Cognac & Couture (The Passport Series Book 2) (21 page)

GIVEN MY RECENT
state of
inner turmoil, I was overwhelmingly happy, truly inspired. I had never been to
this event before. Standing amidst more than fifteen hundred artists was energizing
and exciting. They represented 189 modern art galleries whose work was being
presented at the Grand Palais, Cour Carrée, the auditorium of the Louvre, and
the Jeu de Paume, with sculptural pieces in the Tuileries. The air fizzed with
the enthusiasm of the artists and those there to support them

Standing in the Grand Palais with
Sébastien
,
I watched Chantal enchant and entreat viewers to look at the artwork more
closely. I was in awe of her confidence, something I certainly didn’t have when
I was her age. “She’s in her element,” I whispered to
him.

His eyes beamed with pride. “Oui,
she was very lucky to be chosen as one of the representatives of Jean Giroux.
In addition to being an excellent artist, she is a born saleswoman. A very
useful combination. With any luck, between her connections and skills, she
won’t starve to death.”

“You had nothing to do with the position at Jean Giroux, I’m
sure,” I cajoled.

Easily, he admitted, “Perhaps, but we won’t tell her. She would
be angry if she found out I’d interfered. She has yet to truly learn that
success is as much about
who
you know as
what
you know.”

“Amen to that.” He
gave me a funny
look. “An Americanism, I think.”

We
perused other artists’ work
while Chantal was busy and said hello to quite a few people from work-related
events. Fashion and art, it seemed, were intricately tied together. We left
them to wonder what they would about our relationship; happily in sync, we were
more intent on seeing the art than making small talk with others.

While we slowly wandered,
Sébastien said, “Perhaps you will find a piece to work around your newfound
inspiration.”

I thought back to a few days ago,
when he had stood in the gutted hulk of my apartment and studied a recent
doodle of a sandy beach and palm tree. He’d said, “I hope you aren’t planning
on something tropical,” as if it was a ridiculous idea. I’d raised a brow at
his comment, managing to convey that he might be overstepping a line. He had
quickly apologized.

“Perhaps. And then again, maybe
not.” I’d feigned being insulted before bursting into laughter and reassuring
him it had been a flight of fancy. “There was a great spa at the hotel in Bali.
I was inspired. Anyway, I could never grow tropical plants in here.”

Now, I answered, “Of course, I’d
be foolish not to look for it here.” I smiled over my shoulder at him as I
wandered closer to a painting of a large bed occupied by someone asleep under a
fluffy duvet; it and a chest of drawers had been placed carefully on a sandy
beach, just out of reach of the ocean’s waves. It was a nighttime scenario, with
a full moon low on the horizon, its golden light skimming along the crest of
whitecaps. A naked figure stood at the foot of the bed, his or her back to the
viewer, looking into the distance, seemingly peaceful.

Still gazing at it, I said, “It
reminds me of Bali. I would love to go back.” I turned to look at him. “Perhaps
I do want to paint palm trees on my wall. Or perhaps I just want to go on
vacation.”

“Perhaps you should begin with the
vacation, and then see if you still want to paint palm trees.”

I grinned, acknowledging his wise
thought. “Perhaps. But when?” I couldn’t foresee a vacation such as that in my
future until it was too hot to go to Bali.
Maybe next September
. I
sighed inwardly. That was almost a year away.

He gently steered me away from the
painting and around a small crowd of people gathered in front of a large plinth
of wood that was contorted at different angles. Captivated, I stopped. “Just a
minute, please. I’d like to take a closer look.” I circled the piece slowly so
that I could see it from various angles. There was something about the grain in
the wood and the roughhewn patches against the smooth planes that captivated
me.
And it fits into my concept,
I thought.

“Bonjour, Madame,” a young man said
with a warm voice. “Tell me, what do you think?” His thick, dark eyebrows were pushed
together, as if he was bracing himself for criticism.

“I love it!” I announced
excitedly. “It’s gorgeous.”

His eyebrows leapt upward. Then he
quickly expressed his happiness at my praise. “Merci! I am Clément, the
artist.”

“It’s very nice to meet you. Tell
me more about it.”

Sébastien listened as we talked
about the plinth. As others joined the conversation, I noticed him glance
across the room at Chantal, who tilted her head in my direction with a tender
smile before shifting her attention to an elderly man. Sébastien grinned as he
watched her. More and more, I found his fatherliness charming.

Eventually, we made our way back
to her; she excused herself from the group of young artists she had been
chatting with. After greeting us, she immediately complimented my outfit.
“Isn’t that from Armani’s winter collection?”

I smiled at her appreciation for fashion. “Yes, it is. Do
you like Armani?” I ran a hand down the sleeveless, silver, silk gown with
plunging neckline. It was a very modern take on a 1920s-era dress, with
horizontal bands of beaded fabric sewn together to create the illusion of
movement.

“But of course.” Then she turned to
her
father and said, “I am free to leave, which is good because I’m starving.” She
gave him a challenging look. “I hope you have chosen somewhere special for my
birthday dinner.”

I smiled when he shrugged his
shoulders and spread his hands wide. “Of course I have picked somewhere
memorable to celebrate your turning twenty-one.
I think Joséphine Chez
Dumonet is the perfect place, both for quality and quantity."

Chantal accepted his selection with a broad and enthusiastic
smile.
“Merci, Papa. An excellent choice.”

He looked from her to me and said,
“Bon. Now that is settled, I will collect our coats and we can go.”

We stood out front while the concierge hailed a taxi.
Suddenly, the clouds converged, resulting in a torrential downpour. Chantal and
I stood undercover while the concierge and
Sébastien
pulled the doors open for us. As carefully as high heels and long gowns would
allow, we dashed through large drops of rain and across shiny concrete into the
taxi. The concierge firmly closed the door, enclosing us in dry warmth. The
familiar scent of perfume, stale cigarette smoke, and diesel retreated to the
background as the three of us tried to pat ourselves dry with
Sébastien’s pocket square.

“Papa, at least carry a handkerchief,”
Chantal teased. Their heads together, they laughed gently over the silly
comment. I watched them silently, enjoying the simple, intimate moment, and
felt a part of something so much bigger.

***

Amber
light poured from the café-curtained windows. The cozy
but expansive room bustled with activity as a young waiter
immediately led us to a group of tables.
Sébastien
had invited a handful of Chantal’s closest friends to join
us to celebrate Chantal’s twenty-first birthday. We sat crowded around tables
in the back of the restaurant.

When it was our turn to order, the
waiter remarked, “The two
belles femmes
must be quite famished, no?” He
glanced at Chantal and quietly whispered his name, Henri. Her coy smirk and the
jut of her chin implied she found him intriguing.

Over a variety of house
specialties—steak tartare,
cassoulet maison
, and
bœuf bourguignon
—I
set about getting to know Chantal and her friends better. Saying, “
I’m very curious about your art studies,” was all it took
to get them talking in between bites. Eventually, I revealed that my childhood
had been filled with art classes. They eyed my expensive gown suspiciously. I smiled
at the obvious effort they were putting forth to draw the line between starving
artist and financially solvent businesswoman.

Chantal endeavored to bridge the
gap. “My father told me about the set you helped design and build. I saw some
photos. Most women I know who help build sets spend their days in…
Comment
dis-tu…?
Coveralls? I think I’d like to do that.”

“To be honest, it was a lot of fun
working on the set. I learned a lot. The lighting specialists were particularly
patient.” I told them the story of how hard it had been to find the right color
walls. “It also reminded me how frustrated I would get, trying to find the
perfect color combinations when I went to paint something. I never had that
‘let’s try and see’ attitude. I wanted perfection every time, the first try.”

Chantal and her friends took up
the conversation as I thought about this and chewed on an olive. Sébastien
took advantage of Chantal’s being swept up in another
conversation to ask, “Chérie, how did the conversation go with your mother?” I
had called her to share the girls’ congratulations and hint that they’d like to
be invited.

I quickly wiped my lips on the
starched white napkin. “To be honest, I think she was surprised they wanted to
attend. By the time we were saying goodbye, she reassured me that she was happy
about it. I think she’s also a little star-struck.”

He frowned. “I think I am missing
something.”

Chantal swiveled back to us when
she overheard me say
,
“Somehow, Des Bannerman got thrown into the mix.”

“Des Bannerman?” Her voice rose in
excitement.

I quickly explained my mother’s
wedding and my connection with the British movie star. She enjoyed my story about
Charlotte’s fifteen minutes of fame, back when the paparazzi thought she was
his girlfriend.

“Is he more gorgeous in person?”
Chantal asked me animatedly.

“Yes, but, more importantly, he’s
a very nice man.”

Without hesitating, Chantal turned
to her father and squeaked, “Will you go to the wedding?”

Both Sébastien and I were
startled. He answered his daughter as diplomatically as possible. “A date
hasn’t been set.”

Obviously, I had thought about
asking him to go, but, with no date set and other things very much on my mind,
it had seemed odd to ask him before a few things were settled.

***

As I
relaxed back into the pillows on his bed, Sébastien, breathing heavily, gently
traced his lips over the curves of my mouth. I crept my hands up and over his
chest to his back. I wrapped my arms around him so that I was able to pull his
spent body down onto me. The weight of him on top of me was so satisfying.

Minutes passed before he slowly
opened his eyes and found my lust-filled gaze. My desire for him had already
rekindled. Or could it truly be extinguished? He released a throaty moan before
trying to find the answer to this question.

A sound resembling a whimper
escaped me when he withdrew his mouth from mine. He slid his hand, which had
been caressing my swollen, trembling lips, to my breast. At the sensation, I
closed my eyes, and my breath quickened at his sensual attack. My chest rose
and fell quickly when he trailed his fingers across to where my heart thumped
and then down to the supple flesh of my thighs. Heat pooled between my legs and
my desire for him grew. I cried out, urging him on. And with that, we were
lost. I was desperate, in a place where I wanted nothing more than his rolling
hips and questing hands to push me up and over the precipice of desire.

The phone rang in the distance. I
managed to ignore the persistent bleating until I recognized Liam’s joyful
voice. “Charlotte’s had the baby. Give us a call if you want to know his name.”

I continued to writhe, breathless.

BACK IN
LONDON
three weeks later for Sean’s
baptism, Sébastien and I
arrived late morning with a cool autumn breeze
pushing at our backs and walked into utter bedlam. Before we caught our
breaths, we were introduced to a sea of people. Liam’s brothers, their wives,
and his parents were all in attendance, as were Charlotte’s parents. Once we
walked the gauntlet,
Tiziana, Hillary, and Marian signaled
for us to find sanctuary with them in the living room.

“Wow!” One word could not express
how overwhelmed I felt at the noise and exuberance. “I wonder if they’re always
like that.”

Unaware that Charlotte had
followed, I was startled when she said, “I’ve only been at a few events where
they were all together, and I can promise you, it’s pretty loud!”

So caught up in imagining how much
“more” it could be, I didn’t realize Sébastien wasn’t behind me until I
overheard Liam asking about his job at Condé Nast. After Sébastien answered,
Liam’s
brother, Rory, was muddled.
“But aren’t you the
prince of some country?”

One of my drunken confessions to
Sébastien, back in September, had been about my supposed predilection for
royalty, a ruse I had invented after graduate school to explain why I never
dated anyone. “I’m the prince of a very small municipality known as
Ehlersland,” Sébastien said, turning to me with a raised eyebrow and wearing a
grin.

Liam intervened before his brother
could parse Sébastien’s response. “Sorry. Pay no attention to him. He’s already
been down to the pub and had a few pints.”

Just then, two women came
downstairs. Charlotte encouraged them to come sit with us. “Ladies, these are
my sisters-in-law, Fiona and Aishling. Fiona is married to Aidan and Aishling
is married to Dallin.” She pointed at each person as she spoke their names.

While Hillary, Tiziana, and Marian
endeavored to make conversation with them, I whispered to Charlotte, “What the
hell was that all about?”

Charlotte quietly responded, “I’m
so sorry. Last time we were in Dublin, they were giving me such a hard time
about the whole Des Bannerman incident that I tried to distract them by
throwing you under the bus. I told them about your pining away for a member of
royalty. I just couldn’t take anymore. Sorry!”

I gave her a smile. “Don’t worry.
It’s no big deal. I’d have done the same.”

When Fiona and Aishling joined
their husbands, the girls grilled me about the state of things with Sébastien.
I admitted, “Perfect. Wonderful. Great! Things are really, really good. Now
shush!
I don’t want him thinking we’re talking about him.” Except for the fact that I
still hadn’t told him about the job offer. It was eating me alive, and, while I
could fashion all kinds of excuses, the simple truth was I was a coward.

“Well, unless he’s a fecking eejit,
he knows we’re talking about him. He’s fresh meat, more or less,” Marian said
as she eyed the Molloy brothers.

Tiziana changed the subject.
“Darlings, I need to talk to you privately. Do you think there will be time,
Charlotte?”

Charlotte said, “I’m way ahead of
you. I have it all sorted out. The caterer is managing the food, and the Molloy
brothers are taking Ted, Sébastien, and Marcus to play cricket or some such.
Taylor has offered to take Fiona and Aishling shopping. Meanwhile, the
grandparents are going to watch Sean while we pop out for an hour or two.”

“I don’t feel good about leaving
out Taylor, Fiona, and Aishling,” Hillary said.

Charlotte shook her head. “I
invited them, practically begged them, to join us, but Fiona and Aishling are
intimidated by the lot of you. Not Taylor, so she’s happy to help out with them.
Everything is fine.”

Marian said incredulously, “How
the feck do we intimidate them?”

Charlotte dramatically swept her
eyes over us and muttered, “God alone knows.”

I shot a look at Sébastien. He was
not a small man, but, in comparison to the Molloy brothers, he came across as…
less physical. Tiziana followed my worried gaze. “We should just say a little
prayer for them both, don’t you think?”

My eyes shot to Ted and then back
to her. I nodded, eyes wide.

Charlotte stepped in. “When you
called to say he was coming, I had Liam send an email telling him to bring
whatever he’d need for a game of soccer or whatever. He responded and said he
was looking forward to it. Don’t worry.”

Just then, Taylor and Marcus
entered the house, bearing gifts and balloons.

With all the guests in attendance,
a buffet brunch was served. When Sébastien sat beside me, I thanked him for
being the Prince of Ehlersland.

He chuckled loudly. “Anything for
milady.”