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CHAPTERSEVEN
The discovery that Deacon spoke French affected Babette much differently than it did Olivia. Babette released a sob and fell into Deacon’s arms as if he were there to save her from the barbarian Americans, while Olivia wanted to pick up the ten-pound glass vase her mother had given her and bludgeon him with it. Instead she stepped away from the vase and reached for the roll of paper towels.
“What are you doing here?” she asked as she started cleaning up the spilled orange juice. “And how did you get in my house?”
He patted Babette’s back and whispered a few French words that sounded soothing…and annoyingly sexy. Babette whimpered like a homeless puppy and cuddled closer as Deacon lifted his gaze to Olivia. “You left the garage door open. Something Hammond and Doris say you do a lot?”
“Hammond and Doris?”
“The naked couple next door.” He shook his head sadly. “What is it with you Californians? Don’t you know your neighbors’ names?”
She started to jump into an argument, then reminded herself to stay focused on a much more important issue. “So did you sign it? Did you sign the contract?”
“So this is your secret weapon that is going to save French Kiss?” As Babette continued to sob, he thumped her back a little harder. “What is she developing? A new Wonderbra that grows breasts? Panties that give you a J. Lo butt? A nightie that will give men orgasms just by looking at it?”
Olivia’s eyes widened. “Who told you?” When he didn’t say anything, she answered the question herself. “Kelly.”
“So what’s the secret weapon?”
“That’s none of your business.”
One of his eyebrows arched. “Considering the fact that I own the company, I think it is.” But instead of asking her again, he spoke to Babette in French. Between loud sniffs and dramatic hand gestures, she answered him. And there was little doubt that she’d spilled the beans when Deacon’s eyes widened and he spoke in English. “Men’s lingerie?” When Babette nodded triumphantly, he looked at Olivia. “That’s it? That’s your big secret weapon to save the company from bankruptcy?” He disengaged himself from Babette. “Lacy panties for men?”
Olivia tipped up her chin. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course we’re not going to use lace on men’s underwear.”
“Perhaps,” Babette cut in, “just a wee bit.” She demonstrated a wee bit with her thumb and forefinger. “Not on zee waistband of course, but right around zee genitalia area would be very, very sexy—no?”
“No!” Olivia said. “It would not be sexy. We’ve talked about this before, Babette. I’ll go along with the vibrant colors, but you can’t put lace on men’s—”
“Just on zee thongs.” Babette picked up her tote bag and pulled out a stack of designs. She spread them out on the breakfast counter, then waved a hand in the air. “Voilà! These are my masterpieces.”
Olivia looked at the drawings and felt her stomach drop to her feet. These weren’t the designs she’d gone over with Babette. These were drawings of costumes for Cirque du Soleil performers. The thick Egyptian cotton robes they’d discussed had become long satin dressing gowns with feathered lapels that looked like they belonged on a Mardi Gras float. The satin pajamas were right, but the pink and purple colors were all wrong, as was the sagging M.C. Hammer crotch that draped to the knees. The spandex-blend, tummy-tucking T-shirts had been replaced with racerback tanks made of flimsy silk that wouldn’t hold in a cube of Jell-O, let alone a beer belly. Instead of boxer briefs made in the new soft laser-sculpted fabric their engineers had developed, the briefs were made with see-through mesh that showed all the manly bits and pieces—and from the drawings, it looked like Babette knew her manly bits and pieces extremely well. The final straw was the drawings of thong underwear in hot pink, lime green, and bright purple. Each page was divided in half, showing both bulging frontal view and bare-butted rear.
Olivia was struck speechless. Obviously, while she’d been in Louisiana, Babette had gone completely off track. Or completely off her rocker. Even now the French designer looked a little wild-eyed as she pulled rhinestone-studded thongs from her tote.
“Magnificent, no?” She stretched them around Deacon’s manly bits and pieces. “I can only imagine how…how you say in English…awesome these will look on you.” She sent him a seductive look from beneath her eyelashes. “Shall we go see?”
Deacon looked as if she’d just asked him to murder one of his brothers. “Have you lost your mind, woman?” He jerked the thongs away from her and held them up, the rhinestones flashing in the sunlight that spilled in through the balcony doors. “I wouldn’t be caught dead in these. Nor would any man I know.” He glanced at Olivia. “I would expect some confusion from a foreigner about what American men want, but not from a woman who has been in the business for as long as you have. What were you thinking?”
No matter how much she might agree with him, his condescending tone had Olivia’s shoulders stiffening and her defending something that had no defense.
“This coming from a backwoods hillbilly who wouldn’t know style if it smacked him in the face.”
He held out the underwear. “You don’t have to know style to know shit when you see it. Who would buy these?”
Olivia sniffed. “Cosmopolitan men who are much more open-minded than you.”
“And just what percentage of the men in the world do you think are cosmopolitan, Olivia? Fifty percent? Forty? Thirty? How about under ten percent? And of those ten percent of cosmopolitan men, how many do you think are going to like walking around with a strip of diamonds stuck up their ass?”
They were good questions—questions someone with a knowledge of marketing would ask. Which made Olivia wonder if Deacon was more educated than she thought.
“Women wear thongs all the time,” she pointed out.
“They also wear painful high heels, tight uncomfortable clothes, and carry purses that weigh a good thirty pounds,” he said. “All because they want to look good. Men aren’t interested in looking good as much as they are in feeling good. And I don’t have to try these on to know that these aren’t going to feel good.”
“He’s r-r-right.” Babette’s French tongue rolled over the r’s. “He’s absolutely correct. I completely forgot that, for men, zee ultimate thing isn’t fashion as much as comfort.” Without any warning she grabbed the designs off the counter and started ripping them to shreds. “Gar-bage. Trash. Poo-poo.” Olivia tried to stop her, but when Babette got on a roll, there was no chance of that happening. She tore up every design, then grabbed the mock-up thongs from Deacon, raced to the balcony, and sent them sailing over the railing.
When the last twinkle of rhinestones had vanished, she turned with a dramatic wail and flounced from the room. Once she was gone, Olivia looked down at the ripped designs and couldn’t keep the tears from her eyes.
