Cognac & Couture (The Passport Series Book 2) (16 page)

WE SAT AT
the kitchen table,
sipping coffee and reading the paper.
Sébastien
absentmindedly ran his fingers over the back of my hand. Everything about this
felt perfect. My Sunday morning routine had revolved for so long around
painting and hammering, not lolling about with a handsome man.
When my
phone rang, I saw Hillary’s number and debated whether I wanted her to
interrupt my morning.

I snuck a peek at
Sébastien,
and when he grinned at me, I gave in. “Hello?”

“Good morning. It’s Hillary.”

“I see and hear that.”

“Lord, you’re turning into Marian. Anyway, Tiziana, by some
miracle, has persuaded Poupie Cadolle to open the shop today. Does a handmade,
custom-designed bra tantalize you?”

“Wow! How did she manage that, especially on a Sunday? I’ve
heard it takes forever to get an appointment.” I sat back in my chair,
astounded.

“She’s Mrs. Edward C. Blackwell. She could
buy
Cadolle, if she wanted.”

True. “I’d love to.” I couldn’t keep the excitement out of
my voice. “When and where?”

“Tiziana is there already. Why don’t we meet at the Hotel
Cambon, in the bar? It’s just across the street from the shop. When can you
make it?”

I was nowhere close to ready, so I asked for an hour.
Sébastien completely understood when I explained and shooed
me out.
Back at my apartment, I quickly slipped into a skirt and sweater
and my favorite Fendi square-toed flats. A perfect Sunday morning outfit.

Two Métro stations later, I walked from Place de la Concorde
to Rue Cambon, where I spotted the entrance. Its large wooden doors were framed
by topiary trees in pots glazed a beautiful shade of celadon. I’d only been in
the building once before and again appreciated the calming effect of the golden-stone
floors and matching walls. Their warmth was intensified by the natural light that
burst through massive windows. I paused for a moment and absorbed the feeling
of the space. Maybe “this” was what I was looking for—uncluttered warmth. The torrents
of color on large paintings hanging on the walls gave the room bold energy.

Beyond the
trompe-l'œil
woodland that separated the
lobby from the bar, I spotted Hillary sitting in a barrel chair at a small
round table, dressed head to toe in plum, sipping her tea.

“Hi there!” I greeted her, bussing her cheek with a kiss.

After I settled in, the waiter sauntered over and took my
order. Chamomile tea.

“Isn’t it charming that the bar is an art gallery?” Hillary
asked.

“Well, that explains the quantity of original pieces. I had
no idea. Where are Charlotte and Marian?”

“They’ll be along soon. We’re letting Charlotte rest for as
long as possible. Anyway, haven’t you been here before?”

“Yes, but only at a private party on the rooftop terrace.
Someday we should book a dinner up there for all of us. It’s beautiful! The
view of the city, the Tuileries Gardens, the Louvre—it’s amazing.”

My tea and a small plate of
tuile
cookies arrived.

“What do you think of the décor?”

“Very ‘now.’ Which isn’t to say it’s a bad thing. I like it.
It’s warm, minimalist, Zen
but
Parisian. Hard to pull off. I like the
modern take on Art Nouveau furniture.”

“I love listening to you speak ‘designer.’ You need to throw
in some rubbish words. Feng Shui, harmonious, illuminated, juxtaposition. That
kind of thing.”

“Speaking of rubbish, what is going on with you and
Michael?”

Dabbing at the corners of her mouth, Hillary took a moment
to compose her thoughts. Before returning her napkin to her lap, she checked to
see if any lipstick had stained it. Certain her clothes were safe, she returned
her attention to me.

“At Tiziana’s wedding, Michael and Marian disappeared together
for quite a while.”

“What?” I was in absolute shock and spoke a little too
loudly, drawing glances.

“First, you have to promise not to say anything. I wouldn’t
ruin the baptism for anything in the world. To hear Charlotte tell it, Liam
would kill Michael if he found out he’d been messing with both of us.”

“Was he?”

“She says no. When I asked him about it, he said that they
only talked but admitted he was attracted to her. He said something about being
attracted to us both—good-girl, bad-girl thing. At least,
I
think so.”

“Oh! I’m so sorry. You have to believe her! Marian would
never hurt you like that.”

“I know. Obviously, I care about him. I wanted things to
work, but even if he hadn’t been attracted to Marian, he and I live in
different worlds. We both tried, which seems pointless now. It doesn’t matter.
It’s been over since he and I returned from France in August.” She wilted
briefly, then, with a look of exasperation, she quietly wailed, “Kathleen, look
at me! Really, honestly look at me! I’m not saying that Marian isn’t beautiful
or without positive qualities, but how is one man attracted to both of us?”

“A truly excellent question. I’m trying to wrap my brain
around this.”

“You and me and, well, Marian!”

“What would you do if they dated?”

“Sell my house and move to the opposite end of the earth.”

“So, nothing drastic.”

“No.”

“You two need to talk, be civilized. This needs to be
resolved before the christening. Michael will be there. Pumped full of new
mother hormones, Charlotte may not forgive you if the two of you are at odds!”

“I know. Now, let’s change the subject!” Hillary directed.

We were in the middle of discussing Alexander McQueen’s
showing that evening when I spotted Aksel Pedersen at the entrance. “Did you
invite him here?” I discreetly tilted my head in his direction. Seeing him
reminded me of the blog I had completely forgotten about, but more importantly,
I still hadn’t found the courage to ask
Sébastien
about their “issue.”

She looked at her watch, observing, “Perfect. You’re next in
line at Cadolle, then it’s my turn. All I need is an hour. Stay for a few
minutes and help break the ice.”

“You’re a machine, you know.” In another life, she must have
been a politician or a general, because no one worked a room like her.

Aksel arrived at our table by way of a slow saunter. Calm,
deliberate, in control. Smooth. He greeted her first. “
Enchanté
,
Mademoiselle Cavendish. It is a pleasure to meet you again. I must say, I am
delighted to find you here, Mademoiselle Ehlers. You both travel in quite
auspicious circles.” Hillary inclined her head modestly. “And you, Ms. Ehlers,
I hope you have recuperated from the challenges of the fashion show.”

I shrugged. “Of course. It really was a pleasure.”

Hillary immediately launched into wondering who the
anonymous person behind the event was. Mr. Pedersen didn’t wriggle a bit, so,
if he knew, he wasn’t remotely uncomfortable keeping a secret. While
conversation flowed easily between them, I found myself becoming more and more
curious about what had happened between
Sébastien
and this man.

It became abundantly clear that I was in the way. Making a
show of glancing at my watch, I said, “Hillary, Mr. Pedersen, lovely to see you
again. I have an appointment.”

When I stood up, they both did as well. Hillary gave me a
hug and took the opportunity to whisper, “Have fun,” in my ear.

I offered him my hand. “Enjoy Paris. It’s a perfect day.” I
looked up at the skylight, the blue sky and sunlight thoroughly entrancing. Out
of the corner of my eye, I saw them looking upwards, as well.

“I’d better go.” Not waiting, I picked up my bag and heard
them call goodbye as I left.

Once we had finished at Cadolle, the
girls were anxious to do some shopping, but something else called to me. I
bailed out and dialed
Sébastien’s phone number
.
“Hello?” I spoke in a rushed voice.

“
Salut!
” The timber of his voice was solid, warm,
desirable.

“Feel like company?”

His laughter rumbled the distance between us and bounced into
my ear. “Whose company?”

I couldn’t blame him for asking. The last week had been
ridiculously unpredictable. “Just mine.”

“Ah, chérie, just yours is perfect.”

Great answer
. I searched for somewhere to meet him.
When I asked him if he wanted to meet me for a field trip, he sounded
intrigued.

“What do you have in mind?”

“I thought perhaps an afternoon stroll and some sunshine.
I’m not really dressed for the Galliano show at 5:00, but that gives us a few
hours.”

“Perfect. Have you been to Parc André Citroën?”

“I have, but quite some time ago.”

“I could meet you at the entrance at 2:00.” The enthusiasm
in his voice made me happy.

“I can’t wait to see you,” I admitted. It had barely been
three hours since I’d seen him.

***

A large helium balloon, emblazoned
with
Air De Paris
, floated high above the trees from somewhere within
the park, giving its passengers a tremendous view of the city.

At the entrance, while I waited for Sébastien, I studied a
map that explained the layout and history of the park. Some American students
were trying to translate the text, so I interpreted the highlights for them. “Originally
the site of the Citroën car factory from 1915 to 1970. In 1992, landscape
designers Gilles Clément and Alain Provost, along with architects Patrick
Berger, Jean-François Jodry, and Jean-Paul Viguier, turned the fifty-nine-acre
site into six serial gardens, each associated with a metal, a planet, a day of
the week, a state of water, and one of the senses.” Pointing to a larger sign
not too far away, I added, “I’m guessing that map is multilingual and has more
information about the park.”

A voice behind me startled me when he said, “That was very
nice of you.”

“Sébastien! I didn’t see you arrive. Thanks.” There was
something different about him; he looked changed somehow. He spoke while I
tried to figure it out.

“I arrived while you were talking to them. You know, of
course, that true Parisians have a tendency to let Americans struggle.”

“Well, I’m not a true Parisian.”

He wore a fitted, pale blue shirt with white piping tucked
into a pair of dark gray jeans that accentuated his lean, toned physique. I’d
never seen him dressed casually. Suit. Naked. PJ pants and T-shirt. Now, jeans.

“Suit jackets,” I said aloud. I’d never seen him dressed
casually. Still elegant, his clothes suited him. They made him look younger,
more carefree.

“Excuse me?”

“
Uh
, sorry. Just something I need to remember.”
Covering up my outburst, I proceeded to tell him how my French friends Yvette
and Anaïs often went to tourist traps just for that purpose. “I think there is
something genuinely wrong with them.”

“In this case, I must agree. Who would submit themselves to crêpe
carts and tourist traps just to observe that?”

“God, you’re just as bad.”

“Maybe you will be a good influence on me.”

“I doubt it.”

He regarded me with such intensity that I had to look away.
“Are you interested in seeing all six gardens?”

He handed me a brochure with descriptions of each.

The
blue garden: copper, Venus, Friday, rain, and the sense of smell

The
green garden: tin, Jupiter, Thursday, spring water, and the sense of hearing.

The
orange garden: mercury (the metal), Mercury (the planet), Wednesday, creeks,
and the sense of touch.

The
red garden: iron, Mars, Tuesday, waterfalls, and the sense of taste.

The
silver garden: silver, the moon, Monday, rivers, and the sense of sight.

The
golden garden: gold, the sun, Sunday, evaporation, and the sixth sense.

The
white garden and black garden (of one and two hectares, respectively) are
detached from the main eleven-hectare section of the park.

“Are you a wandering kind of guy or the type who needs a
plan?”

“Well, that depends. For now, shall we wander?”

“Yes, but before we leave, I really want to see the orange,
red, and silver gardens.”

“Oh! So you’re the kind of girl who needs a plan!”

His banter was softened by a warm smile filled with genuine
happiness. It felt wonderful to be the cause. I kissed him before admitting,
“No, I’m the kind of girl who tells you what I want and then I wander.”

“After you, chère.” The grin on his lips broadened as he
extended his arm in the direction of the main path while gazing at me.

My heartbeat jumped at his tender glance and fluttered
happily when he took my hand. It suddenly occurred to me that this was more
like a first date. I found myself utterly beguiled by him and this gorgeous
day.

We wandered past the playground and down the main esplanade
to where the six
color-themed gardens were located. In the end, the
most intriguing to me was the silver garden, with its wooden stepping stones,
wide bands of nubby lavender cotton, sensuous lamb’s ear, and spikey icicle
plant, all growing beneath a low canopy of silver maples. It was all that was
elegant in a garden: a beautiful pairing of calming colors and intriguing
textures.

Toward the river was the
wild garden
where wildflowers, bamboo, and shrubs grew in a dense mass. There, a passel of
children played hide-and-seek. Sébastien suggested sitting down on a large rock
tucked amongst the taller rushes.

A petite little girl shouted, “Ready or not, here I come,”
and then darted out stealthily, prowling about the overgrowth, looking for
playmates.

“She’s pretty fast,” I observed.

“Oui, very impressive.” It didn’t take too long for someone
else to be tagged “it.”

“Are you ready to go? Or would you like to wander some
more?”

With a quick glance at my watch, I saw that it was time to head
home, if we were going to change before the Galliano showing. Part of me wanted
to leave; part of me was very content to sit still amongst the easy laughter of
the children. Before I came to a decision, he nudged me. “
Un centime
for
your thoughts.”

“They’re worth much more than that,” I teased. “I was just
trying to decide if I really wanted to go home and change… Or even go, for that
matter. I suddenly feel quite done with fashion week.”

He looked at his clothes then said, “It would be much easier
to not attend. You look beautiful, as always. I, on the other hand, must change.”

Smiling, I asked, “Do you have to go?”

My blood fizzed inside me when he gave me a drop-dead sexy
smile before kissing me. I wrapped my arms around his neck, holding him close.
When he answered, his warm breath skipped across my skin. “I’m sorry, but I
have to go. Selfishly, I cannot help but think that, if you go, then I can see
you.”

“So, you’re a ‘have your cake and eat it, too’ kinda fella.”

I slid my fingers into his hair and received an encouraging
moan. He brushed the tip of his nose across my cheekbone, caressing me, as his
hands pulled me closer. “Oui, chérie, I am.”

I sighed dramatically, tugging his hair just a little,
“Okay, let’s go change.”

He gave me a smoldering glance. “We should have left just a
bit earlier.” Then, he gave me a kiss that made the world fade away. I wiggled provocatively
against him, my body saying “yes,” while my brain reminded me, “not here.”
Feeling me squirm, he raised his head and took pity on me. “I feel the same,
chérie. Fortunately, we have so much time, once this week is over.”

Flustered, I nodded as I pushed myself off the rock and
brushed away any debris clinging to my skirt.

From close, very close, behind me, he told me, “You have
little pieces of grass on your skirt. If you’d allow me…?”

“I’m not going to have you fondling my posterior in public,”
I flirtatiously tossed over my shoulder. Smiling, I thought to myself,
I
kinda hoped he would
. I was enjoying getting to know him.

***

At Belleville Station, as we climbed
the stairs, he glanced at me alluringly. “Would you like to share what you
bought at Cadolle?”

I smiled. I had been wondering if he was going to ask. “Tell
you? Or literally share, as in model? Tiziana bought several things, of
course.”

“I’m happy for Ted. Did you not buy anything? You love
beautiful clothes.”

“Is there an equivalent store for men?” I wanted to distract
him, hoping to keep my purchases a surprise for another day.

He spoke without pausing. “Close, but not exactly.”

“Well, let me tell you a little story about men and their
underwear,” I said to divert him.

Gaining his full attention, I told him with the tale of
Charlotte’s brush with fame. Once we got past my defining the term “celebrity
crush” (Des had been Charlotte’s), I told him about how we’d spied Ted and Des
at a casino in Chamonix a few years earlier. When I described using Tiziana as
bait to get Ted’s attention, his eyes lit up with laughter. Once Tiziana had
Ted’s attention, we’d made sure that Charlotte was on hand, so he could
introduce her to Des. Charlotte and Des paid heavily for spending an evening
together in the casino. They had been hounded by the paparazzi for a few days;
unfortunate photos and lurid headlines were splattered across tabloids around
the world. I quickly finished my story as we arrived at my apartment. Amidst
the questions, laughter, and relief at the outcome, he seemed thoroughly
entertained.

“That is a great story! It explains why Des turned up at
their apartment.” He laughed some more, then added, “Chantal loves him, of
course.”

Speaking about his daughter completely changed the direction
of my thoughts. Because he had Chantal and had talked about Gisella to her, he
seemed healed, comfortable even. Me, on the other hand, I was still coming to
terms with the fact that I had finally shared the story of me and Mikkel with
my friends and yet didn’t know if I would ever become comfortable enough to
throw his name out there in everyday conversation.

He pulled me out of my thoughts when he pressed a kiss to my
lips. “See you soon.”

I stretched up and whispered against his mouth, “I’ll be
ready.”