.”
I gave him a tight smile. I didn’t know how to reply because my mind was suddenly churning with doubt about this adventure. A minute ago I might have been persuaded. Admittedly, I was almost swept away by the grandeur of this place, and Pierre’s considerable charms. But I knew even he could sense the chill in the room brought on by my sudden withdrawal.
Pierre shook his head as though pressing some sort of internal restart button, his voice turning buttery and conciliatory. “Before we proceed, I’m sure you’re well aware that you’ve caught me in the middle of a most unsavory year, Solange, during which my behavior has been less than stellar. Especially with your benevolent group. My mother, rest her soul, raised me to be a better man. In fact, I was quite surprised—delighted, even—that you deigned to consider including me in your … adventures.”
The more he talked, the more that chiseled jawline, the white teeth, the lock of sandy hair across his forehead began to disassemble into features that were no longer handsome; in fact, they were turning downright menacing.
“Yes, well, we made an agreement, didn’t we? I would be allowed to ask you some questions, and then you’d get to ask me yours.”
“So you first, and then me, is that what you’re saying?”
There was something unmistakably dark bubbling below the surface of his voice, and my defense mechanisms were on high alert.
“Yes, I’d prefer that,” I said.
“Besides beautiful, you’re also a savvy one, Solange.”
Okay. Mind made up. I can’t accept the Step. Time to wrap this up and get the hell out of here. But he walked towards me, freezing me in my tracks.
“Now, Solange, let’s save the interview for later. The only question that really matters now is this: Do you accept the Step?”
I nearly choked on my Scotch. Suddenly, even this so-called feather in my journalistic cap wafted out the window and down the streets of Paris. He wanted this story on
his terms, not mine, killing any remaining enthusiasm I had for this fantasy.
“How old is the house?” I asked, trying to change the subject. I crossed the room, moving away from him, acting the part of a bored tourist. I casually maneuvered over to the casement doors that led to the courtyard outside.
“Parts of it are more than three hundred years old. Can you imagine? What our lives would have been like three hundred years ago?”
“Well, I certainly wouldn’t be sitting here talking to you,” I said, looking around. “I’d likely be out in that courtyard with the other servants, boiling sheets.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. The men in my family have always had excellent taste in women,” he said.
