Christmas in Paris (31 page)

“It's called marmite, and it's quite delicious once you get used to it,” he snapped. “And I'm sure they have some kind of decent face lotion at David Jones. You didn't have to come back to Paris. What about Patrick—did you leave him at the arrivals terminal?”

“Of course not. We spent two nights in his flat in St. Kilda.” She inspected her fingernails. “All his furniture was on the floor. I felt like I was on a yoga retreat.

“It never would have worked out,” she continued. “Apparently he's not a championship cricket player, he's in the bush leagues. And his French was terrible; he didn't understand the concept of personal pronouns. He kept calling a table ‘he.'”

“It seems to be a common problem,” he said and thought of Isabel. “You can't just show up and order afternoon tea. I'm busy.”

“My father is paying for the suite.” She eyed the box of chocolates and bouquet of tulips. “When did you start shopping at Maison du Chocolat? Their truffles cost as much as gold bouillon.”

“That's none of your business,” Alec spluttered. “We canceled the ceremony at Cathédrale Notre-Dame and the reception at the George Cinq and the Aston Martin that would have driven us to the airport. You can't pretend nothing happened.”

“I was only gone for ten days.” She shrugged. “We'll have a destination wedding; I'm dying to get on the slopes. We'll get married in St. Moritz and stay at the Palace Hotel.”

“We're not getting married anywhere,” Alec exclaimed.

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he felt better. He remembered when he was a child and did terribly on a math test. He kept the paper in his pocket and had a stomachache by the time his mother found it. But he didn't care what Celine said; he just wanted her to leave.

He refilled his scotch glass and realized that was what was different. Celine could have violet eyes and a turned-up nose, but he wasn't in love with her.

“What do you mean we're not getting married?” Celine demanded.

Alec wanted to say he was going to marry Isabel, but then he remembered she had walked out of the suite and said she never wanted to see him again.

“You left with your passport and my favorite pair of slippers,” Alec said hotly. “Did you really expect me to be here waiting for you?”

“My feet get cold on the plane.” She looked at Alec. “And I didn't expect you to wait for me. I expected you to follow me.”

“What did you say?” Alec stammered.

“You turned me over to Patrick like a dog breeder giving away a puppy.” She ate another bite of brioche. “You should have seen your face when you appeared at the café in the Place Vendôme. You gave up in the first round.”

“Was I supposed to draw a pistol like John Wayne in an American Western?” Alec demanded. “And did you see his muscles under that white shirt? David Beckham couldn't compete.”

“If you loved me you would have booked the first flight to Melbourne,” Celine insisted, “instead of moping in the hotel suite like a wounded animal.”

“I had a wonderful week exploring Paris,” he replied. “I visited the Catacombs and Montmartre and Versailles.”

“You visited the Catacombs?” Celine looked up. “You're terrified of closed spaces.”

“Maybe I'm not, I just needed my eyes opened,” he snapped. “Relationships might require work, but they're not supposed to be an ongoing battle with one person claiming to be the victor and the other waving a white flag.” He paused. “If you love someone, you spend every day making them happy.”

Celine stood up and stretched. Even her high breasts and long legs left him cold. She was like a cat that had been declawed.

“I have terrible jet lag.” She walked toward the bedroom. “I'm going to bed, we'll discuss this tomorrow.”

“You can't sleep here,” Alec insisted.

“What do you mean I can't sleep here?” Celine untied her chignon. “My father paid for twelve nights in the honeymoon suite with a private butler and continental breakfast.”

“There's only one bed and I'm tired of sleeping on your sofa. There are other suites at the Crillon, I'll tell the valet to move your bag and I'll pay for the room.”

He wished his shrinking bank account matched his new bravado, but he wasn't going to let Celine push him out of the suite. He needed one more night to win back Isabel.

“I've had enough overripe peaches and bottles of Evian.” She picked up her suitcase and walked to the door. “I'll go to my apartment.”

“Celine, wait,” Alec called.

“Yes?” She turned around.

God, she was beautiful with her pink mouth and slender cheekbones. He felt like Odysseus staring down the sirens.

He suddenly pictured Isabel's bright smile, and a warmth spread through his chest.

“You forgot to return my grandmother's diamond ring.”

*   *   *

ALEC PACED AROUND
the suite like a prizefighter who had scored an unexpected victory. His heart raced and his brow was covered with sweat.

He wished he could replay Celine placing the sapphire-and-diamond ring on the coffee table. He had never seen her linger over a piece of jewelry before.

He thought of what she said about giving up too easily, and an uneasy pit formed in his stomach. Perhaps he should have insisted Patrick didn't join them for dinner. But Celine and Patrick were like a blond Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt. You had to know when to retreat; it was a basic rule of survival.

Should he have followed her to Melbourne? Twenty-four hours on an international flight gave him a backache, and the blanket never stayed in one place.

He remembered the way men looked at her in the street and knew he would have been setting himself up for a life of torture. He had taken the quickest escape route, like a pilot jettisoning himself from a burning plane.

Or perhaps she was right; he didn't know how to fight for the woman he loved.

But he wasn't going to lose Isabel. He picked up the bouquet of tulips and hardbound book on Monet's gardens at Giverny. He ran his hands through his hair and sighed. Celine had taken the gold box of chocolate profiteroles.

 

chapter twenty

Isabel sat on a yellow silk armchair in the Crillon's lobby and gazed at the intricate tapestries and wide marble staircase. The blue velvet wallpaper was flecked with gold, and crystal vases were filled with white roses. She glanced up at the mosaic ceiling and felt like she was inside a box of gourmet chocolates.

After she saw Celine enter Alec's suite, she gathered her packages and stepped back into the elevator. She couldn't risk walking down the hallway and having Alec open the door.

She had been so sure Mathieu was right and Alec was in love with her. But now Alec and Celine were back together and Isabel was leaving tomorrow. She wasn't going to think about Alec. It was like trying to read when you had a terrible headache.

She gazed at women wearing Chanel suits and men in cashmere overcoats and thought all the other guests looked so sophisticated and happy. In two days it would be New Year's Eve and they were enjoying the end of their vacation.

A bellboy in a gold uniform offered her a plate of petits fours and she suddenly needed to be alone. She scooped up her parcels and walked down the marble hallway. She entered a paneled library with a Louis XVI desk and walnut cabinets filled with Fabergé eggs. Her phone buzzed and she pressed accept.

“Isabel!” Her mother's voice came over the line. “I'm so glad I caught you.”

“Is everything all right?” Isabel asked, suddenly wishing she were nibbling fruitcake in the kitchen in Ardmore.

“You sounded a little off the other day and I know you can be quite stubborn,” her mother explained. “I wondered if anything is wrong.”

Isabel glanced at the jewel-encrusted eggs and thought she could pretend nothing happened and board the plane. Her parents would greet her at the Philadelphia airport and they'd talk about her new work projects and going to St. Bart's in April. But she pictured Alec's dark eyes and white smile and her heart shifted in her chest.

“I met a fortune-teller who said I'd fall in love and marry a French aristocrat. The next night I met a count at the Red Cross charity ball and was sure he was the one. We had dinner at Tour d'Argent and attended the opera and I hoped he was going to ask me to marry him.

“But when he was about to propose, I realized I was in love with Alec all along. He's a children's book illustrator who turned out to be a viscount, though he never told me.

“I thought he'd lied to me, so I said I never wanted to see him again. But then his friend followed me on the Pont Alexandre III and explained Alec was madly in love with me, and I had to give him another chance.

“I hurried back to the Crillon to tell Alec I was in love with him.” She paused. “The elevator doors opened and I saw a beautiful blonde enter his suite. I'm sure it was his ex-fiancée and now they're back together.

“I'm coming home tomorrow, and everything is ruined.” Her lips trembled. “I was really in love this time, it's like nothing I felt before.”

“Isn't it a little sudden?” her mother wondered. “You've barely been in Paris a week.”

“Remember when you said that eventually I would meet the right person and I replied next time I fell in love it would be forever?” Isabel fiddled with her necklace. “I know Alec is the one. I'm as certain as I am that Apple stock will always be a good investment. He's warm and sincere, and when we're together, I don't want to be anywhere else.”

“Then you have to tell him you're in love with him,” her mother urged.

“It's too late,” Isabel sighed. “I'm sure he's back with Celine.”

“He may have moved on,” her mother suggested. “He might not want her back at all.”

“I never thought of that.” Isabel faltered. “It's possible, though she did look gorgeous in that white jumpsuit.”

“Do you really have a choice?” her mother asked. “If you want something, you have to fight for it.”

Isabel pictured the pink and blue lights of the Eiffel Tower and couples holding hands on the Pont Neuf. She saw Alec in his red sweater, clutching a colored pencil and studying a sketch of Gus riding an elephant.

“I have nothing to lose and he did say he was in love with me.” She jumped up. “That doesn't change because a willowy blonde appears, reeking of Chanel No 5.”

“Call me and tell me what happens,” her mother said. “And Isabel, I know this time you're going to make the right decision.”

*   *   *

ISABEL STOOD AT
the dressing table and zipped up a beige wool dress. Her hair was held back with a gold clip and she wore pink lipstick. She fastened the glass bracelet around her wrist and thought Alec had to say he loved her; she couldn't live without him.

She heard a sound on the balcony and stepped outside. It was early evening and a thick fog had settled on the Place de la Concorde. Colored lights glittered on the Christmas tree, and shoppers strolled along the Champs-Élysées.

“God, there you are!” Alec exclaimed. “I thought you'd never come outside.”

Isabel glanced at the adjoining balcony and saw Alec holding one shoe. He wore a white button-up shirt and twill slacks.

“That's a beautiful dress,” he said, rubbing his hands. “Are you going to dinner with Antoine?”

“I sent Antoine back the tiara. I'm going to have lunch with him tomorrow. I could never send him a Dear John letter after everything he did, but it's over.” She hesitated. “What are you doing out here, and why did you throw a shoe on my balcony?”

“I need to talk to you and locked myself out,” he explained. “The Crillon has to do something about the locks on the French doors. I'm surprised more guests don't get stuck outside in their underwear.”

“Why didn't you just knock on my door?” Isabel asked.

“It's a long story and I'm shivering,” he said. “Could you call housekeeping and ask them to let me in?”

*   *   *

ISABEL GLANCED AROUND
the living room of Alec's suite and saw a silver tray set with porcelain demitasses. A bouquet of tulips stood on the glass table and she wondered if Celine was in the bedroom. Alec and Celine were back together and he didn't know how to tell her without hurting her feelings.

“I thought Celine might be in the hallway and I was afraid she'd see me,” he explained. “She has a pretty good arm and I didn't want to end up with a stiletto mark on my forehead.

“I decided the easiest way was to climb onto your balcony,” he continued. “But when I walked outside, I realized I may not be afraid of heights anymore but I'm not stupid. The railing is too narrow and there's a five-story drop. Then the French doors closed and I was stuck outside.”

“Celine is still here?” Isabel gasped.

“She showed up in the suite this afternoon.” He poured a glass of scotch. “Things didn't work out in Australia. She's not fond of the cuisine and the climate dried her skin.”

“Why did she come back to the Crillon?” Isabel wondered, her heart pounding in her chest.

“She wanted to get back together.” He sipped the scotch. “Apparently Patrick isn't quite the cricket hero and his French pronunciation is terrible. She said I let her go too easily. If I loved her, I should have fought for her.

“I realized she was right. If you love someone, you don't give up at the first hurdle. Even if you keep falling down and your knees are scraped and your clothes are muddy, you make it to the finish line.” He paused. “That's when I knew I couldn't let you go. I had to convince you to give us another chance.”

“You did?” Isabel whispered.

The air left her lungs and she was almost dizzy. She glanced around the room and thought she hadn't noticed the gold drapes and Lalique statue before.