Cognac & Couture (The Passport Series Book 2) (13 page)

I was wound up from the long day and
night and couldn’t sleep. I shuffled from my bed back to the living room, where
I tried reading and then doodling designs for my apartment. Neither helped. So,
I opened up my laptop and started wandering through the internet. One thought
led to another, and soon I found myself knee deep in Aksel Pedersen’s life. I
had learned enough to make me very curious about the man.

He’d earned a graduate degree in mechanical engineering at
one of the oldest and most renowned universities—TU Brauenschweig, or
University of Brunswick, Institute of Technology, in Brauenschweig, Germany.
Afterwards he had gone to work for a German car manufacturer, where he had
designed tools, which as far as my limited understanding allowed for, could be
applied to automobile and aeronautical manufacturing. He’d worked there for
quite some time and risen through the ranks.

Eventually, he’d been lured away by a British firm as their
Chief Technology Officer. His reasons for departing last year were not noted.

The information on his personal life was limited. He’d been
married and divorced to a German woman, named Helga. They had two sons, who
would now be in their twenties.

Nothing I found pointed clearly to Sébastien.

The only thing I found that was truly compelling to me was a
blog, written in German, with a photo of him standing at an easel, working on a
large, abstract painting. I emailed the link to the blog to my work email
address. Tomorrow I would find someone who spoke German.

“OKAY, SO WHAT
do you think?”
Charlotte’s voice chirruped across the phone lines excitedly.

I looked at my phone with incredulity then checked my watch.
“Charlotte, less than ten hours ago we thought we were on our way to a hospital,
and now you’re asking me which designers are showing today?”

“I didn’t come to Paris to sit on my ass. The doctor said I
needed to keep my feet up and rest ‘for most of the day.’” She feigned a
horrific French accent, impersonating Sébastien’s very attractive doctor,
Marie-Odette Norbert.

“What’s wrong with you? You’re pregnant. Your baby should
come first.”

“My baby does come first and will come first for the rest of
his or her life. Please, just give me one last dose of glamour—before I’m
covered in burp cloths and spit up.”

“
Eew
! That’s quite a loving image of motherhood
you’re painting there.”

A faint sniff on the other end followed by a long silence
told me she was crying. “Charlotte, relax. You’re going to be a great mom, and
Liam is going to be a great dad. You have it all. The job, the house, picket
fence, family.”

“I know. I should be happy. I am. Hormones, probably. I just
want to get all dressed up and forget that I’m as big around as I am tall.”

“Well, not yet,” I drily inserted, hoping she’d laugh.

The sounds of snuffling laughter reached my ears. I felt my
smile burst wide open. “I love you, Charlotte.”

She begged, “Then please help me get out of here!”

I sighed. “Let me talk to Liam.”

“No.”

“That’s the only way.” I spoke firmly.

There was muttering in the background, the phone clanked,
and I heard her make a heaving sound. Eventually, Liam was on the phone.
Through much cajoling and pleading, I finagled Charlotte a late morning and
early evening outing. “Thank you, Liam. She really needs this. You’re a good
man.”

“If she goes into labor, that’s on you. And you’re gonna owe
me.”

“Well, she’s going into labor at some point. Might as well
be in the middle of Dior’s showing. Think of the headlines.”

“She’s been in the headlines enough.”

“True,” I said.

He passed the phone to Charlotte without a goodbye. Was he
angry?

I glanced at today’s list of showings. “Who do you want to
see?” I read her the day’s schedule.

Friday, 2
October:

Loewe
/
Chalayan / Christian Dior / Isabel Marant / Andrew Gn / Undercover / Lutz
Huelle / Yohi Yammamoto / Elie Saab / Masha Ma /
Sophia
Kokosalaki

She had me read it a couple of times. “I would really like
to see Dior and Elie Saab. Did His Highness give me permission to do that?”

“Don’t be rude. Liam loves you. Dior is at noon, and Elie
Saab is at 7:00 pm. Perfect. Plenty of time to rest in between.”

“Yay for me!”

I grinned into the phone, wanting to reassure her, and told
her we would do this again next year. “When you aren’t pregnant, we’ll go to
all the shows!”

“Really? And drink prosecco?” The squeal behind her question
told me I had said the right thing.

“Really. Babies, prosecco, burp clothes, and all.”

As I was about to hang up, I heard her call my name. “Sorry,
didn’t hear you. What?”

“Did you ever ask Sébastien about last night, when he went
all Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde?”

“Shit! I completely forgot.”

I meandered through
the crowd outside a huge tent in Espace Ephémère des Tuileries. A few
acquaintances stopped me to talk about the Bethany Halvorsen show and
Forbes
Magazine
interview. When I felt warm fingers brush the back of my arm,
tingles spread from my fingertips to my toes.
Sébastien
.

Once
again, he seemed to know the people in the group I’d been talking to and slid
easily into the conversation. When the audience began to surge inside the tent,
he leaned down and softly spoke in my ear. “Must we go in? Chérie, you are too
lovely to be hidden in the dark.” He hooked his arm around my waist and pulled
me against him. His warmth, the smell of him, did crazy things to me.

“Think we
can find seats for just the two of us where we’ll go unseen?” I asked.

“I doubt
you will go unseen, but if it allows us to be alone, I will make my best
attempt.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

“Mademoiselle, since I’ve met you,
I must constantly remind myself that this is the week to see and be seen.” His
eyes held the glint of flirtation. “Tell me, why do you wish to be alone?”

Deciding against the obvious
response, I batted my lashes at him and rested my hand on his lapel. “Marian.
Hillary. Or Tiziana, for that matter. It’s like they have some crazy kind of
radar.” While maybe not the words he’d hoped for, I let my desire for him
simmer in my eyes. In his gaze, I found the same.

He led me off to the side, out of
the surging mass of humanity, offering a solution. “Let’s wait a moment. We’ll
go in just before they turn down the lights. Maybe we’ll get lucky, and it will
be too late.” I happily agreed.

From my hiding spot, I could see my
friends in the distance looking this way and that, probably searching for me,
since a single, lonely chair separated Marian from Salma Hayek. The lights
dimmed while the music, heavy on techno funk, directed the viewers’ attention
to the large red wall at the opposite end of the tent. When an usher waved us
in, we looked at each other and did the right thing. But we did
find seats at the back, near the exit.

Clearly,
Sophia Kokosalaki had been influenced by ancient Egyptian clothing.
Her
collection was predominantly gold and black fabric and embellishments, funked
up with cobalt, fire-orange, sky-blue, and white.
The
dresses had python-skin bodices paired with sheer, flowing silk skirts and
sculpted high heels. Some pieces had fabric with hieroglyphic motifs. A few
were accessorized with ornate breastplates in gold. Plenty of tassels and
feather trim adorned butter-soft suede separates. It was the sheer drama of the
pieces that kept my attention.

I was
jolted from the dramatic scene when
Sébastien
boldly ran his hand from the nape of my neck to my lower back. I shot a glance
at him. His eyes were no longer smoldering; they were scorching, which left me
breathing heavily. Just like that. My pulse was racing.

He nipped
the tender flesh of my neck before softly saying, “You are…
exceptional. I was not expecting someone like you to enter
my life. A woman whose presence could simply, without any effort, leave me
aching. All day, I long for more kisses, adventure, change.”

I
searched for my own words to tell him I felt the same. When I saw Sophia
Kokosalaki walk with the last model down the runway, I seized the moment. It
was time to gamble. I grabbed Sébastien’s hand. “Let’s go.”

We darted
outside and straight into Ted. “Hello there! Are the rest with you?”

“
Uh
,
no. We didn’t see them.” I tried to sound normal while casting a very
disappointed glance at the man I wanted to be alone with.

“Well,
they’ll be along soon. Have you weighed in on where we should have dinner?”

Though I
wanted to make an excuse, I didn’t. I pulled up my big girl panties and
reminded myself I was glad my friends were in Paris for a few more days. I
looked at Sébastien, and he seemed to understand my look of resolve. “What are
our choices?” I asked.

“I cannot
remember. Marian was in charge of tonight.”

“Then I’m
guessing Hillary won’t be happy,” I muttered loudly, drawing smiles from both
men.

***

We found ourselves in the boudoir
environment of the world’s most famous burlesque establishment, Moulin Rouge.
Seated at one long table, we were directly in front of the stage. I gave
Sébastien an apologetic look. He leaned over so he could speak quietly. “I’ve
always imagined that Tiziana’s bedroom looked something like this.”

“Me, too!
Well, minus the table.”

Marian
wore an enormous smile, clearly pleased to find herself here. Her neck swiveled
as she took in the tented ceiling, red walls, dramatic lighting, and small
lamps that bathed the white table linens in a golden glow. “Do you think those
are original posters?” she asked, pointing to a large column not too far away,
covered in posters of women performing the can-can.

“I’m so
embarrassed!” Hillary said to no one in particular.

“Mademoiselle,
we are having an adventure. No need to be embarrassed,” Sébastien comforted
her. “Besides, it is my culture, not yours. Perhaps
I
should be
embarrassed.”

Realizing
she might have put her foot in it, Hillary quickly reassured him, “No, no! It’s
just that there are so many wonderful places to go, and she picks a burlesque
club.”

Marian
overheard her. “Well, you aren’t always so pious! You had a great time dancing
in the tranny bar in London last summer. Besides, everyone else likes it here!”

“It was
the wine,” was all she would admit. On cue, the waiter arrived, bearing wine.

I leaned
as close as possible to Sébastien and said, “I could use a bottle and a straw.”

“Chérie,
just relax. This is very entertaining. I haven’t been here in quite some time.”

“That’s
what the wine and straw are for, to relax.”

“You are truly
funny. I like it.”

“
Hmm
.”

In the
darkness, I placed a hand on Sébastien’s knee and pressed a kiss to his lips.

“Get a
room!” Marian demanded, looking pleased with herself for having caught us in
the middle of something.

“Not a
word, Marian.”

“Jaysus!
When’d you get so uptight?”

“Four
days ago!” I announced, hoping she realized that was the day she’d arrived.

***

When
the performance of
Feerie
finished, the crowd applauded
enthusiastically. Marian smirked at Hillary, who was energetically clapping. I
placed a finger over her lips, signaling for her to not ruin the moment by
drawing attention to Hillary’s enthusiasm. Marian playfully harrumphed.
Undoubtedly, this was an ace that Marian would keep in her back pocket for
another day.

We gathered our things
and began walking out.

Tiziana gushed in appreciation, “Darlings,
that
was perfetto. And the costumes! My favorite was the pirate costume. I must say
that I am surprised they have a clown act. Who likes clowns? Marian, which was
your favorite act?”

We had made our way to
the
sidewalk in front of Moulin Rouge, underneath the windmill that was on the roof
of the building, one floor up. Two enormous lights, mounted on the roof of the
adjoining building, bathed everything in red light—the entrance, sidewalk, and
populace.

Clearly fascinated by her surroundings, Marian belatedly answered,
“The python act was fabulous! Did you see the size of the bloody thing! Imagine
being in a tank of water and having it slither all around you. Keep in mind, it
might feel quite nice. After all, she—the woman, not the python—was mostly
naked. If I have something that size slithering between my legs—”

“And this is why Marian isn’t the CEO of a major
corporation!” I preempted whatever else she had to say.

“I think she’s quite
entertaining,” Sébastien reassured me, pulling my hair from the confines of my
coat. His voice became raspy. “May we say goodnight now?”

Without hesitating, I bid everyone
goodnight.

“Okay, darling. We’ll see you at
Requiem,” Tiziana said, with a twinkle in her eye.

“Sorry, I might not make it until
the Akhmadullina showing.”

“But you will miss Jean-Charles de
Castelbajac,” Hillary pointed out.

“And Yohji Yamamoto,” Marian
added.

I looked at Sébastien with
eyebrows raised. “One wants elegance, the other wants to wear a coat
embellished with teddy bears. And I wonder why they argue?”