J.C. and the Bijoux Jolis: The Rousseaus #3 (The Blueberry Lane Series Book 14) (20 page)

“I can live with that,” he said.

“Wait. Are you serious about the twin?”

“Yes, she’s still alive. And yes, I’m going to go see her. My woman wants to know what happened to C.T., so I need to go find out for her.”

“Your…
woman
?”

He nodded, grinning up at her. “My woman.”

“Well,” she said, rolling onto her back, “how do you feel about company?”

“Yours?” He hovered over her, parting her legs with his knee, the hardness of his cock slipping, without error, into her hot, wet sheath and pausing there. She lifted her hips to let him know she wanted more, and he obliged her by withdrawing and then thrusting forward again.

“Mine,” she sighed, arching to meet his thrusts.

“I love it,” he said, still deeply lodged within her body. “Are you saying you want to come with me? To Marseille?”

“I want to come with you,” she whimpered breathlessly, sliding her hands down to his ass and digging her fingers into his skin with the next thrust.

“Give me about two minutes,” he said between pants, making the most of the delicious double entendre she’d set up for him. “But do you also want to come to Marseille?”

She managed to nod and murmur a breathless “Mm-hm” before he bent his head and kissed her, making good on his promise to deliver orgasm number six before midnight and looking forward to this weekend a hundred times more than he had a moment before.

Their flight left at six o’clock on Friday night from New York with a quick stopover in London before arriving in Marseille at nine thirty on Saturday morning. It would be a quick trip, with them returning to New York tomorrow, but knowing how tired they would be, J.C. had arranged for their hotel room to be ready for them upon their arrival in Marseille.

En route to the InterContinental Mon Dieu, Libitz put her weary head on his shoulder and closed her eyes, giving J.C. a chance to call the nursing home where the surviving Gemini model, Madame Sylvia Comtois, was living. Told that she generally woke up for an hour or two in the midafternoon, the head nurse asked if he and Libitz could delay their visit until two o’clock, to which he gladly agreed. Libitz was snoring softly as the car negotiated late-summer traffic on the way to Vieux Port, and he was tired but content with his arm around her shoulders and the dead weight of her head on his shoulder.

They could check into their hotel and sleep for a few hours before exploring a bit of Marseille and finding a place for lunch before their visit with Madame Comtois.

He’d tried to convince Libitz to stay in Marseille for a few extra days, but her work ethic was fierce, and she’d soundly refused, telling him he’d have to go by himself if she had to miss more than a day of work.

Going without her wasn’t nearly as tempting as having her in bed beside him, so he’d agreed to travel all the way to Marseille for a day and a night as long as she’d promise to return to France with him for a week at New Year’s. Her answer—to suck his cock dry—he’d taken as a yes.

No wonder she was tired. They’d stayed up until early morning on Thursday, talking and making love, getting a few minutes of sleep between waking up to reach for each other again. He picked her up at work on Thursday evening and took her for dinner, after which they’d spent that night christening every room in her apartment. There was a freshness, a newness, an excitement in finding the right person after knowing so many who weren’t. And they were falling madly in love with each other. There was that too.

When he considered his siblings—Étienne with Kate, Jax with Gardener, and Mad with Cort—he knew that the only woman he wanted by his side was Libitz, with her sharp wit and voracious mind, her love of art and love of family. The faith she had in him when he had deserved none and the way she soothed his fears, leading his heart back to hers at every juncture of doubt, stripping away his misgivings until all that was left was his deep and constant yearning to be with her.

It was more than just her personality. More than her delectable little body, which he’d loved in wild ways that had both satisfied and challenged the sexual beast within. It was as though she’d been chosen for him, and he for her—he felt she was his fated mate in every way, almost like something otherworldly had long ago decided that Jean-Christian Rousseau and Libitz Feingold should find each other in the big, wide world, and when they did, they should love one another. That’s how it felt. Like the fulfillment of a promise. Like the manifestation of destiny. Like nothing in the world could ever feel as right as his growing love for her. And he never, ever wanted to go back to a life that didn’t include her.

He wanted her forever.

And unlike his father, he would make the right choices.

And unlike his parents, he would do the work.

For the honor of knowing her, of loving her, of having her, he would do
anything
.

She stirred in her sleep. “Are we there yet?” she murmured.

“We’re so close, love,” he whispered, kissing her tenderly. “We’re almost there.”

***

Jean-Christian had let her sleep for a few hours, after which Libitz rose, showered, and dressed, feeling rested enough to tackle the remainder of their day in Marseille.

He’d left a note by the bedside:
Gone wandering. Back by two. Love, Jean-Christian

She’d held the note in her hands for a long moment, marveling over the leaps and strides in their new relationship and wondering if this was how it felt for everyone who met the elusive “one”: the person they were supposed to be with.

In conversation and in bed, there was an openness, a complete trust, that she’d never known before Jean-Christian. It scared her, yes, but it would scare her so much more to lose whatever was growing between them. That said, there were so many details and decisions that would require their attention if they intended to make their relationship last forever.

They still needed to come clean with Étienne and Kate, though, when she considered Kate’s personality, she felt strongly that her best friend would come around. Kate wanted for Libitz to be as happily settled as she—and to be sisters-in-law with her best friend? There was a sweetness to the notion that appealed to Libitz as it occurred to her. She’d not only be Noelle’s godmother but her aunt too. Family, bound to Kate’s child through both God and marriage.

There was the matter of where they lived: Jean-Christian in Philadelphia, near his siblings and gallery, and Libitz in New York, near her parents and gallery. Luckily Philadelphia and New York were only a two-hour ride away, but she wrinkled her nose as she applied her makeup in the bathroom mirror. She didn’t like the idea of a long-distance relationship with Jean-Christian, even if the distance wasn’t terrible. Would she consider moving to Philadelphia to be closer to him? Would it be forward to even mention it?

They were different people, to be sure: both raised in comfort, but Jean-Christian’s wealth was stratospheric compared with hers, and their religions were, as they’d observed, different. Would that become an issue if they stayed together?

But as she closed up her makeup pouch and walked back into the hotel room to pull on some black linen shorts and a black-and-white striped silk shell, her own words returned to her:
It’s not a predetermined thing like your blood type or eye color. It’s a choice. It’s a choice to love someone and be faithful to them and do the work. We’re
all
capable of that.

And that’s really all that mattered when contemplating forever, wasn’t it? Nothing was guaranteed if they stayed together. There would be good times and hard times, bad and easy. They could have all the money in the world but lose a child. They could discover, as life went on, that their interests diverged. They could fall out of love. But at every upset, every intersection, they could take each other’s hand and choose to do the work. Together. And if he was the person with whom she wanted to do that work? Then he was the man for her. No matter what.

As she slipped into black high-heeled sandals, the door to their room opened, and there he was: a little color in his cheeks, his green eyes sparkling with tenderness and promise, his lips tilted up into a smile just because he was looking at her.

I love you
, she thought.
I’m going to love you forever.

He crossed the room quickly and cupped her cheeks, kissing her gently. “Good rest?”

She nodded. “Thanks for the note.”

“Didn’t want you to think I’d run off.”

“I wouldn’t have thought that,” she answered, smiling up at him.

His eyes flared with heat. “What makes you trust me like you do?”

“You’re my person,” she said simply. “On Wednesday, at your hotel, you told me that whether I liked it or not, I belonged to you.”

He nodded.

“And you belong to me,” she said. “That’s just the way it is.”

He leaned forward and kissed her forehead, and she closed her eyes, letting herself be held by him, letting her words surround them, letting them be the truth that they wanted and needed.

When he finally drew away, his eyes were warm and his smile blinding. “Are you ready to find out about
C.T.
, my darling Elsa?”

“I’m ready.”

“Then let’s go,” he said, taking her hand and pulling her out the door.

***

“
Madame Comtois, pouvez-vous m’entendre
?”

Her caregiver, a young nurse named Lizette, smiled up at them from where she crouched beside Madame Comtois’ wheelchair.

“Her listen is…not, hm, so good,” she said in heavily accented English. “
Madame
?”

Slowly, so slowly Libitz could see the immense effort it took, Sylvia Comtois lifted her head, the scattered snow-white curls bobbing as she tried to look up. “
Simone
?”

“
Non, madame
,” said Lizette in French. “
C’est moi. Lizette
.” She stood up and turned to Libitz and Jean-Christian. “The name of her sister is Simone. She, ah, she die two year ago.”

Libitz reached for Jean-Christian’s hand. “Maybe we should go?”

He sighed, giving her a pained look. “Let me try.”

Kneeling down on the floor beside Madame Comtois’ chair, he took her weathered, wrinkled, delicate hand in his and kissed it. “
Madame Comtois, je suis Jean-Christian Rousseau
.”

“
J-Jean-Christian
?” she repeated, lifting her head just a little to look into his eyes. “
Je vous connais
?”

“
Non, madame
.”

“She ask, ah, if she know him,” whispered Lizette, leaning closer to Libitz.

“
Où est Simone
?”

“
Elle dort maintenant
,” he answered softly, gently petting her hand in his.

“He says zat, hm, her sister is sleep…ah,
sleeping
, right now.”

Libitz nodded. “Thank you.”

“
Madame
,” said Jean-Christian, his voice warm and smooth as honey in the sun. “
Vous souvenez-vous de la jeune fille juive
?”

“
La…Juif
?”

“
Oui
,” said Jean-Christian, nodding his head. “
La modèle de portrait juive
.”

“
La
…,” she sighed, her eyes nodding closed. “
La Juif
.”

“Now he asks about a, ah, a Jewish girl? She model for a portrait?”

Libitz nodded but kept her eyes on Jean-Christian.

Jean-Christian looked up at Lizette and Libitz, his eyes widening like he had an idea. “Lib,” he said, gesturing to her to come closer. “Let her see you.”

Libitz lowered herself to the floor, kneeling down directly before the wheelchair beside Jean-Christian, her face turned up to the old woman, who drooled from her pale lips and stared blankly down at her lap.

He leaned closer until his lips grazed her ear. “Say this. Say:
Bonjour, Sylvia
.”

Libitz swallowed, focusing on his accent. “
B-bonjour, Sylvia
.”

Madame Comtois’ lips moved as though she wanted to say “bon jour,” but no sound came out.

“I am, hm,
désolée
,” said Lizette, hovering over them. “But she is very, hm, very sleep now. You can come back?”

Jean-Christian shot a glance to Libitz, ignoring Lizette. “Say
, Je
vais être le modèle pour Monsieur Montferrat aujourd’hui.
Tell her you have a modeling job today. She has to look at you.”

She nodded. “Tell me the words again.”

He did, and she repeated them as best she could.

When Madame Comtois didn’t respond, Libitz tried them again. About to give up, she braced her hands on the floor to stand up when the old woman opened her eyes. Though they were ancient and faded to an almost white-blue, they sparkled as her lips twitched, like she wanted to smile.

“
Monsieur Mont…ferrat
,” she murmured. “
Il est…trés…leste
.”

Behind her, Lizette gasped, then chuckled, clapping a hand over her mouth. Libitz looked up at her in question.

“She say he is…hm, ah, dirty? Dirty old man?” She giggled. “I think madame have secrets.”

Libitz grinned at the young nurse, then turned back to Madame Comtois, surprised to find her eyes focused on Libitz with more clarity and awareness than she’d thought the old woman capable of.

“
C-Camille
?” she whispered, staring at Libitz like she was looking at a ghost. “
Camille…Trigére
?”

“Who?” murmured Libitz.

“
Est-ce…toi? Camille…Trigére
?”

Camille Trigére. C.T.

She heard her sharp inhalation of breath in her ears, but otherwise the entire world floated away, and all Libitz processed was the fact that Madame Comtois had just recognized Libitz as the model and given them the name they were so desperately hoping to find. And that name just happened to be the same as her great-grandmother: Camille.

Jean-Christian’s voice in her ear grounded her. “Say,
Oui, Sylvia. C’est bon de te revoir
. It’s good to see you again.”