Honeymoon in Paris by Juliette Sobanet Page B

caught on camera. My heart sank when I discovered photos of me, Lexi, and Fiona following Nicolas and Marcel into Marcel’s swanky apartment building late last night (a moment of which I still had no recollection) and another picture of us girls emerging from the same building early this morning, wearing the same skimpy dresses we’d been wearing the night before.
    The translated headline read: “Another Wild Night for Bad Boy Marcel and Brother Nicolas.” The article on the following page retraced the cover’s photo montage with grossly inaccurate descriptions of what had gone down yesterday, including but not limited to:
Brigitte Beaumont leaves media mogul Vincent Boucher to reunite with hotty ex-husband, Luc Olivier.
Devastated by Olivier’s infidelity, his new wife Charlotte Summers is seduced by the entire Boucher family. Which one will she choose?
Summers invites the girls to join her for a sleepless night chez Marcel. Will bad boy Marcel ever settle with just one woman?
A drunken Brigitte makes a scene at the premiere party of her new film, embarrassing Vincent and herself. She is later spotted fighting with Vincent in front of the Château Frontenac Hotel before storming off into the night, drunk and alone.
    Well, that last one probably wasn’t so inaccurate.
    Those damn paparazzi hadn’t missed a single moment.
    “
Merde
,” Fiona mumbled shaking her head.
    “So much for our story of what happened last night,” I mumbled. “I wonder if Lexi has seen this yet.”
    “Never mind Lexi. What about Marc, Dylan, and Luc? They’re going to hear about this one way or another. What are we going to tell them?” I’d never heard Fiona’s tone so desperate before.
    I didn’t even want to think about how we were going to explain these photos to our respective men.
    Trying to whip up a story in my dazed, pounding head, I turned the page.
    The final incriminating photo staring back at us made me realize I’d have to improve my story-telling skills if I wanted the four of us to get out of this unscathed.
    The horrified gasp coming from Fiona’s lips echoed my sentiment.
    A photograph of two blurry silhouettes wrapped in a passionate embrace on Marcel’s balcony was featured on the last page of the article. The picture had been taken at night, so it was impossible to make out
which
one of us was kissing one of the Boucher brothers.
    Guilt washed over Fiona’s pale blue eyes as she ripped the magazine out of my hands and snapped it shut.
    “We need to put our sunglasses on and get the hell out of here before someone recognizes us,” she ordered. “I won’t lose Marc over these pretty boy actors. I just won’t.” Fiona flipped her dark sunglasses over her eyes and took off through the station.
    “Fiona!” I called, grabbing onto her elbow. “I know after what happened this morning, you’re thinking it had to have been you on that balcony, but we don’t know for sure that it wasn’t Lexi. She woke up murmuring Nicolas’ name and saying she loved him in French.”
    “Right, but she woke up next to
you, not
in Nicolas’ bed,” she hissed. “And besides, neither of your significant others have a mother who will rake you over the coals for this, and who’s arriving tomorrow to stay for
twelve sodding days
.”
    Fiona was right—Madame Rousseau, Marc’s dreadful mother, would never forgive Fiona for this if she got wind of it. Judging by the fact that the wretched old woman had easily found out about myscandalous
Bella Magazine
article only a few months earlier, she’d be all over the fact that her precious son’s new girlfriend’s face was splashed all over the French tabloids.
    “I have to get home to Marc. I’m telling him the truth,” Fiona announced. “That’s the only option.”
    “But we don’t even know
for sure
what happened last night.” I sighed, exasperated. “The balcony picture might not even
be
from last night for all we know. These are tasteless tabloids that specialize in